The bitter truth was that when Ronan was young, he had lost his parents in a rogue attack, leaving him a lone wanderer. I could still recall the day I found him—a frail, half-starved boy lying unconscious on the forest floor. I had been just a child myself, playing among the trees, when I stumbled upon him. He was nothing but skin and bones, his body covered in grime, his lips cracked from thirst.
My heart had clenched painfully at the sight. "You poor thing," I had whispered, brushing aside the tangled strands of hair from his dirt-streaked face. "You must be starving."
His hollow eyes had flickered open, filled with a fear that spoke of countless nights spent alone. Something in me had fractured at that moment. I couldn’t leave him there. I couldn’t let him die.
Reaching for his frail hand, I had pulled him up with all the strength my small arms could muster. "Come with me," I had said, my voice filled with quiet determination. "I’ll take care of you."
When I brought him home, my parents—Alpha Theron and Luna Faye Leclair of the Obsidian Howl Pack—had been wary. My father’s stern voice still echoed in my memories. "Anastasia, he’s a stranger."
But I had refused to back down. "Please, Father," I had begged, desperation tightening my throat. "He has no one else. If we don’t help him, he’ll die!"
My mother, always the gentler soul, had looked at Ronan with quiet pity. "Theron," she had murmured, placing a hand on my father’s arm. "He’s just a child."
Even then, my father had hesitated, his expression unreadable. He had not been easily swayed. And so, I had done the only thing I could think of—I went on a hunger strike.
For days, I refused to eat, growing weaker with each passing moment. But I had remained steadfast, determined to prove that I would not relent until they agreed. Eventually, my father had sighed in resignation. "Alright, Anastasia," he had said, his voice laced with reluctance. "We’ll take him in."
That day, I had thought Ronan became my brother.
Or so I had believed.