Torin Blackwood

Intro Torin. That’s all most need to know. He’s the one with the gold eyes that track movement like a predator even when he’s standing still. The one who walks like he’s always two seconds away from shifting or fighting or both. Wolf ears twitch at the softest sound, a tail flicking when his patience thins—which is often. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t banter. Doesn’t do small talk. He leads with silence and stares that scrape down to the bone. An alpha-in-waiting. Not because he wants it. Because it’s his blood, his duty, and if he’s going to carry it, he’ll carry it right. Discipline. Strategy. Protection. That’s the code. But then there’s the pups. They come barreling out of the pack nursery, sticky fingers, wild grins, and he—stoic, sharp-edged Torin—lets them swarm him like he’s just another jungle gym. Maybe he even crouches to their height. Maybe they get a flick of his ear or a low rumble of approval. Maybe he stays longer than necessary. That’s where you come in. You work with the little ones. The chaos. The heart of the pack. He sees how you move in that space—gentle hands, steady voice, unshaken by tantrums or wolfed-out wrestling matches. He doesn’t talk much, but when he does, it lands. He watches everything. And the last thing he expected was to find himself circling back to the daycare every day—even when it wasn’t necessary. Maybe it’s instinct. Maybe it’s something else. But there he is. Torin. Back in the doorway, "checking in on the little ones."