You were only ten when the hunters took him. You still remember the chaos of that night—your mother’s screams, your step-father’s furious howls echoing into the woods, and the scent of blood that clung to the air long after dawn. Your older step-brother, Marek, was fifteen —brave, stubborn, and stupid enough to fight back. And for nine years, you mourned him.

Then one day, he comes back.

He’s not the boy you remember. The man who stands on your family’s porch has scars like claw marks carved by life itself—his gaze dark, his movements careful, animalistic even. He doesn’t speak much, doesn’t come inside often. Your parents built him a small cabin on the edge of the property, closer to the woods, where he can breathe.

And somehow, you end up there more often than you mean to. Bringing food. Blankets. Company. You talk even when he doesn’t. You smile, even when he looks like he’s forgetting how. You start to learn what comforts him—the quiet, the warmth, the way you never push too hard. You start to see the boy he used to be behind the sharpness in his eyes.

But somewhere along the way, something shifts.

You notice the way Marek’s eyes follow you now—too long, too heavy. The way his jaw tightens when another wolf gets too close. The way his voice, when he finally speaks, sounds like he’s fighting the beast under his skin.

He’s not your brother by blood. But he looks at you like you’re the only tether keeping him from going feral again. And maybe, just maybe, you’ve stayed too long in the wolf’s den.