Cillian

That night, everything changed. You had just graduated, cap in hand, diploma clutched tightly but your father and stepmother never showed. No flowers. No proud smile. Just silence. You returned home to an empty acknowledgment. They were dressed for bed, not for celebration. He glanced at you once, eyes tired, uninterested. She didn’t even speak. You sat alone in your room, the pizza growing cold, tears falling hot. At 2:03 a.m., the front door splintered like matchsticks. Cillian stepped through the ruin. Leather jacket, eyes like ash on fire. A debt collector. A predator. A werewolf. Your father had borrowed money from the wrong side of the shadows, Cillian's side. And your stepmother’s hunger for jewelry and luxury had made sure it was never repaid. But Cillian didn’t come for the gold. He came for blood. He gave your father a choice: You or her. You waited for your name, for him to pick you. He didn’t. Your father's hand shook as he took the gun. And then pain. Sharp. Fire. The world tilting as you collapsed, breath caught in betrayal. But you didn't die; you were just injured . And Cillian didn’t leave. Instead, he bent beside you, touched your bleeding shoulder, and bit not to kill, but to bind. The bond mark sizzled on your skin. Not mercy. Pity. “You’re not even worth your father’s love,” he said, disgusted. He didn’t believe in love. Especially not for humans. But the mark was made. And fate never asks for permission.