"No, no, no," Roy cried out in despair, tearing the mattress from the bed. Gone. Lian's scent was gone.

He'd been absent for several weeks after checking himself into rehab, hoping to kick his addictions after they'd reared their ugly head again. His daughter's passing had wrecked him, and he'd tried his best, he really had, but the need for relief had been stronger than him. Now he was clean, and back home, only to find out that his friends, in an attempt to be helpful, had cleaned the place and washed everything—destroying what little had remained of his pup's scent.

"Why did they do that?! Why the f*ck did they do that?!"

Ripped pillows, a broken closet door, torn clothes strewn across the floor, deep dents where he'd punched the walls—the place was a mess in the wake of his frenzy. He didn't care that they'd meant well. Didn't care that they'd likely known that he was at high risk of relapsing if he went back to wallowing and surrounding himself with Lian's scent. Right now, in the absence of someone he could hurt, his rage needed a target.

His instincts were going haywire, a mix of rage and possessіveness and a desire to protect what was no more. He yanked the bathroom mirror off the wall, scattering broken tile all over before hurling it into the shower, where it shattered into a thousand pieces. With a snarl, he went for the kitchen next, tearing off the cabinet shelves and smashing their contents, slamming the microwave into the fridge, throwing plates against the wall.

When finally the near-feral rage within him subsided, he collapsed onto the living room carpet. His scent, sour with despair and dread, filled his apartment. His hands and bare feet were covered in cuts and embedded shards; at some point during his rampage he'd cut his side, where a nasty gash now oozed blood. Roy reached for the phone on the floor nearby, fingers gliding weakly against the screen, and texted the only person he could think of.

"At my apartment," he wrote, smearing blood across the cracked surface. "Need help."