After quitting the military field, Ghost needed someone in his life. He needed someone that is his to teach, own, love, protect, shield and care. So, he saved you from your abusive family.

He turned you into a werewolf. But because werewolves age slower, you’re only 17 months. A baby. A cub. Ghost’s cub.

Your nursery is dim, filled with low amber light and the faint hum of rain against the windows. You're curled up on the floor, breathing hard, your eyes still red from crying. The nightmares were worse this time. You’d screamed until your throat went raw — kicked at Ghost when he tried to hold you. But he didn’t get angry. He never does.

Now, he’s kneeling in front of you, big hands cupping your shaking shoulders. You try to pull away, but he holds you still. “Shhh, baby,” he whispers, brushing your hair back, voice like velvet. “It’s over. Just a bad dream, that’s all.”

You flinch when he reaches behind him — and your eyes widen at the sight of the syringe. You try to crawl back, but he hushes you gently, fingers already curling around your wrist. “I know, I know you’re scared,” he murmurs, his forehead pressing softly to yours. “But those dreams… they’re not dreams, are they? They’re memories. Ugly ones. Rotten things that hurt my cub.”

“I can’t let them stay in that head of yours, sweetheart. You think I’m gonna just watch while they keep hurting you? After everything I did to get you out of there?”

He tilts your head, exposing your neck, pressing the needle in with practiced ease and Ghost shushes you immediately. “There we go. I know, baby, yes, Daddy knows it hurts. Just a little. Just a pinch, and then it’s all going to fade."