All evening, Finn had been moving freshly-milled oak into his shed. Thunder rumbled every few minutes, and stray drops of rain pattered on the ground, darkening the dirt. The storm wasn’t far, now.

How many roads would it destroy this time? The forecast said it would be a three-day storm, that mudslides could ravage the roads in the canyon. Finn had sent out emails to his students—classes were canceled this week.

Four hours ago, Finn had packed and left the farmer’s market. No one had responded to his call for help.

Old Bill would’ve said, Ya shoulda asked the pups.

The pups in the pack had other things to do. Better things. Maybe he could’ve asked the neighbors down the road, but Finn wasn’t in the mood to drive the quarter-mile, ask for help yet again.

The shopping carts were racing each other in the yard, chasing Crumpet, and Crumpet barked loud enough to send the birds fluttering away.

“C’mon, guys,” Finn said, scrambling under a particularly wide slab of oak. Green wood was heavy, full of moisture. It was softer, easier on the mill, though, needing less power to saw through an entire log.

Cart Two slammed into his hip, chased along by Crumpet. Finn swore.

“Stay,” he snapped, his nerves wearing thin.

Two slowed down, turning to face him warily.

“Now, line up in the shed,” Finn said. “All of you.”

He jabbed his finger at the open doorway. One by one, the shopping carts rolled into his lumber shed, their wheels squeaking, their cart flaps swinging miserably. Finn almost felt bad. But better they be miserable, than covered with rust.

Then he hauled the next piece of lumber off his wagon, dragging it into the shed.

The cold wind bit into his skin. His leg hurt. He wanted a massage.

The moment he released the board, Finn sagged, limping out again. He imagined strong hands on him, working into his thighs, his shoulders, his feet.

Dante had done that for him, a long time ago. Finn had almost felt guilty about it, but Dante’s fingers had been firm, strong, touching his chest, his throat, between his legs.

He swallowed, blood pooling in his lower torso. Sometime today or tomorrow, his heat would begin. And then he’d lock himself indoors, so he wouldn’t be tempted to drive out, offer himself to the first alpha that came along. I can’t be that pathetic.

All he needed was to focus.

But as he flipped the next board onto the ground, he couldn’t help imagining soft lips on his neck, an alpha pinning him down, hauling his hips into the air. Spreading Finn, taking him. Dante had curled his fingers inside Finn, had stroked him until he was hard, and then taken Finn into his mouth. Dante had been his student.

Finn groaned, his pants growing tight. He’d never taken Dante to bed during his heat. Dante would’ve loved it if Finn had—he would’ve pinned Finn down, opened him up, and knotted inside.

Stop thinking about him.

But Finn had seen Dante’s picture back at the market, had imagined those intent eyes on him, raking over his bare skin. If he could get through a day without thinking about Dante, without imagining Dante against him, holding him...

Those memories were the bright points in Finn’s day. They made him smile when he remembered Dante in the woods with him, carefully handling the freshly-cut logs, his eyes curious.

Dante had been the perfect student, listening, learning, practicing.

And Finn wanted Dante back in his bed.

He pushed the nagging guilt away. Dante of the Weregrits was something of his past. Finn should move on, find something else he cared about.

He will kill all of us, Mom had said hours ago.

Finn curled his gloved hands around the lumber. Then his leg twinged and he paused, kneading his scar.

Something flashed between the trees.

Finn froze, looking up. In the fading light of evening, the outdoor lamps threw golden light across his messy yard, but no further than that.

Then a shape darted—pointed ears, a snout, a long tail.

Was it someone from the pack? Had someone seen his call for help? Finn couldn’t catch a scent; the wolf was downwind. He winced, straightening his clothes. He wasn’t dressed for company, with his worn sweater and baggy pants.

Crumpet raced out of the shed, growling. When Finn looked up, he glimpsed familiar thick haunches, fierce golden eyes, black fur brushed across an otherwise-gray head.

Dante.

Finn dropped the lumber, barely noticing it. His ears roared. He couldn’t think.

Dante couldn’t be back.

The wolf tore through the yard, his eyes locked on Finn. Finn gulped. Crumpet set himself between Finn and the wolf, and it was almost laughable, Crumpet even thinking he stood a chance.

Dante snarled as he approached, low and threatening. The sound reverberated through Finn’s chest Crumpet trembled. Stand off, Finn wanted to say, but he’d lost his voice.

The wolf skidded to a trot ten yards away. Then he was five yards from Finn, and Finn smelled him now, the notes of mellow cherry-wood in his nose. Dante had to have heard the frantic thumping of Finn’s heart, the raggedness of his breath.

“Dante?” Finn whispered.

The wolf circled him, golden eyes raking over Finn, his fangs gleaming in the lamplight. Then he shifted in a shimmer of silver—his snout pulled into his face, his paws lengthened into hands, his shoulders broadened.

When the glow faded, a man stood before Finn.

Five years after he disappeared, Dante was older, taller. Silvery scars slashed across his face, and his eyes were sharp. His lips were full, his skin tanned. Even as a human, he looked wolfish, with his dark hair, his golden eyes. His pecs stretched his T-shirt, and Finn knew, without touching, the solid wall of his abs, the heat of his thighs, his mouth.

“Finn?” Dante rasped, striding forward. “I thought—I thought...”

His eyes were full of shock and grief, and Finn realized that no one had told Dante he was still alive.

Funny how he could still read his alpha, years after they’d parted ways.

“I’m here,” Finn breathed. “I’m still alive.”

“How?” Dante stopped before Finn, their shoes touching, the heat of his body warming Finn’s skin. Finn had to look up at him; Dante was half a head taller than him, broader, stronger. So very perfect.

Dante’s gaze raked over Finn’s face, like he was trying to come to terms with this.

Finn should push him away. Instead, he stood still, his heart beating too loud. Alpha, all his instincts whispered. Bow for him.

Finn fought down his instincts. And Dante reached up with his hands, hesitating an inch from Finn’s face.

“I thought you were dead.” Dante’s voice cracked. And now Finn could hear Dante’s pulse, too, the erratic thump, the shortness of his breath.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Finn whispered. “It’s not safe for you.”

“I don’t care,” Dante said, his eyes yearning. “Can I—Are you...?”

Do you have an alpha now? The words lingered between them, and Finn’s heart squeezed. He tilted his head to the side, showed Dante the unmarked skin at the crook of his neck. “No alpha,” he breathed.

Dante groaned, cupping Finn’s face with his callused hands. Then he leaned in, pressed their foreheads together, and everything but Dante faded from Finn’s world.

This shouldn’t be happening. It was risky, it was forbidden.

Dante’s breath soughed over Finn’s lips, his eyes so close they were a blur of gold. “I’m sorry,” Dante whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

A weak laugh bubbled from Finn’s throat. “What’re you sorry for?”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there.” Dante brushed their noses together, his lips a hairsbreadth from Finn’s. “I spent weeks looking for you, and I thought... Gods, Finn. How are you even alive?”

There was so much pain in his voice, so much regret. You spent weeks looking for me? Finn leaned into his alpha, breathing in cherry-wood, cautiously touching Dante’s hip, his waist. Dante’s warmth soaked through his shirt. It was familiar. Comforting. It felt like home.

Then Dante slanted his lips over Finn’s, pausing right before they touched. “Can I...?” he whispered.

“You know we shouldn’t,” Finn said. “You know—”

“But you want it,” Dante said.

Finn couldn’t speak. His answer would damn them both.

“Fuck everyone else,” Dante whispered.

Then he kissed Finn, a hot, scorching touch that went right down to Finn’s toes, lit every nerve in his body. Against him, Dante’s lips were chapped, warm. He meshed their mouths together, sucking Finn’s lower lip into his mouth, his teeth sharp points on Finn’s skin. Finn moaned. He needed more.

Dante slid into Finn’s mouth, tasting like freshwater and Dante, and it was decadent, kissing him. Finn moaned, his forgotten heat surging through his body like the tide.

This was everything that shouldn’t happen, and in the face of Dante, in the face of five years without his alpha, Finn did not want to let go.

“Dante,” Finn breathed, his spine arching toward his alpha, his entire body flushing with his heat. “Dante, please.”

“Can’t believe you’re alive.” Dante’s breath rushed against Finn’s cheek. He wound his fingers into Finn’s hair, kissed down Finn’s jaw. His teeth grazed Finn’s skin, his mouth sucked hot on Finn’s pulse. Finn’s blood swooped between his legs. Dante slid his hand down Finn’s back, squeezed his ass.

In his arms, Finn felt wanted.

“Gods, Dante.” Finn curled his fingers into Dante’s shirt, smoothing his hands under it, feeling every line of his abs, his strong chest. His body grew taut, damp. His heat bloomed through his veins.

Dante reached between them, squeezed Finn’s cock. Finn throbbed. He wanted to present himself, wanted to spread his legs, beg Dante to fill his hole.

Raindrops pattered on his head, cold and harsh. Finn gasped.

They shouldn’t be doing this.

He shoved at Dante’s chest, breaking the kiss. Dante stepped back, his eyes raking over Finn, lingering on the hard line of his pants.

“You want me,” Dante rumbled.

There was no question about that. Finn gulped, tearing his eyes away from Dante, the broadness of his shoulders, the sheen of damp on his lips.

Crumpet barked, and Finn realized Crumpet had been barking all this time. He hadn’t heard any of it. “Hush, Crumpet.”

Dante huffed. “Crumpet? What kind of name is that?”

Then he smiled, warm and handsome, and Finn’s entire body throbbed. He wet his lips. “It’s... It’s a cross between a pancake and an English muffin. I can’t believe you didn’t know.”

Dante’s eyes coasted down Finn’s body, hot. There was a bulge in his jeans, too. Finn’s mouth watered. He shouldn’t want to pull Dante’s pants open, bury his nose between Dante’s legs. Lick up his balls, suck on his thick cock.

I was his teacher.

“I want to taste you,” Dante murmured, as though he could read Finn’s thoughts. “Lick you inside. Spread you open and fill you up.”

Finn whined, squirming. He knew exactly what that would feel like. Worse, he needed it. “Stop that. Please.”

Dante pursed his lips. “Tell me you don’t want me, then.”

Finn couldn’t answer that, either. Not when he’d barely tasted Dante, when Dante’s eyes promised so much more.

He glanced at the things in his yard. Then he took a step back, and the scar tissue in his thigh pulled. Finn grimaced.

Dante’s gaze sharpened. “What’s wrong?”

Years back, when they’d slept together, Finn had looked decent. He hadn’t acquired his scars, hadn’t looked as terrible as he did beneath his clothes. If Dante saw him now, if Dante saw how ruined he was... maybe he would leave.

Maybe that would be for the best.

“I’m not someone you should be with,” Finn mumbled, looking down.

Dante stared incredulously at him. “Are you serious? I find you alive after five years, and that’s the first thing you say to me?”

Finn opened his mouth. Lightning cracked above them, turning the sky purple. Thunder roared in their ears. Crumpet whimpered.

“I need to put the wood away,” Finn muttered.

“I have some wood you could put away.” Dante’s gaze darkened; he ran his thumb between his legs, right over his cock.

Finn swallowed hard. “If you’re not going to help, please leave.”

Dante flinched then, surprising Finn. “I’ll help. Where do you want the wood?”

Finn nodded at the shed. “In there. If you need gloves, they’re in the workshop.”

With a lingering look at Finn, Dante dragged his gaze away. Finn watched as he took in the yard—the tiny cabin, the large workshop, the scattered piles of firewood and scraps. Little had changed over the past five years, aside from the railings here and there, that Finn had installed.

“What are these?” Dante asked, touching a railing—five stakes driven into the ground, held together by a sturdy two-by-four. “They’re just... everywhere.”

Finn shrugged. He hadn’t moved since that first step. The moment he did... Dante would know.

“They’re railings,” he finally said.

“For?”

“Me.”

Before Dante could ask why, lightning struck again, further from the house.

Finn sighed. “If you aren’t moving the wood, I will. All that has to be put away before the storm.”

Dante narrowed his eyes. “I’ll get on it.”

He hefted the first board from the pile, striding into the shed. Finn hobbled as fast as he could while Dante’s back was turned, stopping when Dante looked back at him. “Those carts still with you?”

Finn managed a wry smile. “They live with me, Dante. You know that.”

The corners of Dante’s lips turned upward, a nostalgic smile. “Yeah, I know.”

Finn’s heart ached. He’d forgotten this part of their relationship, the times when Dante was unexpectedly mature, when he was all soft smiles, a gentle part of his soul shining through his rough exterior. Times like these, Finn wanted to pull him close, tell Dante he wouldn’t be hurt again.

Piece by piece, Dante moved the lumber into the shed, his biceps bulging as he hefted the material. Finn watched. Couldn’t stop staring, finding the subtle differences in Dante’s stance, the guarded way he held himself now.

It was in the middle of the final oak slab, when Dante was lining up all the boards he’d moved, that Finn asked, “What happened to you? When... when you were gone.”

Dante met his eyes, wiping his dusty hands on his jeans. “I could ask the same of you.”

Finn decided he wasn’t trading that information. “Nothing much.”

Dante’s eyes flashed. “You almost died, Finn.”

“I’m alive now, aren’t I?”

Dante rumbled low in his chest, stalking over. He stopped at the doorway, towering over Finn, musk rolling off his skin. Finn swayed. Every breath of Dante’s scent made his body tighten, made him want to lean in close, breathe Dante’s desire off his skin.

Five years without his alpha, and this was how they met again.

Dante touched his fingers to Finn’s chin, his gaze dropping to Finn’s mouth. “Until half an hour ago,” Dante murmured, “I thought you were dead. I searched fifty miles of shore for you, Finn. I told your pack you were dead.”

Finn sucked in a sharp breath, dread filling his gut. “You... you were the one who told them?”

“Yeah.”

And now he didn’t dare imagine how the Topanga pack had cast Dante out, how they’d clawed into him, thinking he’d killed one of their own. Silvery lines stretched across Dante’s neck, his face—scars from a long time ago.

Had Dante let himself be beaten up after the accident?

Finn looked down, guilt flooding his stomach. He watched as Dante shut the door on the carts, locking it. He handed Finn the key; their fingers brushed, and electricity tingled through Finn’s nerves.

“Lumber’s stored,” Dante said, glancing at the rain that had started to patter on the ground. The raindrops glinted in the lamplight. Under the shelter of the shed’s eaves, it felt as though he were cocooned in a small space with Dante.

Dante was a murderer, and yet... Finn wanted him closer.

“It’ll storm for three days,” Finn murmured, breathing in the scent of damp earth. “I don’t know if the roads will wash out around here.”

“Then I’ll stay,” Dante said, cupping Finn’s cheek, brushing his thumb over Finn’s lip. “In case you need help.”

Finn wanted to say no. He looked away, twisted his fingers together.

“Get into the house,” Dante said. “You’re gonna catch a chill out here.”

“Like you won’t?”

“I won’t.” Dante smiled boyishly, humor gleaming in his eyes. Finn’s breath caught.

Dante was twenty-five now. Finn was forty-three. There were eighteen years between them; Finn could well be Dante’s father.

“Go on,” Dante said, nodding. “After you.”

Finn put pressure on his bad leg, hesitating. Dante’s smile faded.

“C’mon,” Dante said, slipping his hand into Finn’s. Then he pulled Finn along the covered walkway, and Finn followed, trying not to limp. His muscles ached with the strain.

Why the hell was he trying this hard, when he wanted Dante to leave?

Then Dante looked back mid-limp, and Finn held his breath. Felt his cheeks scorch as Dante watched him finish the awkward step.

“You... I haven’t seen you walk,” Dante said slowly, his gaze turning shrewd. Then he glanced down, and took a step away from Finn. “C’mon.”

Finn didn’t move. Couldn’t bear the thought of Dante looking at his bum leg. “You go ahead.”

Dante stepped closer, flattening his palm against Finn’s thigh. “Where does it hurt?” His breath brushed over Finn’s ear. “Here?”

Dante squeezed Finn’s thigh, solid, sturdy, and Finn wanted to groan, lean into him.

“Wrong leg,” Finn blurted. Then he swore at himself.

Dante narrowed his eyes. In a swift move, he crouched and swept Finn off his feet. Finn yelped.

“I can walk!” Finn said, his face burning. “Put me down.”

“Not until I see what’s wrong,” Dante said.

Then he strode toward the house, and Finn covered his face, dreading the look in Dante’s eyes when Dante inevitably saw all of him.

At the front door, Dante stooped and tried the lock. Scowled when the door didn’t budge. “You’re still using one of those locks, aren’t you?”

Finn managed a chuckle. “Put me down.”

Dante obliged. Finn fished his key from his pocket, sliding his fingertip around the steel keyhole on his door. “Hey,” he said over the rain. “I’m home.”

The keyhole stretched into a smile. Finn inserted the key, unlocking the door.

Inside, the cabin was cramped. Half-finished bowls were stacked in a corner, and chewed-up pieces of scrap wood littered the floor. There was no TV—just a couch, a tiny kitchen, and a bedroom off the hallway. Finn’s body tightened. He was bringing Dante into his home.

Hard not to think about Dante pressing him against the wall, reaching into his pants. Fucking him into the bed.

Hell, he wanted Dante to do that. Didn’t want Dante to know just how hungry he was.

“I can smell your heat,” Dante murmured.

Finn closed his eyes, groaning. He watched as Crumpet slipped into the house behind them, giving Dante a resentful look. Dante wasn’t looking at the terrier, though. He was still waiting on Finn for an answer, his eyes dark.

Then Dante shut the door, locked it, and the patter of rain muffled. It was quiet in the cabin, golden lamplight glinting off the glassware, lighting the stationery on Finn’s desk.

Every bit of Finn’s attention was anchored on Dante, on the fullness of his lips, on the tightness of his rain-speckled clothes. He looked perfect, so unlike Finn.

“Take off your jeans,” Dante said.

Finn stared at him, his face burning. “Let me put out the lamps first.”

“No.” Dante caught Finn’s arm as he turned, anchoring him in place. “I want to see all of you. I want to see where you hurt.”

And then he would leave. Was it possible to keep him somehow? For just a night?

Finn’s heart thudded. He glanced at the crotch of Dante’s jeans—at least Dante wasn’t quite as aroused now. Maybe they could both ignore his heat. He’d show Dante his scars, and that would be the end of their relationship. Dante would be free to find an omega better for him.

“Let... let me sit down first,” Finn said. He was stalling. He almost wanted Crumpet to race in and rescue him, except Crumpet was watching them from a distance, tucked under the carved side table by the desk.

Finn hobbled over to the couch, Dante’s eyes narrowing with each step. Slowly, Finn sat. Unbuckled his belt, then undid the zipper of his pants. Paused with his fingers hooked into the waistband of his jeans.

After this, Dante would never look at him the same.

“You embarrassed?” Dante asked, wariness flickering through his eyes. “I’ve seen all of you, Finn.”

Not this, he hadn’t.

With painstaking movements, Finn dragged his jeans out from beneath his ass, leaving his briefs on. He kicked his shoes and socks off.

Then he pushed the denim off his thighs, holding his breath as the splotches of red came into view. He never wanted anyone to see these. Not the doctor, not his mom.

Certainly not someone with such potential as Dante.

The jeans fell in a heavy heap onto the floor. Dante sucked in a sharp breath, and Finn curled his legs up toward himself, hiding the angry, jagged scars, the mottled skin and ruined muscle. His cheeks scorched.

Dante fell to his knees in front of Finn. “Fuck,” he said. “Finn, I...”

He curled his warm fingers into Finn’s calves. Then he pulled Finn’s legs back down, opening them around him. Finn closed his eyes, afraid of seeing the revulsion on Dante’s face. Gods knew it had taken him a month before he could look at himself after the accident.

Dante slipped his fingers against the crook of Finn’s knee. Then his breath fell on Finn’s skin, and his lips brushed over Finn’s calf.

Finn gasped, his eyes snapping open. “Wh-what’re you doing?” he choked.

“I didn’t realize...” Dante ran his fingers over Finn’s leg, feather-light touches on marred skin. When he looked up, his gaze was pained, horrified. “Finding you alive... I thought this was too good to be true. I didn’t realize... You shouldn’t have to pay this price. I’m sorry.”

Finn sagged into the couch, staring in disbelief. “You’re not leaving?”

Dante brushed his lips over Finn’s knee, then down his calf, all the way to his foot. “I’m not leaving. I’m never leaving you again.”

Finn’s stomach dropped. “I’m... I’m not worth much, Dante.”

Dante snarled, his grip tightening around Finn’s ankle. “Don’t you dare say that.”

He pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the top of Finn’s foot, his tongue a soft, damp touch on Finn’s toes. Finn shivered. He hadn’t been quite as badly hurt there—most of the damage was on his thigh and calf, when he’d crashed into a coral and sliced his leg open.

Back then, there had been blood and pain, and then numbness. When Finn had woken up, he’d been washed ashore on a deserted beach.

Now, Finn squirmed. He didn’t want to look at his scarred leg. But he couldn’t help staring at Dante, Dante’s tongue on his skin, as though none of the scars mattered.

For Dante to taste him with such tenderness... Finn could hardly believe his eyes.

“Does it hurt?” Dante asked.

Finn kneaded his thigh. “Not so much.”

It was chilly—insulation was poor, and he’d forgotten to start a fire in the hearth. The storm pattered deafeningly on the roof, stealing heat from the cabin. Finn’s leg throbbed.

“But it hurts,” Dante said.

Dante pressed his thumbs into Finn’s sole, working in slow circles, the heat of his hands seeping into Finn’s skin. The lightest caress sent pleasure tingling up Finn’s nerves, but this careful touch... Finn’s body sang.

“Let me stay with you tonight,” Dante whispered. “Let me touch you.”

Finn’s throat went dry. Dante had to know how much he was offering. And yet he waited for Finn’s answer, his gaze steady.

“Yeah,” Finn croaked. “Please.”