Page 27 of Bitten, Marked, Obsessed

He grunts, brushing a hand through his hair.

It’s more silver than it used to be. Or maybe I just never looked hard enough. The streak matches mine—same side, just above the temple. Light brown hair otherwise, and those pale blue eyes that rarely give anything away unless you know what to look for. And now I do.

There’s tension in his shoulders that he doesn’t bother to hide anymore. His hands clench and unclench like they’re used to holding something sharper than secrets. He’s thinner than I remember from childhood, like life’s been burning through him faster than he can replace it.

He walks like he’s made of wire and regret. Taut. Coiled. Tired. But still somehow solid, dependable.

This is the version of Dad I never saw growing up.

Not the ghost in the recliner or the man who reeked of bourbon and guilt.

This is the wolf.

We reachthe junction just as footsteps echo ahead—steady, confident. I duck behind the column Dad points to and crouch low. Hoodie up. Heart pounding.

Then I feel it before I see him.

A shift in the air. Like static in my lungs. Wild. Hot.Alive.

Then he rounds the corner.

Callum.

He’s taller than I expected. Not just in the way he stands, but in how hemoves—like the world has to adjust around him. He doesn’t walk, he stalks. Long strides, smooth and assured. Every step grounded like he knows the weight of the earth beneath it.

Shaggy, golden-brown hair falls just over his brow, catching in the tunnel’s dim light. His jaw’s cut sharp, like someone sculpted it out of control and good intentions. And those eyes?—

Hazel.

But not flat. They shift—just like him. Flecks of green catch when he turns his head slightly, like there's something wild just under the surface.

He’s built like someone who doesn't train to look good—he trains to survive. Broad shoulders under a fitted thermal, sleeves shoved to his elbows. Veins trace his forearms like lightning under skin, and I catch a scar across one knuckle that makes me wonder what his fists have hit—and what they haven’t.

There’s a quiet intensity in him, like a storm holding its breath. Like if he looked too long in one direction, something would catch fire.

And for one terrifying second… he looks atme.

Our eyes lock.

And everythingtilts.

My breath catches. The tunnel disappears. I’m suddenly aware of every inch of my skin, every beat of my heart—and the space between us that’s shrinking even though neither of us moves.

Dad clears his throat sharply, pulling me back.

“This is Callum,” he says. “The one I told you about. This is my daughter Kendall.”

Callum nods once, gaze shifting to him briefly.

“He’s not his father,” Dad adds under his breath, and there’s a bitter weight to the way he says it.

Callum’s jaw ticks. Just a flicker, but I catch it.

There’s history there. Unspoken and ugly.

Something about him and Dad mirrors in weird, sideways ways. Both of them have this quiet gravity to them—men built from buried pain and sharpened instincts, one in his winter years and one still on fire.

Dad is the storm that’s passed.

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