Two weeks later, Finn woke to an empty bed, and a quiet cabin. His back ached. He groaned, sniffing for Dante.

A few times, now, Dante had mentioned how tiny the bed was. It had always been too small for them, back when Dante was younger and Finn hadn’t been pregnant.

These days, Finn slept on his sides to take the pressure off his bowels. At two months, his belly was close to the size of a basketball—another month, the pups would be born.

Dante had been spooning him from the back. As much as Finn loved the proximity to his alpha, he missed flipping onto his other side, moving freely around on the mattress. But there was precious little space in the cabin’s bedroom, and building a bigger bed meant a commitment—that they were staying in the canyon.

Finn couldn’t promise Dante a home. Dante had been milling lumber, itching to build a bigger bedroom, expand the cabin so they could fit their pups. They’d been joking about a nursery, cots and changing stations and high stools for when the pups got older.

It all sounded so nice, that Finn dreaded these conversations, because he wanted so badly to have a permanent home with his alpha.

Sometimes, he wondered what the pack thought when they saw him and Dante together. Whether their opinions had changed, whether they would accept Dante more easily now.

Two days ago, Dante had brought a set of black walnut bowls and plates to Finn’s mom. He’d turned them on the lathe himself, stained and polished them to a satin shine. At the market, the set would’ve sold for hundreds.

Finn’s mom had taken one look at Dante, and knocked the bowls out of Dante’s hands.

Dante had almost snarled. Finn had grabbed him, and they’d left the bowls, climbing into the truck and driving off.

They’d tried the next day with Aunt May—Dante had turned a cherry-wood set for her—she’d scoffed and closed the door on them. Dante had set the bowls on her porch, and left with Finn.

When they checked a few hours later, the bowls had disappeared, but Finn couldn’t be sure where they’d gone.

Doesn’t seem like it’s worth trying so hard, Dante had said, his shoulders sagging. He’d been hopeful at first, making that set of dishes for Finn’s mom. Then Finn’s mom had rejected them, and Finn had felt Dante’s wolf snarl. Why should I try when they’re gonna trash my things anyway?

Because family is important, Finn had answered. Because we all need a support network.

Not like your mom’s been supporting you at all, Dante had said.

Finn hadn’t an answer for that. You’re strong, he’d told Dante. Keep at it. I believe in you.

Slowly, Dante’s lips had turned up in a smile. He’d squeezed Finn’s hand, and bowed his head. Okay.

He would try again, and Finn admired him so much for that. Dante’s strength, his resilience. He wore scars from the pack on his body, and yet he wasn’t giving up.

Felt like Finn could take a leaf from Dante’s book, and try harder himself.

On this dreary morning, Finn swung himself off the bed, pulling on a nightgown. Then he grabbed his cane and limped through the cabin, his leg twinging in the cold.

Crumpet scampered out of the kitchen, yipping.

“Do you want food?” Finn asked, glancing at Crumpet’s bowls. They were half-full—Dante must’ve filled them before he left. “Where’s Dante?”

Crumpet wrinkled his nose.

“Still not buddies with him, are you?” Finn asked, bending to run his fingers though Crumpet’s glossy fur. He closed his eyes, listened past Crumpet’s panting. Heard the low whine of the lathe behind the cabin walls—Dante was in the workshop.

At the front door, Finn slipped on his shoes, then made his way down the porch to the workshop. Carts Two and Five frolicked in the front yard, pausing when they saw him. Finn waved; they squeaked their wheels.

The lathe was still going. Through the shop door, Finn heard Dante humming—Dante mustn’t have heard him, then.

Finn opened the door to the workshop. Dante startled. Then Finn felt the jolt of Dante’s panic, and Dante scrambled to stand, his movements hurried, the tips of his ears turning red.

Mustn’t show, Dante thought.

“Show what?” Finn asked.

Dante very deliberately didn’t turn to look at Finn. He kept his mind blank, and slipped something off the lathe, tucking it into his pocket. Then he turned, and there was no hiding the sheepish look on his face.

Finn leaned against the doorjamb, folding his arms. “What was that?”

“Something,” Dante said. “Not a skirt. I’ll get you a skirt the next time.”

Through the mental connection, Finn glimpsed the dark brown of walnut, and thin slivers of a pale wood. Couldn’t tell what it was, though.

“Does it help if I say it’s a gift?” Dante asked.

“For me?” Finn’s heart skipped.

“Maybe.” But Dante bit down his smile, and there was no way he could hide that secret.

Finn was about to pry, maybe slink over and sneak his hand into Dante’s pocket, when something pushed inside his belly. He grunted, looking down. “Someone’s doing a backflip.”

Dante perked up. “Really?”

He hurried across the workshop, his eyes glued to Finn’s belly. At the door, he fell to his knees, pressing his face against Finn’s belly. “Don’t give your dad a stomachache,” Dante murmured against Finn’s abdomen, his breath warm through Finn’s shirt. “It’s Market Day today and we’ll be busy.”

Finn snorted. “So move when it’s not Market Day?”

“Maybe when we have some time to stand around,” Dante said.

“You know it’ll do the exact opposite of that,” Finn said. “Just like you.”

Dante laughed, the sound sitting warm in Finn’s chest. Then the pup squirmed, and Dante frowned. “It just... I think it just shoved its butt in my face.”

Dante pulled away, wrinkling his nose. He looked so much like Crumpet that Finn chuckled. “That’ll be the least of your worries when we start changing diapers.”

“I’m gonna get peed on first, aren’t I?” Dante asked, sliding his hands across Finn’s hips. Then he pushed Finn’s shirt up, dropping kisses on his belly. “Gods, three of them, Finn. Maybe four. Or two.”

Their eyes met. Finn read Dante’s trepidation. Even now, he couldn’t promise his alpha anything—he should’ve been able to. Finn was older, he knew so much more.

Dante had been through so much these two months, all because he wanted Finn to remain with his pack. He’d received the scorn of Finn’s mother, he’d had to prove himself over and over.

Dante didn’t deserve to be put through all that.

Maybe Finn should’ve rejected Dante the very first time, back when Dante had kissed him when he was nineteen. Finn had been his teacher. He’d shaped Dante. He’d known, right from the start, that Dante would’ve been better off with a younger omega, someone who could bear to hold his hand in public.

And yet Finn had kept Dante for himself, had told himself Just one more night. He’d slept with Dante over and over, knowing their relationship couldn’t last. Couldn’t help it, when Dante felt so good against him, when Dante had loved him unconditionally, had been so eager to pleasure him every night.

“Stop that,” Dante murmured, kissing Finn’s belly. “I don’t care about any of that.”

Maybe he didn’t, but it pained Finn to see Dante struggle with the pack. Finn’s mom scattering the bowls he’d spent hours turning, the pack’s mistrustful glances, Dante’s disappointment when they made far less than what he’d expected during Market Day.

Their two months here were almost up, and Finn wasn’t sure the pack accepted them any more than they did before.

“I’m sorry,” Finn said, his throat tight. “I didn’t... I didn’t mean for everything to be so difficult for you.”

“We’ll leave the canyon, then,” Dante said. “It’ll be easier when no one knows who we are.”

But there was also that distant threat of Dante’s past, the wolves he’d sold out. By leaving the pack... they would also leave themselves defenseless.

If Finn could turn back time, maybe he should have turned the young Dante away, given him money and pointed him to somewhere he’d be better received.

“Home is with you,” Dante said. He got to his feet, slipping his hand against Finn’s nape. Kissed Finn’s forehead. “I would trade anything in the world to stay with you.”

“Even your happiness?” Finn asked, his heart sinking.

Dante stared at Finn for a second, his eyes dark. “Even that. You make me happiest—everything comes second.”

“But what if you could be happier without me?”

Dante shrugged. “Bit late to be asking that, isn’t it? We’re bonded, Finn. Your blood runs in my veins.”

Finn sighed, pressing his face into Dante’s shoulder. With his belly swollen, Dante could hardly embrace him from the front. They hugged best sideways, when Dante cradled Finn’s back with one arm, and his belly with the other.

“We should start packing up for Market Day,” Finn mumbled, leaning into his alpha. “I guess it’s a good thing we never unloaded all the wares from last week.”

Dante sighed, brushing his hand through Finn’s hair. “I guess.”

Even with Dante working in the city three days a week, it hardly seemed like they were making enough. They’d been saving every penny they could, preparing for the birth. Finn had begun to list his wares on the internet, too, and Dante ran the deliveries to local buyers.

Dante kissed Finn on the lips, then released him, looking around. “I’ll put the new things in the truck,” he said. “Better if you sit.”

Finn managed a smile. “I can still work, you know.”

“Sit,” Dante said.

Finn rolled his eyes. “Yes, Daddy.”

Dante snorted. “Hey, I’ll be an actual daddy soon.”

“Are you ready for it?”

“Maybe.”

Dante glanced at Finn’s abdomen; Finn couldn’t help running his hand over his belly, imagining the pups he would birth. Their pups. He’d be dads with Dante soon, cradling their children, feeding them, teaching them to walk and play and talk.

That, at least, cheered him up.