An unwanted Custody

A shock hits Paisley as she finishes reading. She wants me to take care of a 16-year-old kid?

The absurdity of it sends a wave of frustration through her. She barely has enough to feed herself, and now she's expected to raise someone else's child?

She glances at Adrian. *There's no way this boy is 17,* she thinks, her eyes narrowing. He looks much younger—frail and malnourished, like a child no older than 12. The idea of caring for him feels impossible. Almost instinctively, her fingers curl around the edges of the letter, tempted to tear it apart in frustration, but she catches herself when she notices the CPS workers still watching her, waiting for a response.

"I'm sorry, but—" Paisley rubs her forehead, feeling the tension build. "I'm struggling with my own financial problems. I can't raise him. It's impossible!"

The men exchange nervous glances. One of them pulls out another letter and hands it to her. "This might explain more."

She takes it and reads the official-looking document, her jaw tightening as she processes the words. **Legal custody.** Sarah had made sure that Adrian couldn't just be placed into foster care or left to fend for himself.

"If it weren't for this letter," one of the CPS workers begins, "Adrian could've been placed into foster care or found his own place. It's legal for Alphas his age to live independently here." He pauses before continuing, "But, well, your sister didn't trust the system. There are rumors about Alpha children being kidnapped and sent to other packs for military slavery. So, she left a legal notice. Adrian must be under a guardian's care until he turns 18, or you'll be responsible for paying child support for his independent life."

"Is this even legal?" she asks, her voice cold, though her insides feel like they're unraveling.

The CPS worker nods. "Everything is legal. We're not sure how she managed it, but you can't give up responsibility for him. Not until he's 18."

It's clear now—Sarah, even in her absence, has once again left a deep scar on Paisley's life. The curiosity Paisley once felt is swiftly replaced by bitterness. She can't believe it, but the resentment she held off all these years is now crashing over her.

Closing her eyes, she winces as the throbbing pain from her forehead worsens, another sharp reminder that her life is spiraling further out of control.

"Is there anything else I can do?" she asks, her voice soft but strained. "I'm only 18. I have no job. How am I supposed to take care of him?"

"We're sorry," one of the workers says, "but in this pack, you can't run from your legal responsibilities. Ignoring this will only bring more trouble. Please treat Adrian as family."

With that, they place a small box on the table. "This is for you and Adrian. You're now the legal owner of whatever's inside. Please, take care of him."

Without waiting for her response, the CPS workers stand and leave, their departure silent and swift. Paisley remains seated, staring at the empty space where they had been, her mind blank. She doesn't know what her fate has become. **How am I supposed to raise a kid when I can barely afford to feed myself?**

As her frustration swells, she notices the boy's stomach rumbling. The pitiful sound pulls her from her thoughts. Adrian, despite his quiet demeanor, is obviously starving and severely malnourished. He's been sitting silently, his eyes downcast, as if too scared to say a word.

Paisley sighs, feeling a sudden wave of pity. Wordlessly, she walks into the kitchen and grabs the sandwich and soft drink she had bought earlier.

"Eat these," she says, placing them in front of him. "I'll arrange a room for you."

She turns to leave, but a soft sound behind her makes her pause. It's the sound of stifled sobs. Adrian is crying, quietly and without much noise, his body trembling. He looks so small, so vulnerable, sitting there in his ragged clothes, a stark contrast to the tough exterior Paisley is trying to maintain.

She clenches her fists, feeling torn. "Stop crying," she says firmly. "Eat. I'll make something for dinner. There's a snowstorm coming, so take a warm bath before the power goes out."

As she gathers the untouched coffee cups, she hears a soft voice behind her.

"D-Don't you want me?"

Her hand freezes on the tray. She turns slowly, staring at him. He's on his knees, his voice cracking with desperation. "I… I don't want to go back. It's dark there. It's cold. Please let me stay. I don't want to go back."

Paisley's heart aches, but she keeps her expression stern. "Don't call me Aunt. I'm not your aunt. But… you can stay here until you turn 18. Now stop crying. Crying won't feed you."

His eyes brighten, but she doesn't soften. Instead, she turns to leave again, grabbing a shawl. "Keep warm. We don't have a heater, and I don't have money for medicine if you get sick."

"But… I'm dirty," he mumbles, pulling the shawl away.

Exhaling sharply, Paisley glares at him. "Eat the sandwich. I'll prepare a bath for you afterward."

He nods obediently, sitting on the floor as he unwraps the sandwich—biting into it along with the wrapper.

"Don't eat the wrapper," she says, her voice laced with disbelief. "And sit on the couch. The floor's too cold."

Adrian looks at her, confused. "But… Mom said I have to eat on the floor. And I can't waste food. I have to eat everything."

Paisley's brows furrow in shock. **What has this boy been through?**

"Just get off the floor," she orders, trying to hide her frustration. He obeys, sitting next to her on the couch as she unwraps the sandwich for him.

"Here. Eat."

He takes a bite, chewing slowly. "It's not smelly and hard like the bread Mom gave me. Is this really a sandwich? It's… soft."

Paisley's heart clenches. **What has Sarah been feeding him?** She can't stop the anger rising in her chest.

"You won't have to eat smelly, moldy food anymore," she promises, her voice cold but steady. "Not while you're here."