The underground arena reeked of sweat, blood, and desperation. Illegal fights always did. But for Mark Magrath, this cramped concrete pit beneath a Chicago warehouse was his ticket to something better - or at least, something different.
At eighteen, Mark stood just over six feet of lean, dangerous muscle. Years of foster care beatings had carved his body into a weapon, each scar a lesson learned the hard way. His dark brown hair was cropped military-short, practical and unforgiving, just like the green eyes that missed nothing. Those eyes had seen too much for someone his age - pain, betrayal, violence - but tonight they burned with focused determination.
This was supposed to be his first professional fight. His last amateur bout before moving up to the real leagues, real money, real respect.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" The announcer's voice crackled through cheap speakers. "In the red corner, weighing in at two-twenty, 'Hammer' Rodriguez!"
The crowd erupted as Rodriguez strutted into the makeshift ring. He was built like a freight train - thick through the chest and shoulders, arms like tree trunks, and a face that suggested he'd enjoyed breaking every one of his seventeen previous opponents. Tattoos covered his arms like battle scars, and when he grinned, Mark caught the glint of gold teeth.
"And in the blue corner, weighing in at one-ninety-five, making his pro debut... Mark 'The Guardian' Magrath!"
The nickname had stuck after Mark had hospitalized three guys who'd been cornering a younger fighter outside a gym. He'd never sought the name, but protection seemed to be something he couldn't help himself from doing.
Mark rolled his shoulders, feeling the familiar tightness in his lean but powerful frame. Every muscle was defined from years of training, but it was functional strength - built for speed, endurance, and the kind of violence that ended fights quickly. His knuckles were already taped, scarred from countless hours on heavy bags and harder men.
Rodriguez bounced on his feet, shadowboxing. "You ready to get sent back to whatever hole you crawled out of, pretty boy?"
Mark didn't respond. Words were wasted energy - a lesson learned at eight years old with two broken ribs and a fractured arm. Instead, he shifted into his stance, weight balanced, hands protecting his face. Protection mode.
The bell rang.
Rodriguez came in like a wrecking ball, throwing haymakers meant to end the fight in the first exchange. Mark slipped most of them, feeling the wind from punches that could have taken his head off. This was the dance he knew - wait for the opening, then strike. Clean. Efficient. Final.
But something was wrong.
Heat bloomed in his chest like molten metal being poured into his ribcage, spreading outward through his bloodstream in waves of liquid fire. His heart hammered against his ribs - not just fast, but *powerful*, like an engine shifting into overdrive. The arena lights seemed to sharpen and brighten, every bulb suddenly blazing with crystalline clarity. The crowd's noise didn't just get louder - it separated into distinct sounds. Individual heartbeats. Whispered bets three rows back. The rustle of dollar bills changing hands.
Every scent in the room hit him like a physical assault - the metallic tang of old blood soaked into the canvas, the salt-sharp smell of fear-sweat, the stale beer breath of the crowd, leather and chalk dust. But underneath it all was something else, something that made his newly sensitive nose twitch: the clean scent of rain and night-blooming flowers from somewhere in the crowd.
*What the hell is happening to me?*
Rodriguez's right cross came in slow, telegraphed like he was moving through honey. Mark should have slipped it easily, but his body felt different - not just stronger, but *alive* in a way it never had before. Every nerve ending was firing, every muscle fiber coiled with potential energy that begged to be released.
He caught the punch on his forearm and the impact that should have rattled him to his bones barely registered. Instead of pain, there was just... power. Raw, primal power that wanted to tear things apart.
"The hell?" Rodriguez muttered, shaking out his hand like he'd punched a concrete wall.
Mark moved without thinking, his body flowing like liquid mercury around Rodriguez's follow-up combination. His counter-punch landed with a sound like a sledgehammer hitting meat. Rodriguez's feet actually left the ground before he crashed down, but he rolled away before Mark could follow up.
The bigger man came up swinging, but Mark was already inside his guard. An uppercut to the solar plexus doubled Rodriguez over, and Mark's knee found his face with surgical precision. Blood exploded from Rodriguez's nose, painting the canvas crimson.
The crowd was going insane, but Mark barely heard them. The heat in his chest was building to unbearable levels, and he could feel something changing in his very bones - not breaking, but *reshaping*. His fingernails were definitely longer now, and when he ran his tongue across his teeth, his canines felt sharp enough to cut glass.
Rodriguez stumbled backward, blood streaming down his face, but Mark was already moving. A double-leg takedown sent them both crashing to the canvas with Mark on top. This was where it should have ended - a few controlled ground strikes, maybe a submission, a clean professional victory.
Instead, something else took over.
Mark's fists began raining down with inhuman speed and power. Each punch landed with the sound of a car door slamming, and Rodriguez's attempts to cover up became increasingly desperate. Blood splattered the canvas, the cage walls, Mark's knuckles.
*STOP,* a voice in his head screamed. *You're going to kill him.*
But the thing awakening inside him didn't want to stop. It wanted to tear and rend and *hunt*. Rodriguez's heartbeat was like a drum in Mark's ears, growing weaker with each devastating blow.
"Stop! STOP!" The referee was pulling at Mark's shoulders, but it was like trying to move a statue.
Mark's vision was tinged red now, and his hands... his hands were wrong. Claws had burst through the tape on his knuckles, razor-sharp and dripping with Rodriguez's blood. The crowd was screaming - not cheering anymore, but genuine terror as they watched a fight become an execution.
*Control,* Mark told himself desperately. *CONTROL.*
With enormous effort, he pulled his fists back, chest heaving like he'd run a marathon. Rodriguez was unconscious beneath him, his face a bloody mess but his chest still rising and falling. Alive. Barely.
Mark scrambled away from the body, his newly sensitive hearing picking up paramedics rushing into the ring. He needed to get out of here. Now. Before whatever was happening to him finished its work.
The locker room was supposed to be empty. Mark burst through the door, claws still extended, and immediately knew he wasn't alone.
Seven women stood waiting for him, and even through his transforming senses, Mark could tell they were different. Powerful. Dangerous in ways that had nothing to do with physical threat.
The woman in the center was maybe forty-five, with rich dark brown hair streaked silver and eyes the same deep green as his own. She was elegant in a way that spoke of real authority - not the petty power of foster parents or social workers, but the kind of presence that commanded respect from kings and presidents. Her simple black dress probably cost more than Mark had ever owned, but it was her bearing that made her seem regal.
"Mark," she said, and her voice cut through the chaos in his head like a silver blade. "My son."
The words hit him harder than Rodriguez's best punch. *Son.* No one had ever called him that.
Behind her stood six young women, all around his age, all beautiful in completely different ways. But it was their eyes that caught his attention - each pair held depths of power that made his newly awakened instincts sit up and take notice.
"I don't know who you are," Mark managed, his voice rougher than usual. His claws were still extended, and he could feel his canine teeth pressing against his lower lip. "But you need to get out of here. I'm not... I'm not safe right now."
"You're perfectly safe," the older woman said gently, stepping closer instead of backing away. "We all are. You're experiencing your first transformation, Mark. I'm here to help you through it."
"Transformation?" Mark looked down at his hands, where claws had torn through skin and tape alike. "Into what?"
"A werewolf," said one of the younger women. She was tall and athletic at nineteen, with hair like autumn fire that seemed to move with a life of its own. Her amber eyes held no fear as she looked at his claws. "The first male born to the Circle in three centuries."
"That's impossible," Mark said, but even as the words left his mouth, he could feel the change accelerating. The heat in his chest was spreading, and his bones were definitely reshaping now. "Werewolves aren't real."
"Tell that to your body," said another girl, this one with rich brown skin that seemed to glow with inner warmth. Her voice was earth-deep and soothing. "Mark, you need to let it happen. Fighting it will only make it worse."
"I can't." Mark backed against the lockers, metal denting under his grip. "I almost killed someone out there. If I change completely..."
"You won't hurt us," said a third voice, soft as whisper. The speaker was delicate-looking at seventeen, with silver-white hair and pale skin that seemed to glow. "We can feel it, Mark. Your protective instincts. Even now, you're more concerned about our safety than your own pain."
She was right. Even as agony ripped through his transforming body, his primary concern was the seven women who'd foolishly entered a room with a monster.
"Let go, Mark," his mother said gently. "Stop fighting what you are. Let the wolf come."
The pain was becoming unbearable. Mark could feel his human form losing the battle against something much older and more primal. His spine began to elongate, his face pushing forward into a muzzle filled with razor-sharp teeth.
"I can't control it," he gasped out between transforming jaws.
"Then don't," said the girl with violet eyes.
She was stunning in a way that made Mark's partially transformed brain struggle to process. Jet-black hair fell in waves to her waist, framing a face that belonged in Renaissance paintings. But it was her eyes - deep purple like twilight shadows - that held him captivated. Darkness seemed to cling to her like living smoke, and when she spoke, shadows deepened around her feet.
"I'm Matilda," she said, stepping forward while the others hung back. "And you don't need to control it. You need to trust it."
Mark wanted to argue, wanted to warn her away, but the transformation was taking him completely now. His human form shattered like a breaking dam, and in its place rose something that belonged more to nightmare than nature.
The werewolf that emerged was massive - easily four times the size of any natural wolf, with midnight-black fur that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it. His eyes burned blood-red in a skull designed for killing, and his claws could have torn through steel. This wasn't the Hollywood version of a werewolf - no half-human hybrid struggling with identity. This was an apex predator, pure and absolute.
The wolf's first instinct was to protect. These females were under his care now, whether they knew it or not, and any threat to them would be eliminated without mercy. His enhanced senses swept the room, cataloguing every scent, every heartbeat, every potential danger.
But there were no threats here. Only seven women who looked at him without fear, as if a monster the size of a small car was perfectly normal.
"Beautiful," whispered the girl with golden hair and skin that seemed to glow with inner sunlight. "He's absolutely beautiful."
The wolf's attention fixed on Matilda, who was still moving closer despite the obvious danger. She should have been terrified - any sane person would have run screaming from something like him. Instead, she approached with the kind of calm confidence usually reserved for handling dangerous but familiar animals.
"Easy," she murmured, extending one pale hand. "I'm not going to hurt you."
The wolf could have snapped her arm off without effort. Instead, he found himself lowering his massive head as she reached up to touch his forehead. The moment her skin made contact with his fur, something electric shot through both of them.
It was like a circuit completing, two halves of something finding each other after a long separation. The wolf felt it as a warm pulse that spread from the point of contact throughout his entire being. More than recognition - connection. Bond. *Mate.*
Looking into Matilda's violet eyes, seeing acceptance rather than fear, something settled in the wolf's chest. The rage and hunger that had driven his transformation began to ebb, replaced by something more complex. Still protective, still powerful, but... controlled.
"That's it," Matilda whispered, her fingers gently stroking the fur between his ears. "You can come back now. We're safe. You made sure of that."
The change back to human form was easier this time, like slipping out of clothes that had been too tight. Bones shortened, muscles compressed, fur receded. Within moments, Mark knelt on the concrete floor in human form, completely naked and breathing hard.
One of the girls - the one with platinum blonde hair that moved like water - immediately threw him a towel from a nearby bench. "Aria," she said by way of introduction, her accent definitely European. "And you might want to cover up before you scandalize anyone."
Mark wrapped the towel around his waist, acutely aware that he was surrounded by seven of the most beautiful women he'd ever seen, and he was essentially naked. But more pressing was the memory of what had just happened.
"I changed into a wolf," he said, as if stating it might make it less insane.
"A very large, very impressive wolf," confirmed the earth girl with a warm smile. "I'm Terra, by the way."
"And this is Ember," Terra gestured to the redhead, "Solara," the golden girl, "Luna," the silver-haired seventeen-year-old, "and Aria you've met."
"I'm Lydia," said his mother, her green eyes soft with emotions Mark couldn't identify. "Your birth mother. I've been searching for you for eighteen years."
"And I'm Matilda," said the girl whose touch had brought him back from the wolf. She was still close enough that Mark could smell her scent - night flowers and approaching storms. "We're the daughters of the Circle of Seven. According to prophecy, you're our destined guardian."
"Destined guardian," Mark repeated slowly, still trying to process everything that had happened.
"And more than that," Ember said with a grin that showed slightly pointed canine teeth. "You're destined to fall in love with all of us. And we with you."
Mark stared at her, then at the others, then back at his hands where claws had been moments before. "This is insane."
"Welcome to our world," Solara said cheerfully, her smile bright enough to light up the dim locker room. "It only gets weirder from here."
But Mark was looking at Matilda again, drawn by something he couldn't name. When their eyes met, that spark flared between them once more, and this time he didn't fight it.
"Your eyes," Matilda said softly, studying his face intently. "They're still red."
Mark touched his face reflexively. "Is that bad?"
"No," Lydia said, her voice filled with wonder. "It's unprecedented. Red eyes in a werewolf guardian... there are legends, but no confirmed cases. You may be something entirely new, Mark. Something more powerful than anything we've seen."
"More powerful how?"
"We'll figure that out together," Terra said practically. "But first, we should probably get you some clothes and get out of here before security shows up."
As if summoned by her words, sounds of approaching footsteps echoed from the hallway. The fight had clearly ended badly enough to attract official attention.
"Time to go," Ember said, flames already dancing around her fingers in anticipation of potential trouble.
But Mark hesitated, looking around at these seven women who'd entered his life at the exact moment everything he thought he knew about himself had shattered. His mother, who'd somehow found him after eighteen years. Six girls who claimed to be destined to love him, which should have sounded insane but somehow felt... right.
"If I come with you," he said slowly, "if I do this guardian thing... what exactly does that mean?"
"It means you'll never be alone again," Matilda said simply, and when she smiled, shadows danced around her like welcoming friends.
For someone who'd spent his entire life alone, fighting alone, protecting others while no one protected him, the promise hit harder than any punch Rodriguez had thrown.
"Then let's get out of here," Mark said, and meant it.
As they prepared to leave, Matilda brushed his hand while passing him clothes someone had found. That electric spark flared again, stronger this time, and Mark saw her violet eyes widen with something that might have been surprise or recognition.
"The bond," she whispered, so quietly only his enhanced hearing caught it. "It's already starting."
"Is that good or bad?" Mark asked, equally quietly.
Matilda looked up at him with those impossible violet eyes, and for the first time since meeting her, she looked uncertain.
"I don't know," she admitted. "But I don't think either of us has a choice anymore."
As they slipped out of the arena into the Chicago night, Mark realized his old life was over. The boy who'd fought his way through foster homes and underground fights was gone, replaced by something new. Something powerful.
Something that belonged to these seven women as much as they apparently belonged to him.
The thought should have terrified him.
Instead, for the first time in his life, it felt like coming home.
But their escape wasn't going to be that simple.
The alley behind the warehouse was dark, lit only by a single flickering streetlight that cast long shadows between overflowing dumpsters. Mark's newly enhanced senses picked up the wrongness immediately - the scent of silver and antiseptic, the sound of controlled breathing from too many sources, the feeling of being watched by hostile eyes.
"We're not alone," he said quietly, his body automatically shifting into a protective stance between the girls and the darkness.
"Witch hunters," Lydia breathed, her voice tight with fear and fury. "They found us too quickly."
"How many?" Ember asked, flames already dancing around her clenched fists.
"Eight," Mark said, his red eyes scanning the shadows. "Maybe ten. Armed with silver weapons."
As if summoned by his words, dark figures emerged from behind dumpsters and fire escapes, moving with military precision. They wore black tactical gear and carried weapons that gleamed with the telltale shine of silver - crossbows, knives, what looked like silver-edged swords.
"The new guardian and all six daughters," said the lead hunter, his voice muffled by a tactical mask. "Command is going to be very pleased."
"Over my dead body," Mark growled, and felt the familiar heat building in his chest. After his first transformation, accessing his werewolf strength felt easier, more natural.
"That can be arranged," the hunter replied, raising his crossbow.
The fight erupted without warning.
Ember moved first, sending a wall of fire sweeping toward three hunters on the left. They dove for cover, but not before their gear caught fire. Terra raised her hands and the concrete beneath two more hunters buckled and cracked, sending them stumbling into range of Aria's focused wind blasts that slammed them into brick walls hard enough to crack mortar.
Mark flowed into combat like he was born for it, his enhanced speed and strength making him a blur of deadly motion. His claws extended instinctively as he moved between the hunters and the girls, tearing through Kevlar and flesh with equal ease. Silver blades found him, scoring burning cuts across his arms and chest, but his werewolf healing was already working to close the wounds.
Luna's moonlight blazed like a small sun, blinding three hunters who'd been trying to flank them, while Solara's golden radiance heated the silver weapons in their hands until they were forced to drop them with curses and blistered palms.
But it was Matilda who was the most terrifying. Shadows erupted from every corner of the alley, wrapping around hunters like living chains. Where her darkness touched them, the men screamed - not in pain, but in primal terror as their worst fears were made manifest in the writhing dark.
"Fall back!" the lead hunter shouted, but it was too late. They were outmatched, outpowered, and rapidly being overwhelmed by forces they'd clearly underestimated.
Mark had just finished snapping the neck of a hunter who'd gotten too close to Terra when his enhanced hearing caught a sound that made his blood freeze.
The distinctive twang of a crossbow string.
Time seemed to slow as Mark's head whipped around, following the trajectory of the silver bolt. It was aimed directly at Matilda's back as she focused on maintaining her shadow bindings.
Mark didn't think. Didn't calculate angles or consider alternatives. He simply moved, throwing himself between Matilda and the projectile with inhuman speed.
The silver arrow punched through his chest with a sound like tearing fabric, the blessed metal burning like acid as it pierced his left lung. The impact spun him around, and he crashed to his knees on the alley's dirty concrete.
"MARK!" Matilda's scream echoed off the brick walls as her shadows exploded outward in a wave of pure fury. The remaining hunters were engulfed in darkness so complete it seemed to devour light itself. Their screams cut off abruptly.
Mark tried to speak, tried to tell her he was okay, but blood was filling his mouth instead of words. The silver was spreading poison through his system, fighting against his werewolf healing. He managed to turn his head enough to see Matilda rushing toward him, her violet eyes wide with terror and rage.
"Are... you... okay?" he gasped out, each word a struggle against the blood in his throat.
Then darkness claimed him, and Mark's last conscious thought was relief that she was safe.
---
Mark woke up three days later in what was clearly a medical facility, though unlike any hospital he'd ever seen. The walls were stone covered in tapestries depicting magical scenes, tall arched windows showed rolling hills of impossible green, and the air itself hummed with healing energy.
But it was the seven women standing around his bed that made his heart race with more than just medical concern.
His mother sat closest to him, her green eyes red-rimmed with exhaustion. "You're awake," she said softly, relief flooding her voice. "How do you feel?"
"Like I got shot in the chest with a silver arrow," Mark said, his voice rough but functional. He tried to sit up and was surprised to find he could move without the expected agony.
"The silver has been purged from your system," Lydia explained, her hands glowing faintly with healing magic. "But Mark, when I healed you..." She trailed off, looking uncomfortable.
"When someone heals a werewolf at that level, there's a connection formed," Terra explained gently. "Your mother saw your memories. And through the bonds we're all developing with you..."
"We saw them too," Luna finished quietly, tears glistening in her silver eyes.
Mark felt his stomach drop. "What memories?"
"All of them," Ember said, her voice unusually subdued. For once, her flames were completely extinguished. "Every time you protected someone weaker than yourself. Every beating you took rather than let harm come to others. Every night you went hungry to make sure other kids had food."
"The foster homes," Solara whispered, her usual sunshine dimmed to a soft glow. "We saw what they did to you. How they tried to break you."
Mark's jaw clenched. "You had no right—"
"We saw Emma," Matilda interrupted, stepping closer to his bed. Her violet eyes were bright with unshed tears. "We saw what you did when Carl tried to hurt her. You were eight years old, and you threw yourself at a grown man to protect a girl you barely knew."
"We saw all of it, Mark," Aria said, her musical voice thick with emotion. "Every sacrifice, every act of courage, every time you chose to be a shield for others even when no one was there to shield you."
Mark turned his face away, unable to meet their eyes. Having his private pain, his deepest humiliations, witnessed by these seven incredible women felt like being flayed alive.
"Don't," he said roughly. "Don't look at me like that."
"Like what?" Matilda asked, moving to sit on the edge of his bed despite his obvious discomfort.
"Like I'm some kind of hero. I'm not. I just... I couldn't let them hurt people who couldn't protect themselves."
"That's exactly what makes you a hero," Terra said firmly. "Mark, you've been a guardian your entire life. Long before you knew what you were, long before you met us, you've been protecting people. It's not just your destiny - it's who you are."
Mark finally looked at them, these seven women who'd seen the worst of his past and were still here. Still looking at him with something that might have been admiration but felt more like love.
"I jumped in front of that arrow because I had to," he said quietly. "Because the thought of it hitting you, Matilda... I couldn't live with that."
Matilda's breath hitched, and when she reached out to take his hand, that familiar electric spark flared between them. But this time, instead of uncertainty, Mark saw acceptance in her violet eyes.
"I know," she whispered. "I felt it. Through our bond, I felt exactly what you were feeling in that moment. You didn't hesitate, didn't think about the danger to yourself. You just... protected me."
"Protected all of us," Ember corrected, and when Mark looked at her, he was surprised to see fierce admiration in her amber eyes. "Those hunters came for all six daughters, but you made sure that didn't happen."
"Where are the hunters now?" Mark asked.
"Dead," Matilda said simply, shadows flickering around her like living smoke. "All of them."
"Good," Mark said, and meant it. Anyone who threatened these women deserved whatever they got.
Luna stepped forward, her silver eyes bright with tears. "Mark, we know we're basically strangers to you. We know the prophecy and the bonds must seem overwhelming. But after seeing what you've been through, what you've survived, what you've sacrificed..." She took a shaky breath. "We want you to know that you're not alone anymore. You'll never be alone again."
"We're a family now," Solara added, her golden light warming the room. "Whether the prophecy planned it or not."
"And families protect each other," Terra said with a gentle smile.
Mark looked around at all of them - his mother, who'd spent eighteen years searching for him; Ember with her fierce loyalty already forming; Terra with her steady strength; Aria with her ethereal grace hiding steel underneath; Luna with her gentle wisdom; Solara with her boundless warmth; and Matilda, whose violet eyes held depths he was only beginning to explore.
"I can live with that," he said finally, his voice steady and matter-of-fact.
The words held no particular emotion - not gratitude, not excitement, just simple acceptance. Mark had learned long ago that getting too attached to promises of family and belonging usually ended in disappointment. Better to take things as they came.
"That's it?" Ember asked, flames flickering around her fingers with something that might have been frustration. "We tell you you're part of our family and you just... 'can live with that'?"
Mark looked at her with those unsettling red eyes, his expression unchanged. "What did you expect? Tears of joy? A group hug?" He shrugged slightly. "You said we're family now. I said okay. That's how it works."
The casual dismissal clearly bothered some of them more than others. Matilda was studying him with those violet eyes like she was trying to solve a puzzle, while Terra just looked thoughtful. But it was Aria who seemed most unsettled.
"The bond," she said quietly, wrapping her arms around herself as if cold. "I can feel it trying to form, and I... I don't know if I want it to."
Mark's gaze shifted to her, clinical and assessing. "Then don't let it."
"It's not that simple," Luna protested, her silver eyes wide with something that looked like fear. "Mark, what if this prophecy thing means you'll have to die for us someday? What if caring about you just means we'll lose you?"
"Then you'll lose me," Mark said with the same flat calm he might use to discuss the weather. "People die, Luna. Usually the ones doing the protecting die first. That's how it works."
The brutal honesty hit the room like a slap. Solara actually flinched, her golden light dimming.
"How can you be so casual about it?" she whispered.
Mark tilted his head slightly, genuinely curious. "What's the alternative? Pretend it's not a possibility? Get all emotional about something I can't control?"
"Maybe show some emotion at all?" Ember snapped, her flames flaring higher. "We just told you we saw every terrible thing that happened to you, every sacrifice you made, and you're acting like we're discussing grocery lists!"
For the first time since waking up, something shifted in Mark's expression. Not anger exactly, but a sharpening of attention that made the temperature in the room seem to drop a few degrees.
"What would you like me to do, Ember?" His voice was still quiet, still controlled, but there was an edge to it now that made her flames flicker uncertainly. "Break down crying? Rage about my tragic past? Thank you all tearfully for seeing what a victim I've been?"
He sat up straighter in the bed, his red eyes fixed on hers with predatory intensity.
"I survived. I protected people who needed protecting. I did what needed to be done. Getting emotional about it won't change anything that happened, and it won't change what needs to happen going forward."
The silence that followed was heavy with tension. Finally, Terra cleared her throat.
"Maybe we should let Mark rest," she said diplomatically. "And maybe we should all get used to the fact that he's not going to react to things the way we expect."
"I don't react to much of anything," Mark confirmed, settling back against his pillows. "Unless someone threatens people I'm supposed to protect. Then things get complicated."
Matilda was still studying him, and when their eyes met, that spark flared between them. But instead of the acceptance he'd seen before, now there was wariness.
"You're scared of us," she said suddenly. "Not physically, but... you're scared of caring."
Mark considered this for a moment, then nodded slightly. "Smart observation. You should probably be scared too. Caring about people in my line of work tends to end badly."
"Your line of work being what, exactly?" Aria asked, her voice strained.
"Staying alive. Keeping other people alive. Not getting attached to things I might lose." Mark's expression remained neutral. "Same job, bigger stakes now."
Lydia, who had been quiet during this exchange, finally spoke up. "Mark, you don't have to—"
"I don't have to what? Be honest? Pretend this is some fairy tale where everyone gets a happy ending?" Mark's voice never rose above conversational level, but the words cut like knives. "You've seen my memories. You know how stories like mine usually go."
He looked around at all of them, his red eyes unreadable.
"But you're right about one thing. We're connected now, whether any of us wants it or not. So here's how this is going to work: I'll keep you alive. I'll do whatever training you think I need. I'll play nice with whoever I need to play nice with. And in return, you don't expect me to be something I'm not."
"And what aren't you?" Luna asked softly.
Mark's smile was razor-thin and held no warmth whatsoever.
"Optimistic."
The word hung in the air like a challenge, and Mark could see from their expressions that his brutal honesty had hit its mark. Good. Better they understood what they were dealing with from the start.
"I should go," he said, pushing himself up from the bed despite the lingering ache in his chest where the silver arrow had pierced him. "I need to talk to my mother."
"Mark—" Matilda started, but he was already moving toward the door.
"We'll finish this conversation later," he said without looking back. "All of it."
The dismissal was clear, and though he could feel their eyes on him as he left, none of them tried to stop him.
---
Mark found Lydia in what could only be described as the most elegant office he'd ever seen. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a view of the academy's sprawling grounds, while tall bookshelves lined the remaining walls, filled with volumes that practically hummed with magical energy. An ornate desk dominated the center of the room, but it was the woman behind it who commanded attention.
Seeing her in her element, Mark could understand why she held a position of power within the Circle. Lydia Magrath - she'd taken his father's name, apparently - radiated authority in a way that had nothing to do with magic and everything to do with presence.
"Mark," she said, looking up from a collection of documents spread across her desk. "How are you feeling?"
"Like I got shot with a silver arrow and spent three days unconscious," Mark replied, settling into the chair across from her. "But functional."
Lydia's lips twitched in what might have been the beginning of a smile. "Direct as always. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised - you get that from your father."
"About that," Mark said, leaning forward slightly. "I think it's time you told me the whole story. Not the edited version you gave me in front of the girls, but the truth."
Lydia was quiet for a long moment, her green eyes - so like his own - studying his face with an intensity that made Mark wonder what she was looking for.
"The truth is complicated," she said finally.
"Most things are. Tell me anyway."
Another pause, then Lydia stood and moved to one of the tall windows, her silhouette backlit by the afternoon sun streaming through the glass.
"I lost you when you were six months old," she began, her voice steady but strained. "There was an attack on the Circle's primary sanctuary. Witch hunters had somehow found our location, penetrated our defenses. They killed seventeen of our people that night, including three Council members."
Mark felt something cold settle in his stomach. "And my father?"
"Your father fought beside me to defend the sanctuary. When it became clear we were going to be overrun, he took you and told me to run. Said he'd find another way out, that he'd meet me at the safe house." Lydia's reflection in the window looked haunted. "I never saw either of you again."
"But I survived."
"You did. But it took me eighteen years to find you, and only then because your first transformation sent out magical signatures I could finally track."
Mark processed this information with his usual clinical detachment, but something wasn't adding up. "Why couldn't you find me before then? Shouldn't there have been some kind of magical connection between us?"
Lydia turned from the window, and Mark saw pain in her expression that she'd been hiding from the others.
"Because your father used magic to hide you. Powerful, complex magic that suppressed your werewolf nature and blocked any tracking spells I might have used." She moved back to her desk, pulling out a drawer and removing what looked like a leather journal. "I found this among his things after the attack. It explains what he did and why."
She handed him the journal, and Mark opened it to find pages covered in precise handwriting. As he read, the neat world he'd constructed around his identity began to crumble.
*"If Lydia is reading this, then something has gone wrong and I am likely dead. The spells I have placed on our son will suppress his werewolf nature until his eighteenth birthday, at which point they will fade and allow his true nature to emerge. I have also woven protections into the magic that will hide him from any tracking spells, including those cast by his mother.*
*I know this will cause her pain, but it is necessary. My past is catching up with me, and I will not allow my son to pay the price for my choices. Better he grow up hidden and safe than become a target for those who seek revenge against me.*
*I pray that when he comes into his power, Lydia will be able to find him and explain what he is. What we both are. What I tried so hard to leave behind."*
Mark looked up from the journal to find his mother watching him with careful eyes.
"What he tried to leave behind," Mark repeated slowly. "What does that mean?"
Lydia was quiet for so long that Mark thought she might not answer. When she finally spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper.
"Your father was a witch hunter, Mark. One of the best they'd ever produced."
The words hit like a physical blow. Mark felt the journal slip from suddenly numb fingers, his enhanced hearing picking up the soft thud as it hit the carpet.
"A witch hunter," he said flatly.
"His name was Gabriel Magrath. He was assigned to hunt me specifically, and he spent three years tracking me across two continents." Lydia's voice grew stronger as she continued, as if telling the story was helping her process it. "He was relentless, skilled, and absolutely dedicated to his mission."
"To kill you."
"To kill me," she confirmed. "And he nearly succeeded, more than once. But something changed during those three years. The hunt became... personal. Not professional hatred, but something more complex."
Mark tried to imagine it - a witch hunter and his target locked in a deadly game of cat and mouse across continents. "What changed?"
"He saved my life."
The simple statement hung in the air between them.
"There were other hunters - a team that had been tracking me separately. They found me first, cornered me in Prague. I was injured, exhausted, and they had silver weapons." Lydia's eyes grew distant with memory. "Gabriel appeared just as they were about to execute me. He killed them all."
"Why?"
"Because by then, he'd realized he was in love with me. And I..." She met Mark's eyes directly. "I was in love with him too."
Mark stared at his mother, trying to reconcile this romantic story with the brutal reality of his childhood. "So you ran away together."
"We did. Gabriel abandoned his mission, turned his back on everything he'd been trained to believe, and we disappeared. For five years, we lived quietly, moving frequently, staying ahead of both the Circle and the remaining witch hunters who wanted us both dead for different reasons."
"And then?"
"And then you were born, and everything became more complicated. Gabriel's former colleagues would never stop hunting him, and having a child made us vulnerable in ways we'd never been before. But we were happy, Mark. For six months, we were genuinely happy."
The pain in her voice when she said those words made something twist in Mark's chest. Six months. Six months of family before everything went to hell.
"The attack on the sanctuary," he said.
"Was led by Gabriel's former partner. A man named Vincent Thorne who'd been hunting us specifically for five years. He'd finally found us, and he brought an army." Lydia's hands clenched into fists. "Gabriel knew what it meant. Knew that Thorne wouldn't just kill us - he'd make it slow, painful, public. A lesson to other hunters who might be tempted to betray their calling."
"So he hid me."
"So he hid you, with magic he'd learned during our years together. Spells that would keep you safe but cut you off from everything you should have been." She moved to another desk drawer, this one larger and apparently locked with more than conventional means. "Which brings me to why I asked you here."
Lydia spoke a word in a language Mark didn't recognize, and the drawer opened with a soft click. From inside, she began removing items that made Mark's enhanced senses go on high alert.
The first was a ring - silver with a stone that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it. The second was a pendant on a chain, clearly old and radiating power that made Mark's skin prickle. The third was a pair of bracers, leather and metal worked together in patterns that hurt to look at directly.
"Your inheritance," Lydia said simply. "Things Gabriel left for you, along with items I've been collecting over the years."
Mark reached for the ring first, and the moment his skin made contact with the metal, he felt... different. Stronger, but also more centered, as if the constant low-level chaos in his head had suddenly quieted.
"Mental shielding," Lydia explained. "It will help you control your transformations and protect you from mental magic. The pendant is for physical protection - it won't stop a silver arrow, but it will turn aside most other weapons. The bracers will enhance your natural speed and strength."
"And these were his?"
"The ring was his. The pendant belonged to your grandfather, and the bracers are from my family line." She reached into the drawer again and withdrew something that made Mark's breath catch.
Weapons.
A sword in a black sheath, the hilt wrapped in what looked like silver wire. A pair of long knives with curved blades and handles designed for someone with Mark's hand size. And finally, a crossbow that was clearly made for someone who knew how to kill supernatural creatures efficiently.
"Gabriel's hunting gear," Lydia said quietly. "Modified over the years for someone with werewolf strength and reflexes. He always intended for you to have them when you came of age."
Mark stood and moved to the weapons, his hands hovering over them without quite touching. The sword's pommel bore an inscription in what looked like Latin, while the knives had runes carved into their blades.
"He wanted me to be a hunter."
"He wanted you to be able to protect yourself and the people you cared about," Lydia corrected. "Gabriel knew what you'd face - witch hunters who would see you as an abomination, werewolves who would reject you for your mixed heritage, witches who would fear your power. He wanted you to have every possible advantage."
Mark picked up one of the knives, testing its weight and balance. It felt perfect in his hand, as if it had been made specifically for him. Which, he realized, it probably had been.
"There's more," Lydia said, moving to a large cabinet against the far wall. "Armor, additional weapons, books on combat techniques and magical theory. Everything Gabriel thought you might need."
"Why give me all this now?"
"Because the attack three days ago proved that the witch hunters aren't done with us. They're organized, well-equipped, and they know about you specifically." Lydia's voice grew hard. "Vincent Thorne is still alive, Mark. Still hunting. And now he knows Gabriel's son exists."
Mark felt that familiar cold calculation settle over him as he processed this threat assessment. "So this isn't just about protecting the daughters of the Circle. This is personal."
"Very personal. Thorne killed your father, scattered the Circle, and spent eighteen years searching for you. Now that he's found you..."
"He'll want to finish what he started."
"Yes."
Mark set down the knife and turned to face his mother directly. "Good."
The single word carried enough cold menace to make Lydia take a step back.
"Good?" she repeated.
"He's been hunting me for eighteen years. Killed my father. Tried to have me killed three days ago." Mark's green eyes had gone flat and emotionless in a way that reminded Lydia uncomfortably of Gabriel in his hunting days. "Sounds like it's time I started hunting back."
For a moment, looking at her son's expression, Lydia saw exactly what had made Gabriel Magrath one of the most feared witch hunters of his generation. The same cold focus, the same absolute certainty, the same willingness to do whatever was necessary.
It should have terrified her.
Instead, she felt something that might have been pride.
"Your father would be proud of you," she said quietly.
Mark was already strapping on the bracers, testing how they affected his movement. "Would he? I'm about to use his weapons and training to hunt down his former partner. That's not exactly what he probably had in mind."
"Isn't it?" Lydia moved closer, studying her son's face. "Gabriel spent the last five years of his life protecting the people he loved. He gave up everything - his identity, his purpose, his entire world - because he found something worth more than duty or vengeance. You're doing the same thing."
Mark paused in his examination of the crossbow. "Am I?"
"You're willing to hunt down one of the most dangerous men alive to protect seven young women you've known for three weeks. If that's not love, what is?"
The question hung in the air between them, and Mark found himself without an immediate answer. Because she was right, wasn't she? He was already thinking in terms of eliminating threats to the daughters, planning strategies for keeping them safe, calculating what it would take to end Vincent Thorne permanently.
When had their safety become more important to him than his own survival?
"I should get back," he said finally, deflecting from thoughts that were becoming uncomfortably introspective. "They'll be wondering where I am."
"Mark." Lydia's voice stopped him at the door. "The girls... they care about you already. All of them. I can see it in how they look at you, how they respond when you're threatened. Don't let your father's fate make you afraid to care about them in return."
Mark considered this for a moment, then nodded once and left without another word.
But as he walked back toward the dormitories, weighted down with weapons and magical artifacts that represented a heritage he'd never known he had, Mark found himself thinking about what his mother had said.
About love being worth more than duty or vengeance.
About the daughters caring about him.
About whether he was brave enough to care about them in return.
The smart thing would be to keep his distance, maintain his emotional walls, focus on the tactical aspects of keeping them alive.
But as he thought about violet eyes and electric touches, about the way Matilda had stepped between him and her mother's criticism, about the concern he'd seen in all their faces when he'd been injured...
Maybe, just maybe, being smart was overrated.