Ember

I was born as an evil omen - for a family. Yeah, you heard that right. Imagine your dad holding you for the first time, and instead of the usual "Oh, my little sunshine" routine, he's quivering like a leaf in a storm. He was that leaf, and the storm? Well, it was me. My dad stared down at me, his self probably wondering if the delivery room had made some mistake.

Why the fuss, you ask? Well, there was this red streak on me, starting from under my chin and running down my body, like I had my very own built-in lava lamp. Classic, right? But it wasn't just any red. It was a red so vivid, even traffic lights would've looked at it and gone, "Okay, calm down."

So there I was, this little devilish bundle of joy, dividing the community into two camps - those who thought I was cursed, and those who thought I was the next big thing.

For a whole year, my dad didn't dare name me. I was just a baby, the one they kept away from full moons and silver. My sister, bless her soul, took pity on me and decided I needed a name. A name fitting for a supernatural calamity in the making.

"Ember," she declared one day, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. "Because your eyes, they're like ember."

And just like that, I had a name. Ember. Not exactly the kind of name that screams 'pick me up for a cuddle,' but hey, it was better than none.

Fast forward to today, where I've embraced my fate as bad omen. I am seven-teen this year. 

So, here's the thing. Understanding why my dad doesn't like me is about as complicated as deciphering hieroglyphics while riding a unicycle blindfolded. Most werewolves? Normal, brown-eyed, and lacking any peculiar red markings. Then there's me, the living Picasso painting of the supernatural world.

This red streak, like someone spilled a can of cherry paint on me. It starts from under my chin, takes a detour around my belly button, and ends... well, let's just say it divides me into two halves like a twisted game of connect-the-dots. Oh, and did I mention my eyes? Yeah, they're not your typical shade of 'let's go frolic in the moonlight.' No, they're a bold, unapologetic red that screams 'I came here to cause chaos.'

But here's the kicker. I'm not alone in the red-eyed, body-dividing department. Enter Daniel Stark, the bad boy of the Eclipse pack. The guy who managed to outdo me in the "let's stand out in a crowd" department. You see, Daniel's the reason my family side-eyes me during pack picnics and avoids making eye contact during gathering sessions.

Why? Well, Daniel, my dear readers, is the Voldemort of werewolves. The one they dare not speak of in polite company. The traitor, the sinner, the guy who RSVP'd 'yes' to the mass murder party. Rumor has it he killed nearly a hundred people in the pack, turning family reunions into awkward, tense affairs.

Alright, buckle up, here's the lowdown: My dad, the one who looks at me like I'm a misplaced kitchen appliance, isn't really my dad. Nope, he's just a stand-in, a placeholder for the real star of this drama, Daniel Stark.

Daniel Stark, the walking nightmare of the Eclipse pack. The guy who, according to legend, killed a small village worth of people. The Voldemort of our world. And even simpler, my mother was taken by him and gave birth to me (so they told me), but my mother died giving birth to me, so I can't really ask her if it was true. 

And... well, my dad might not be my dad. So, you get the picture?

When I was younger, I didn't quite grasp why my father's gaze treated my sister like a rare gem and me like I was the unwanted co-star in a B-list horror movie. I thought I was his flesh and blood.

My sister, Lily was Dad's pride and joy. He'd look at her like she held the secrets of the universe in the palm of her hand. Meanwhile, when those intense eyes of his landed on me, it was a different story. I'd catch that look, the one that made me feel like I was less of a daughter and more of a mild inconvenience he could do without.

It was a look that spoke volumes without saying a word. Like Dad believed my existence was as necessary as a third eyebrow. I was the odd one out, the black sheep. A perpetual disappointment in the eyes of the one person who was supposed to be my biggest fan.

But hey, let's not dive too deep into the existential abyss just yet. Life moved on, and so did I. As if I had any other choices. 

One day, Lily and I were strolling through the mystical forest that doubled as our backyard. It was a place of wonder, filled with trees that whispered secrets and moonlit clearings that served as makeshift dance floors. Lily, being the beacon of familial affection that she was, decided it was the perfect time for a heart-to-heart.

"Ember," she began, her eyes filled with sisterly concern, "you know Dad loves you, right?"

I snorted, kicking a loose pebble as if it held the answers to all my daddy issues. "Oh, absolutely. He loves me the way one loves a particularly stubborn rash. Endearing, really."

Lily giggled, swatting my arm playfully. "You're exaggerating. He just worries about you, that's all."

I raised an eyebrow, shooting her a deadpan look. "Worries about me? Lily, the guy looks at me like I'm the equivalent of a tax audit. I half-expect him to ask for a receipt for my existence."

She rolled her eyes, a gesture that clearly ran in the family. "You're being dramatic. Dad just has a different way of showing affection."

"Different way? Please. The man could teach a masterclass in the art of disapproving glares. It's like I'm the broccoli on his dinner plate, and he's contemplating if he can skip the obligatory chewing."

Lily sighed, her patience wearing thin. "Just talk to him, Ember. Communication, remember? It's a thing."

One afternoon, my sister Lily and I found ourselves engaged in a covert mission beneath the table in our father's room, also known as Alpha Leonard. We were in our wolf pup phase, the era of innocence and questionable decision-making. The goal of the day? Avoiding the seemingly endless etiquette lessons and practicing our stealth skills by eavesdropping on whatever grown-up conversations were happening above us.

As we huddled under the table, playing a game of spies, the air became charged with tension. The kind of tension that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention. Someone was entering the room, someone who meant business.

We exchanged wide-eyed glances, our senses tingling with a mix of curiosity and impending doom. The entrance of Frank, Dad's loyal servant, signaled the beginning of a conversation that would unravel the fabric of our peaceful existence.

Frank's voice, a deep rumble that could rival the growls of an alpha wolf, echoed through the room. "Alpha Leonard, we need to discuss an important matter."

We pressed ourselves against the floor, our ears perked up like a pair of curious puppies. Frank was a walking encyclopedia of knowledge, and when he spoke, even the creaks of the floorboards listened in respectful silence.

Dad's voice, a commanding presence that could make the moon itself bow in acknowledgment, responded, "Speak, Frank. What is the matter?"

Frank, never one to mince words, dove right in. "The Sinclairs have proposed a union between our packs. They wish for an engagement between Lily and the second son of their family."

Lily shot me a puzzled look, her eyebrows forming a question mark. We exchanged silent communication, our wolfish instincts telling us that this was no ordinary playdate invitation.

Dad's response was a mixture of stoicism and a hint of parental protectiveness. "The Sinclairs, you say? What is the catch, Frank? Every alliance in the world comes with strings attached, and I don't trust strings that I haven't personally inspected."

Frank cleared his throat, a sound that carried the weight of a thousand treaties. "Alpha Leonard, the Sinclairs assure us that their son has reached adulthood, and the engagement between him and Lily has come to fruition."

The room fell silent, the air thick with unspoken protocol. Lily and I exchanged a glance that screamed, 'Is this for real?'

But then, like a twist in a sitcom, Dad's response shattered the stillness. He pounded the table, the sound echoing through the room like a war drum.

"The blind son of the Sinclair family? Lily, my precious Lily, engaged to a blind boy? Are they out of their minds?"

Lily and I exchanged a wide-eyed look, our etiquette lessons failing us in the face of this unexpected revelation. Blind fiancé?

Frank, ever the bearer of unexpected news, continued, "Alpha Leonard, the Sinclairs believe that their son's blindness is a mere challenge, one that should not hinder the union of our packs."

Dad snorted, a sound that reverberated through the room like a scoff. "A challenge? Frank, I've seen challenges. Marrying a blind boy who does not stand a chance at inheriting his pack is not a challenge. It's absurd!"

Frank nodded, understanding the gravity of the situation. "I share your concerns, Alpha Leonard. But the Sinclairs are powerf