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My back rested on my parents’ grave.

My ass sat on the soil that was long fertilized with their decomposing bodies. I was there because where else could I go? Regardless of where I went, the still unknown witch could sic more dead things upon me, but the fight would be a welcome distraction.

Though injured as I was, I didn’t have a good chance of winning a fight, even against the lowliest of supernatural creatures.

And if Sharon was to be believed, I needed to be able to fight one of the strongest supernatural creatures to walk the earth.

Did demon princes walk the earth? I’d scoured the library, the internet, my journal for any lore referencing them. I was bogged down with contemporary romances, only finding vague mentions of them in more reputable texts. Not much what I did find focused on their small numbers. Their unnerving forms.

Their cold, world-ending power.

I couldn’t find many mentions of how to kill them beyond a reference to a “divine glow” which I didn’t think I could get my hands on.

I’d called up my witch acquaintance and asked her about witches blessed by demon princes. I got a response not unlike Donny’s. Eerie silence. And advice to get the fuck out of town and not involve her in that dark kind of magic ever again.

Luckily, I hadn’t come upon Colton. He was keeping his distance, busy with the murder he didn’t know he committed, most likely. Sharon and Gerald weren’t stupid enough to try to contact me. Yet.

I’d spent the day alone with my thoughts and a bottle of Jack. Even the Jack couldn’t drown out my thoughts. I’d barely slept, only lapsing into unconsciousness because my body sorely needed the rest. My injuries were barely healed, and I wasn’t exactly fueling myself with nourishing things to speed up the process. Even so, none of my wounds were infected as of yet, and the wounds themselves hadn’t reopened or turned me septic.

Small wins.

I’d woken late. Around lunchtime, I decided to forgo coffee for more Jack since I had no fucking clue what to do, being two days out from a full moon. And I wasn’t going to call Dante. Not yet.

So I was there.

At the graveyard. Where the thud of heavy footsteps smashing dead leaves announced that I wouldn’t be getting a moment of peace.

Yet again, it was Dante. He didn’t say anything as he parked his ass beside me, thigh pressing up against mine, fingers brushing mine as he snatched the bottle from me.

I was surprised to find my muscles unwinding, suddenly feeling more relaxed. Sitting with this alone had been downright unbearable. It must’ve been, if Dante’s presence was a salve to my soul.

“Are you following me?” I asked with a lot less venom than intended. I didn’t have the energy to pretend I was mad. Relieved. I was relieved he was there. Something that had been curled tight inside me unfurled at his scent, his warm thigh.

“No.” He took a long swallow, handing the bottle back to me. “You weren’t at the house or the bar; this was my next logical location. Or you were dead. Glad I was wrong about that.”

His voice was casual, but I noted the tightness in it, the tension in his body right beside mine. My own limbs hummed with his nearness, the promise of an escape right there beside me. The possibility of losing myself in him.

I was thinking about Dante fucking me on my parents’ grave. A new level of sick for even me.

“Not dead.” I forced my voice to be even. “And I found the werewolf.”

I felt Dante’s gaze on me, but I didn’t look at him, just kept staring straight ahead, lifting the bottle to my lips, if only for something to do.

“So they’re dead, then. You won.” His voice was flat. Carefully so.

I laughed bitterly. “No on both counts.” I looked at him then. His features were intent upon me, head tilted my way. “The wolf is Colton.”

Dante, for his part, did not look overly shocked. I wondered if he’d already considered this possibility or if he was just a jaded hunter who could no longer be surprised.

“Which is why you couldn’t kill him?” His question sounded neutral, though I could’ve sworn I heard disappointment in his tone.

“No, I was ready to kill him,” I replied honestly. “I was … interrupted.”

I then proceeded to tell him the whole story, including the visit to the Hughes’ house and their plea for help.

Dante listened silently, save for a few questions he asked here and there, mostly pertaining to the curse, the witch, and then questions that obviously pointed to his curiosity about the pack and their structure. He was just as amazed as I was about the seemingly vegetarian—for lack of a better term—werewolves and the wide-reaching pack.

I finished my story, taking the bottle once again. And once again, our fingers touched. I felt the heat of that contact in my soul, seeping deeper than the whiskey had.