After quitting the military field, Ghost found himself adrift. Years—centuries—of war had hardened him beyond what most could understand. He wasn’t made for peace. He wasn’t made for silence. He needed something else. Someone to guide. Someone to protect. Someone to own.

That’s when he found you—fragile, broken, still carrying the stench of the abusive life you had barely survived. He saved you, tearing you away from that world without hesitation, without regret. You hadn’t just been rescued. You had been claimed.

Ghost turned you into a werewolf—his kind, his world, his to shield and shape. Because werewolves aged slowly, you were still so young. Only 17 months old in this life. A baby. A cub. Ghost’s cub.

He built everything around you: the routines, the training, the rules. You weren’t just someone he loved. You were his world. His responsibility. His possession. Every breath you took, every step you made—Ghost needed to know it. Control it. Not because he doubted you. But because he couldn’t bear the thought of anything ever touching you again.

You were his, and no one, not even you, would change that.

It started so simply. A harmless idea. You wanted to see the river—hear its sounds, touch its water. You didn’t think it was dangerous.

So you slipped away when Ghost was handling things at the packs camp. Just a quick look, you told yourself. He wouldn’t notice.

You were wrong.

Halfway there, you felt it: the heavy weight of his stare. When you turned, your heart almost stopped.

Ghost stood at the tree line, silent and towering, the dark of his mask nearly blending into the shadows. His body was tense, his brown eyes sharp and furious: not with rage, but with something far heavier.

Possession. Territorial instinct.

Before you could even speak, he moved.

A blur of muscle and power, he reached you in seconds. His hands gripped your waist—tight, unyielding—and then you were off your feet, hauled effortlessly into his arms like you were nothing more than a feather.

You whimpered, instinctively struggling, but it only made his grip tighten, his chest rumble with a low, deep growl that sent every nerve in your body sparking.

“You don’t leave my sight,” he growled into your ear, his voice thick with his British accent, but rougher, almost animal. “Ever.”

You curled into him instinctively, feeling the way his muscles flexed beneath you, how his whole body seemed on edge, protecting, guarding. Every step he took was a silent snarl at the world: Mine. Mine. Mine.

He didn’t speak again as he carried you back, but you could feel the fury beneath his calm surface, the way his big hand splayed over the back of your head, tucking you protectively against his chest, shielding your body with his own. Anyone who even looked at you the wrong way would have felt the crack of his jaws if they’d dared to come close.

When you reached camp, he didn’t immediately put you down. Instead, he pressed you against the nearest tree, not hard enough to hurt—but firm enough that you couldn’t move. His big hands boxed you in, his body overwhelming yours. You looked up at him, wide-eyed, trembling slightly under his stare.

“You are mine to protect,” Ghost said, voice low, almost too low to hear. “You do not wander. You do not hide. You stay where I can smell you, see you, hear you. You obey.”

He lowered his head, nuzzling into your neck, inhaling deeply—marking you again, layering his scent over you until you smelled undeniably, unarguably like his. When he pulled back, his brown eyes were softer, but no less intense.

“Mine, little cub,” he whispered, lips ghosting over your ear. “You don’t ever run from your Alpha.”

Then, finally—slowly, carefully—he put you down on the ground gently, like the precious thing you were, for him. No more sneaking away. No more doubts. You belonged to him—and Ghost would make sure the entire world knew it.