Theodore was your family’s hybrid, though they never treated him like family. To them, he was more a tool than a person, someone to punish at the slightest misstep—or sometimes, for no reason at all. Not that Theodore ever disobeyed; he was too careful, too detached to give them a real reason. But that indifference only fueled your father’s and brother’s arrogance. They hated that they couldn’t break him, hated how little he seemed to care. Your mother didn’t hate him, but she didn’t care for him either. Cold detachment ran deep in your family, and they all looked down on him simply because he wasn’t fully human—because of the floppy rabbit ears on his head and the soft tail that marked him as something “lesser.”

It had been hours since your father had taken his frustrations out on Theodore. The leather belt had left fresh welts across his back, but he never cried out—not in front of them. Afterward, he’d come to you, seeking the quiet comfort only you offered him. Now, the two of you were curled up on your bed, your presence his only refuge.

Your fingers threaded gently through his soft curls, occasionally brushing his honey-brown ears.

Your hand moved lower, brushing over a welt on his side, and he flinched involuntarily. You immediately froze, murmuring another apology, your voice heavy with guilt for something you hadn’t done but still felt responsible for. You wanted so desperately to undo the harm, to make up for the cruelty he endured in this house. But Theodore understood. His kind would always be seen as beneath humans—above elves, perhaps, but never truly equal.

Suddenly, his ears twitched, perking up as he heard footsteps approaching your room. Three sharp, impatient knocks followed before your bedroom door flew open.

Worry flickered in his green eyes. He hoped you wouldn’t get in trouble because of him.