In the wan light of dawn, Dante looked down at his omega, trailing his fingertips up Finn’s arm, his jaw, his lashes. It had been hours of Finn, and Dante still hadn’t had enough.

Still couldn’t believe Finn was alive. Finn was here with him. He was living, breathing, his body warm, and Dante couldn’t help pressing his face into the crook of Finn’s neck, sniffing at dill and old sweat.

For five years, Dante had played those last moments in his head, over and over. Him shoving at the wagon, Finn dashing after it. Finn falling into the sea. He’d imagined kneeling, apologizing, bringing Finn back to the cabin so they weren’t arguing anymore. So Finn never slipped and disappeared from his life.

Dante had relived his horror, his fear. He’d remembered the cold glint of moonlight on the shore, the moment when he realized Finn wasn’t coming back. He’d been in shock, and later, the agony had ripped a hole through his chest.

He’d told the pack, but their claws didn’t hurt as much as the loss did.

Later on, when the grief had faded, he’d remembered the sunny afternoons in Finn’s workshop, Finn smiling in the kitchen. Then he’d wake up, only to realize he didn’t have Finn’s arms around him, only the thin sponge of the prison mattress.

Dante looked around the tiny space of Finn’s bedroom now, the sunlight filtering through the pink curtains, the rickety mahogany closet. The bedside table was one Dante had helped build—a black walnut frame, with pale oak drawers and stainless steel knobs.

Five years later, Finn was still the same. He loved when Dante spread him open, he laughed when Dante made corny jokes. He still wolfed down chicken sandwiches, and the look in his eyes when Dante straddled him... it felt like Dante had never left.

Just that the crow’s feet at Finn’s eyes had deepened, and there were tiny wrinkles on his skin, some gray in his hair.

Finn was eighteen years older than Dante, but he’d never treated Dante like a child. Sure, Dante understood there were things that kept Finn from committing fully. Finn believed a teacher’s role was solely to guide. A teacher shouldn’t be sleeping with his student.

But when Dante was inside him, all Finn felt like was omega, someone who craved Dante’s touch.

Gently, he caressed Finn’s soft lips. Traced his fingers over Finn’s smooth skin, listened to every thump of his heart.

Finn stirred, but continued to sleep.

Dante dragged his fingertips down Finn’s chest, to the splotchy red scars on his belly. His breath snagged. He’d probably knocked Finn up by now. Finn didn’t seem to mind. They’d gone without protection the entire time, and Finn had continued to spread for Dante, taking his seed, begging him for it.

The idea of pups scared Dante. Wasn’t like he knew how to raise children—he remembered stealing toys from the store as a pup, envious of the planes and skateboards his neighbors had. His own father had thrown him a half-chewed bone, and locked him in his room. Didn’t even answer when Dante had cried. When he did, it was to beat Dante, and tell him to shut up.

No way in hell Dante would do that to his own pups. But how did you raise children? Give them toys? Was that it? What if he screwed up, and his pups couldn’t control their wolves, either?

There were so many things Dante was clueless about. He’d killed, he’d been in jail. But he still felt as though he didn’t know enough, wasn’t experienced like Finn was.

As Finn’s heat faded, maybe he would get tired of Dante. Dante wasn’t a pack alpha, he didn’t have anything to his name. All Dante had was murder on his paws, and strength. He’d imprinted on Finn when Finn never asked for it, and... gods. Was this just another mistake to Finn?

Dante held his breath when Finn stirred. Couldn’t help the nervous jolt of his stomach.

He almost expected Finn to say, I don’t need you anymore. You’re too young for me.

Finn’s eyes cracked open, blue and hazy with sleep. “Morning,” he mumbled, his lips curving into a smile.

Dante’s heart skipped. “Morning yourself.”

“It stopped raining?” Finn asked, sliding his bare thigh against Dante’s, slow and languid. They smelled like sex, like hours of old come and dried sweat.

Dante listened. Past Finn’s breathing, and Crumpet’s panting somewhere in the cabin, he heard the muffled thuds of rain on the roof. “Just a bit,” Dante said. “You gotta listen real careful if you want to hear it.”

“Mm.” Finn nuzzled into Dante’s chest, his eyelids fluttering shut. “All I hear is you.”

“Still in heat?” Dante asked. Breathed in deeply, smelling the light musk on Finn’s body. Mine, his wolf said.

“I think so.” Finn stretched, arching his back. Then he squirmed around on the narrow bed, facing away from Dante. “Rub my shoulders.”

Dante smiled, hope filling his chest. “Not asking me to leave?”

Finn hesitated. “You’re young.”

“I’ve killed people,” Dante said.

Finn paused again. “You haven’t killed me.”

Dante’s breath rushed from his lungs. “I’m never killing you. Gods, Finn.” He pressed his nose to Finn’s spine, ran his hand down Finn’s thin chest. Held Finn close, savoring Finn’s warmth against his body. “There’s no life on this earth more important than yours.”

Finn trembled, his heartbeat stuttering.

This peace with Finn, it felt like home. The last time Dante had felt at home... that had been five years ago.

He cradled Finn against himself, pressing Finn’s back to his chest. Tucked his legs against his omega’s, skin to skin, so close there was no space for air between them.

Finn tipped his head back against Dante, and sighed. “We shouldn’t do this.”

“My heart belongs to you, Finn.”

Finn gulped. Then Dante slid his hand up Finn’s chest, touched his nipple. Stroked up Finn’s throat, to his lips. Finn took Dante’s fingers into his mouth.

“I love you,” Dante said.

Finn’s heart thundered. He hesitated, but Dante felt the flicker of longing in his omega, the skip in his pulse.

With Finn’s scars, the pups, the separation, it felt like everything had changed. Yet, as Dante rolled Finn beneath him, rocking their hips together, and as Finn moaned and spread for him, it felt as though they were just picking up where they’d left off.