From that day forward, Cressida saw him differently. She had seen him before—during training, from across the field—but now her eyes tracked him. Memorized him. Observed every movement, every growl, every violent arc of his blade as he punished recruits mercilessly.
Darius Black was terrifying.
He stood at 6'5", a towering wall of muscle and menace. His presence alone could silence a room, making the air thick with tension. His skin, weathered and marred by countless battles, bore the story of a man who had fought the world and emerged not victorious—but altered. Twisted. Hardened into something else.
The long, angry gash across his chest was infamous—an injury he never spoke of, but one that pulsed with an energy that unsettled even seasoned warriors. It had never truly healed. Just scarred over like a warning.
His hair, black as the void between stars, fell in thick waves often tied into a rough ponytail, though wild strands always slipped free—much like the man himself. Untamed. Unrepentant.
But it was his eyes that haunted her most.
Blood-red. Unnatural. The kind of red that didn't belong in wolves or men.
They weren't eyes that saw—they judged, measured, and condemned. She could barely look into them without flinching. Even from a distance, they burned with something monstrous. Something feral. They were the eyes of a wolf who had snapped the leash long ago.
She never approached him.
Not once.
She would watch him from behind trees, peeking through branches as he barked cruel orders or moved like a predator through the training field. Once, he turned suddenly, sensing her. Their eyes met across the distance. She froze, her heart pounding so violently she feared it would give her away.
But Darius only stared for a long, unreadable moment... then looked away, as if dismissing her.
As if she didn't exist.
Cressida ran back to the house that day, lungs burning and eyes stinging. She didn't cry—not yet. But that night, curled in bed beside Zara, she whispered to the shadows above:
"Why does he hate me?"
"Who does?" Zara whispered. But Cressida didn't respond; she only squeezed her eyes shut and pretended to be asleep.
She didn't know it yet, but somewhere—deep within the broken shell of Darius Black—that same question echoed back at her.
A cruel sneer constantly played at Darius Black's lips, even in silence—as though the world itself amused him with its weakness. He didn't need to speak to command fear; it radiated off him like heat from a forge. His very presence was a challenge—dare to look at me, dare to breathe wrong—and most did not.
Broad arms, thick with corded muscle, bore inked symbols that whispered of old magic and darker promises. A black wolf, coiled tightly around a shattered crown—marking his rebellion against authority. A serpent, fangs bared, piercing a crescent moon—an omen of betrayal and hidden agendas. And ancient markings that even the elders of the pack would not dare read aloud. Those marks pulsed faintly when he was angry... or hunting. Like they were alive. Like they thirsted.
He was cunning, brutal, and utterly obsessed with power. Though he claimed to be a savior of the rogues, a liberator of the discarded and outcast, his hands dripped with blood—much of it undeserved. His words were silver, but his motives were as black as pitch. In secret corners of the pack, some whispered that he sought to build a kingdom of his own... one where he reigned unchallenged.
To Cressida, he wasn't a father. He was a very troubled man that happened to share her DNA. A being she feared even more because she shared his blood.
She was grateful he had abandoned her.
Because in his absence, she had gained something infinitely better—a family.
Aurora, who had held her during her fevers and kissed her scars with quiet love. Christopher, who had taught her to ride, to aim a bow, and to speak with confidence. Marcus, who treated her like his sister even when others whispered otherwise. And Zara—her sister in all but blood, her twin flame.
When she turned fifteen, her world tilted.
For the first time in her life, Darius Black came to dinner.
He entered the Valen estate like a shadow made flesh, wearing black from head to toe, his long coat trailing behind him like death's cloak. The air turned cold when he stepped into the hall. Servants froze. Zara and Marcus instinctively shifted closer to Cressida.
But Darius's red eyes weren't on them.
They were on her.
He didn't speak. He didn't smile. He just looked at her. Like he was trying to see something that wasn't there. Like he was trying to recognize a ghost.
His stare made her insides twist. There was something unreadable in his gaze—not love, not warmth, but not hatred either. Curiosity? Regret? Possession?
Cressida couldn't breathe under it. And though she said nothing the entire meal, her appetite vanished, replaced by the weight of a presence she had spent her entire life dreading and also longing for.
She cried in her room that night—not because he had hurt her, but because of how much she had wanted him to feel something. Anything.
But he had just looked.
Nothing more; that night dinner was quiet and subdued.
A year later, everything changed.
On their shared sixteenth birthday, under the silver gaze of a full moon, both Zara and Cressida shifted for the first time.
The pain was unbearable—bones snapping, skin tearing, voices screaming as their bodies surrendered to the ancient magic in their blood. It felt like drowning and burning and being torn in two all at once.
But through it all, they clung to each other—Zara's fingers in hers, their cries blending, their hearts pounding in sync.
Aurora was there, whispering soothing words through tears, holding their trembling bodies as they writhed in the grass.
Christopher stood strong beside them, his arms steady even as his heart threatened to break. He had seen hundreds of first shifts in his life—but never had he seen two girls hold each other the way these two did. Like they were one soul split in half.
When the pain subsided, when the light of the moon touched their fur for the first time, two she-wolves stood side by side—one golden and graceful, the other auburn and fierce. They were panting, trembling, but alive.
Changed.
Whole.
Aurora fell to her knees, arms outstretched, whispering, "My girls... my brave, beautiful girls..."
Christopher wrapped them both in his cloak, holding them close, whispering their names like a prayer, and then he took them on their very first hunt.
And somewhere, far from the warmth of that moment, Darius Black stood atop a ridge, watching the twin wolves beneath the moonlight.
One of them was his daughter.
And for the first time in sixteen years, his hand clenched—not in anger but pride. She was beautiful and brutal in her killing.
For the first time in years, he felt something dangerously close to longing; he wanted her back.
After the shift, something in Darius changed.
He began appearing more frequently—not warm, not affectionate, but present. At first, it was just during training, lingering longer, watching her spar with Zara and Marcus. Then came the dinners, the occasional appearances at family events, and the silent, unnerving way he stared at her like she was a puzzle he couldn't quite solve.
Cressida kept her distance. She had learned early on that proximity to Darius Black didn't guarantee safety—or love. She didn't want to give him any ideas or make him feel in anyway that she recognized him as her father.
Still, he kept coming even when she was downright mean and rude; he didn't rise to the bait.
On the surface, it seemed he was building a bridge between them. But the thing was Cressida had already loved and bonded with her family and couldn't bear to be apart from them, and she wasn't comfortable with Darius; in fact, he was a stranger to her.