Dante loped through the southern California forests, sniffing at the trees. Two days out of prison, and he was still drunk on freedom, the scent of loamy earth, the chirp of birdsong in his ears.

He was free.

He pushed his snout into the undergrowth, lapped water from a stream. He rolled around in a patch of mud, then shook it off his coat.

A howl rose through his chest. Dante fought it down, made it a low, rumbling growl. He wasn’t in Weregrit territory. He was in the Topanga Canyon, and he needed to remember to behave.

He’d killed someone here. Someone from the pack.

He’d killed the omega he’d loved most.

Sobering, he slowed his footsteps. That was why he was here—to pay his respects to Finn. It was the only reason why he was even out of jail.

Dante stayed in his wolf form, keeping downwind, avoiding the parts of the canyon with property and livestock. If the Topanga pack found him... they’d rip his throat open.

He’d had enough of killing. He wasn’t here to do that.

Dante wove through the trees, heading toward the coast. First the cabin, then the jetty.

It still hurt, remembering the surprise in Finn’s periwinkle-blue eyes. The shock, then the fear as he slipped off the jetty. They’d been arguing that summer afternoon, Finn telling Dante to leave, telling Dante they risked everything by being together.

But you love me, Dante had snapped.

Finn hadn’t replied. He’d turned, and Dante’s wolf had taken over. He’d shoved at Finn’s precious wagon, one that had followed them over the bumpy rocks. Finn had run after it to stop it from crashing into the sea.

The wagon had toppled off the jetty. Finn had picked his way down the slippery rocks, and Dante had seen the awful jut of stone that Finn hadn’t.

He’d wrestled control back from his wolf, then scrambled after Finn. But Finn had slipped, splashed into the murky ocean, disappearing beneath the waves.

Dante had dove in after him, but the waves whipped sand into his eyes, made it impossible to see. There had been a strong current close by, that Dante avoided, praying it hadn’t swept Finn away. But Finn had been nowhere to be found. Dante had gone into the current himself, followed it for miles.

For days, Dante had searched the entire coastline, howling, hoping Finn heard him somehow. But weeks passed, and there had been no sign of his omega.

Dante had returned to Topanga to tell the pack. They’d raged at him, fury and blame in their eyes. Dante had left, stones pelting his back, his face and shoulders bleeding after Finn’s brothers had ripped into him.

In prison later on, he’d thought up a million and one ways he could’ve prevented Finn’s death, except he’d been too late to do any of them.

Dante swallowed past the lump in his throat, wishing he could see his omega just a last time. Wishing he could say he was sorry, that he didn’t mean for any of that to happen.

You didn’t kill a person you loved.

After Finn’s death, it hadn’t mattered what Dante did with his life. He’d drifted through towns and cities, a gaping hole in his chest.

You’re not worth anyone’s time, Dante’s Pa would’ve said. Spent long enough under my roof.

Nine years ago, after Pa kicked Dante out, Finn had taken him in, taught Dante to carve bowls and walking sticks. He’d shown Dante how to use a chisel and a lathe, how to be useful—things Dante’s own father had never done.

Finn had been a place Dante belonged.

Dante didn’t really belong to the Weregrit pack, he’d felt no loyalty toward the mercenaries he’d worked for. Aside from Finn, no one had needed him, until he’d been recruited by a terror—Octogod, a big name in the underworld, who had promised Dante food and shelter in exchange for lives.

As a wolf, Dante had killed, relished the bloodshed. As a human, he’d regretted it. He’d turned himself in, given the police the names of his accomplices.

He’d forgotten how many he’d sold to the police—maybe ten, maybe thirty. It seemed four years was too short a term for murder, but here Dante was, the loamy earth beneath his feet.

All he had wanted, really, was a chance to step outside again, visit the jetty, maybe Finn’s old workshop. Apologize to Finn, visit his grave.

And somewhere out there, the remaining accomplices were on his tail, thirsty for revenge.

They were far away enough that Dante wasn’t concerned—he had nothing else to lose. He wasn’t lingering in Topanga, either. No point bringing trouble to innocent folk.

As he paused by the spotted trunk of a sycamore, Dante breathed in deep, picking apart the scents.

He smelled oncoming rain, and the mellow oak trees of the Topanga Canyon. Then a breeze blew by, carrying the scents of people—the sharp scent of non-magic folk, the brine of saltwater creatures, the loam of wolves.

And amongst the loam and salt, there was something else—a faint trace of dill that reverberated in Dante’s chest.

Home. Mate.

It was just another omega, one that had a scent similar to Finn’s. Dante had smelled the scents of various omegas—cinnamon, allspice, caraway. But dill was his favorite; Finn had left traces of it on everything he touched. And this scent on the breeze... it was achingly familiar.

It isn’t Finn. Dante followed the scent anyway, wondering what this omega looked like. If he had Finn’s red-brown hair, if his eyes sparkled like Finn’s, if his voice was just as sweet. Probably not.

Finn had never allowed Dante to imprint on him, but if he had... if they’d been bonded for just a moment...

Dante pushed his thoughts away, nearing an open, empty lot in the middle of the forest. A cacophony of scents filled the place—people had just been here, a lot of them.

It looked like the remnants of a farmer’s market, with stray leaves trampled into the ground, a squashed pepper, some torn flower petals drifting at the edge of the lot. Far too many footprints. Aside from the fluttering songbirds, there was no one else.

Dante reached deep in his chest, pulling on his human form. His bones stretched, his joints popping as he shifted from animal to man. The clothes slid over his skin, days-old shirt and jeans, and travel-worn shoes.

He stepped out of the trees, sniffing. Wandered over to the weathered noticeboard, where a variety of notices had been pinned.

There was a news clipping with his face. Ruthless murderer out of jail!

Dante fought the instinct to growl. Don’t need that reminder. He ripped the clipping off, crammed it in his pocket. Sniffed harder, following the dill scent to the other side of the board, where there was a piece of pink cardstock, and the handwriting... Dante’s heart stopped.

He recognized those loops in the Y’s, the large, round letters. It was Finn’s writing.

He stared at the note, the words floating past his mind. Finn couldn’t be alive. Dante had seen him slip into the water, had swum for miles, had combed the shore.

Finn’s dead. Dante had saved the obituary from the papers, tucked it away in his wallet. This couldn’t be real.

His pulse in his ears, Dante pulled off the pins holding the cardstock in place. He brought the card to his nose, breathed in deep. His chest filled with dill.

On the flip side of the card, someone had written in the same writing, Children’s drums, $10.

Dante closed his eyes, swaying on his feet. He knew this hand. He’d been in the same farmer’s market five years ago, watching Finn hawk his wares. He knew the drums Finn sold, the bowls and pens and cutting boards. Hell, he’d helped make some of them.

If everything he believed had been wrong, if Finn was still alive... If Finn was somewhere in this world, still breathing, his skin warm, his eyes bright...

A sharp yearning bloomed through Dante’s chest. He read the address on the card, then folded it, tucked it into his pocket.

This could be a hallucination. It could be some kind of fever dream, spending too long without an omega.

But it could also mean, on the off-chance, that Dante’s beloved was still alive. That maybe there was still something to live for, after all these years.

He sprinted for the trees, shifting back into a wolf. He was faster on four legs.

Dante ran.