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."