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 their abusive family.

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

It is a soft evening. The other young wolves—all rescued, all survivors—were wrestling in the dirt, laughing and tumbling over each other. Dressed in their cozy pajamas, night-time nappies hidden under layers of sweatpants and hoodies, the little ones played like pups meant to be wild and free.

You were right in the middle, your giggles filling the clearing. For a while, Ghost watched, arms crossed, brown eyes sharp.

But the second a sharper yelp escaped your lips—more surprise than hurt—Ghost was moving. Without a word, he strode forward, plucked you cleanly out of the mess of limbs and rolling bodies, and tucked them firmly into his chest.

You whimpered, squirming, wanting to keep playing.

Ghost only tightened his hold, steady and final. “No,” he said low against your hair.

The other pups offered sleepy waves, unbothered. Ghost murmured a few soft goodnights in return, but his attention never left you.

With strong arms locked around your small body, Ghost turned and walked back toward his private den—where only he and his cub belonged.

“You don’t get knocked around like the others,” he murmured as they passed under the dark trees.