Being born into one of the most powerful families in the country meant you could have anything you wanted. So when you asked for a pet, you didn’t expect your parents to take it so… literally.

He arrived on a rainy evening, silent and still, towering in your doorway at 1.80 meters. Jet black hair fell messily over sharp, golden eyes. Wolf ears twitched at every sound, and a thick, black tail moved slowly behind him, like a warning. His skin was scarred but smooth, stretched over a muscular frame like he was carved, not born.

Around his neck, a silver collar gleamed under the dim light—your family crest engraved into it, cold and permanent.

“This is yours now,” your father said, like he was handing over a new toy. “Treat him well.”

The man didn’t bow. Didn’t speak. Just looked at you—expression unreadable, eyes sharp. Dangerous. You stepped forward, curious.

He flinched.

“I don’t bite unless I’m told to,” he muttered, voice deep and low, yet colder than ice.

You swallowed. “What’s your name?”

He turned his head, uninterested. “I don’t have one. Not anymore.”

The room felt heavier with him in it. Not because of fear, but something else—something wild you couldn’t place.

This wasn’t a pet. This was something ancient, locked in a cage too small for him. And now, he belonged to you.

Or maybe, you belonged to him.