Finn set down the thin oak slats for the bassinets, rubbing around his scab. All day, the scab on his neck had been itching. He’d rubbed some soothing oil around it, scratched at his shoulder to ease the prickling.

For a while, it had worked. He’d sawed some nice lumber he’d been saving, planed the boards smooth. Needed to hurry—his belly got in the way, and even his fingers had swollen.

In just over two weeks, the pups would be here. Finn wasn’t ready for them. Not the bassinets, not the cabin. Hell, he didn’t even have baby clothes or car seats yet.

The thought of it all made him want to stop, curl himself into a ball, and hide away. It was too much to do alone. He needed help, was too stubborn to ask for it. Didn’t see any point, when the pack would look at his blue pregnancy lines and shake their heads.

Dante was gone. Business had picked up during Market Day, and so had his classes. He’d been earning more; he could afford some of the things for his pups.

To Finn, it wasn’t worth it.

Dante’s scent had been fading from the cabin. Crumpet had stopped looking expectantly at the front door. Finn’s bed barely smelled like cherry-wood, and all he had left of Dante’s brief stay were his large, soft shirts.

Increasingly, he’d been wondering if this had been the right decision. If it wasn’t better to just continue with Dante, be selfish once more. So he could burrow into Dante’s chest again, smell Dante’s scent straight off his skin. See that precious smile, his alpha’s eyes bright.

What would it be like if he could have Dante to himself for years? Raise his pups with Dante, build a permanent home with him? Dante could run with their pups through their property, swim in the river, rake up piles of dried leaves when autumn came.

Finn swallowed hard, powering down the table saw. The loud whine of the motor faded, and Finn pulled off his ear muffs.

He looked around when he heard the muffled ring of his phone—he’d forgotten to bring it to the workshop with him, chaotic as his thoughts were. Who was calling?

“C’mon, Crumpet,” he said, watching as Carts Two and Four followed him to the door of the workshop. “Let’s grab the phone and take a walk. Maybe Gabe will come down and help with the bassinets.”

He leaned on Cart Two, unlocking the workshop door.

Froze when he found someone outside—a burly man in a leather jacket and sunglasses.

Finn’s heart thudded. He hadn’t heard the visitor approaching—the table saw had been on, and he’d been wearing his earmuffs.

“Hello,” he said, willing his pulse to slow down. “How may I help you?”

It wasn’t as though his address was private information, with his weekly classes held here. But something about this man gave him the chills—he smelled like loam, like wolf, but Finn did not recognize him. He slid his hand over his belly, feeling like it wasn’t enough protection. Crumpet growled.

“Are you Finn of the Topanga pack?” the man rumbled.

“What do you want with him?” Finn asked.

Then a second man leaned away from the outer workshop wall, stepping next to the first wolf. Finn’s heart stumbled. He hadn’t heard that man, either. “Some business to settle,” the second man said.

“Does it help if I say Finn isn’t here?” Finn said.

The first man smirked, and his hand shot out. He grabbed Finn’s arm. “Nice try, but no.”

Crumpet barked. Finn tensed, tried to slam the workshop door.

The first man yanked him out onto the doorstep. Finn stumbled, his leg buckling. Stupid leg!

He tried to compensate for his leg, tried to pull away. But he was unsteady on his feet. His ankle twinged. The men caught his arms, dragging him out of the workshop, led him stumbling across the front yard.

“Let me go,” Finn cried, yanking at his arms.

“Think Dante will like this?” the second man said. “Seems to me this is perfect for payback.”

Finn’s stomach plummeted. He needed to warn Dante. Tell him not to be baited. But Dante wasn’t anywhere near, and Finn’s phone was in the cabin.

He shifted into a wolf, his bones pulling, his fur bristling across his skin. Three working legs now, instead of one.

His thin legs let him slip out of their grip. Finn tore across the front yard. Protect pups.

Behind, Crumpet barked. The carts rammed into the men.

Finn was about to howl when a wolf plowed into his side, knocking him off his feet. He scrambled, his breath knocked out of his lungs. Had the men caught up? Had he been too slow?

His heart pounding, Finn tipped his head up, howling.

Someone kicked him hard in the leg; pain shot down his nerves. Finn whined. He scrambled to his feet, needing to flee. It was too dangerous for his pups here.

Then a strong arm wrapped around his neck, and a man pressed a handkerchief over his nose. Finn gasped. It smelled sweet.

This was bad—he knew that. But the first wolf shifted back into a man, grabbing Finn’s forelegs. He yanked them out from under Finn, pushed Finn’s head against the dirt. Held him down, one heavy knee pressed against Finn’s belly, right over his pups.

Finn panicked. Not pups.

“Don’t move,” the man said, “and I won’t hurt them.”

The chloroform filled Finn’s lungs. Finn tried to stop breathing. Couldn’t stop, not when his heart tried to leap out through his throat.

Pups, Finn thought. Save pups.

But before he could think further, the sickly sweet scent pulled him under, and all Finn knew was darkness.