A week after the breakup, Finn woke in bed, dragging his eyes open. Thought he’d find Dante’s warmth wrapped around him, thought he might hear Dante’s voice in his head, nudging at his thoughts.

The house was silent, and so was his mind.

It didn’t feel right. The twin bed felt too wide, even as his belly swelled ever bigger. It was heavy, the size of a basketball, and inside, his pups kicked. Finn rubbed his hand over his abdomen, wondering what he’d tell his children. Your dad was a wonderful alpha. I sent him away.

Gods, nothing sounded right anymore. Finn groaned, pulling the pillow over his head.

He smelled cherry-wood and musk, remnants of Dante’s presence. He’d been telling himself to get the sheets washed. Get Dante’s scent out of the cabin, so he could move on.

He never did. Couldn’t bear to throw away Dante’s shirts, couldn’t bear to toss the dog carvings in his bathroom. Dante’s scent still made him feel safe, and Finn breathed his alpha deep into his lungs, wishing it was enough to soothe the ache in his chest.

Somewhere out there, Dante was starting a new life.

At least, Finn hoped he was.

He rolled himself out of bed, his ankles swollen and sore. Waddled to the bathroom and washed his face, his belly bumping into the bathroom counter.

He needed a bigger cabin. Needed cots for his pups.

Somehow, he remembered Dante’s smile, Dante hammering away in the workshop, sawing down planks for cots and changing stations and high stools. Didn’t let himself regret his decision.

Finn should probably cancel his classes, take some time off so he could prepare for his pups—there were barely three weeks to go, now. There wasn’t time. But he couldn’t stand the thought of being alone in the workshop, Dante’s laughter tucked into every nook and cranny.

For the past two months, Finn’s life had felt complete. He’d felt safe, and loved. Dante had touched Finn’s scars, nuzzled the stretch marks on Finn’s belly. He’d made Finn feel as though his awful body was worth loving again.

Dante had suffered the pack’s insults and contempt. He’d put up with Finn’s pregnancy, his cravings and sores and fatigue. He’d lent Finn his shirts and tried his best with Crumpet.

Finn had taken so much of Dante’s life for himself, that it didn’t seem fair to take any more.

He gurgled his mouth, then glanced in the mirror. The scabs on his neck looked terrible—two crescent moons facing each other, dark red and angry. Finn missed the silvery tooth marks, Dante’s imprint on him.

“Shut up,” he said. “You brought this on yourself. Suck it up.”

He hobbled to the kitchen, grunting as he set down bowls of food and water for Crumpet. Crumpet padded over, twitching his ear.

Back when they’d first broken up, Crumpet had looked at the front door repeatedly, as though waiting for Dante to show. But Dante never did, and maybe both of them were hoping for him to return.

Finn had made his decision. He was supposed to stick with it, not beg for Dante to come back.

He crammed his breakfast into his mouth—bread and cream cheese, and a cup of milk. Pulled on his shoes, made his way to the workshop, and continued with prep for today’s Saplings class. It had gone so much faster with Dante’s help.

Sarah was the first to show up, as usual. “Where’s Mr. Dante?”

Finn’s heart squeezed. He gulped, blinking hard. “We broke up.”

She gasped. When he finally turned, he found her walking up to the band saw, standing with her hands tucked behind her back. “But you’re pregnant,” she said.

“I am.”

“Who’s going to be their other dad?”

“It’s just me, I guess.” And that made Finn sick with longing. He hadn’t envisioned this for his pups, just one dad. Maybe Dante would return every other weekend, visit their children.

Finn’s heart shouldn’t thump at that thought. He should be happy for Dante, leaving to start a new life. He shouldn’t want to see his alpha again, see the way Dante’s eyes shone when he swung their pups into the air.

Tears streaked down his cheeks, dripping onto the plywood boards. He hadn’t thought it would hurt this much without his alpha. Back when the riptide had taken him away, he’d spent months on painkillers, his wounds mending. And yet, this hurt worse.

“Mr. Finn,” Sarah gasped. “Shall I get you some tissue?”

“I’ve got some,” Old Bill said from the doorway.

Finn turned, wiping his face on his sleeves. “Bill?” he croaked.

Bill unzipped his fanny pack, pulling out a packet of tissues. He waved it at Finn. “Thought I’d wander over to see how ya doin’, Finny-boy. Don’t cry.”

Finn cried harder. He couldn’t help it, when he remembered Dante pulling him close, running his fingers through Finn’s hair, kissing his forehead.

Finn had been terrible. He shouldn’t have slept with Dante as his teacher. Yet, Dante had never blamed him for it. Dante had kissed his belly, he’d looked up at Finn with those warm eyes, and he’d tried his best to prepare for the pups.

Maybe Finn shouldn’t have sent him away.

Finn bit his lip, looking up at Old Bill with watery eyes. “I miss him,” Finn mumbled.

“Do ya want him back?” Bill asked gently, handing him a tissue. “It’s not too late.”

The scab itched on Finn’s neck, and Finn knew he’d hurt Dante too much for Dante to forgive him. “He’s better off with someone else,” Finn said.

“But you fit,” Sarah said.

Finn cracked a smile, tears dripping down his chin. “He’ll fit with someone else, too.”

“Nuh-uh,” Sarah said. “I heard in school that if a penis fits, you want to keep it with you forever.”

Finn choked. And then he wished fervently that Dante were here, so Finn could’ve seen the look on his face when Sarah said that.

Bill stared. “What in all hell are ya learnin’ at school, girl?”

Sarah looked owlishly at them. “I learn life lessons at school.”

Maybe Finn should’ve been there with Sarah, learning all those life lessons, too. So he would stop making all these mistakes.

He sighed, wiping his face down with the tissue. “That’s it,” he said. “I’m not crying anymore.”

Bill perked up. “Gonna get Dante back, now?”

Finn shook his head. “Time for class. I can do this.”

Bill sighed. Then he pulled Finn into a hug, patting his back. “Here’s another life lesson for ya, boy: Take ya happiness where you find it. Mercy knows there’s enough sadness in this world.”

Finn leaned into him, imagining Dante’s strong chest, his cherry-wood scent. “Maybe,” Finn said. “There’s some people who don’t deserve happiness.”

“And you’re not one of those,” Bill said firmly. “Neither is Dante.”

Finn gave a wan smile. “Thanks, Bill.”

Dante deserved happiness; Finn knew that. But he doubted his own ability to give Dante what he needed. He wasn’t perfect. He was getting older—this set of pups might be his last. He was too damn selfish, and that had led to this whole mess in the first place.

In time, maybe he’d adjust to having no alpha. For now... Finn would just have to deal.