How Old Is Finn From Bunk'd Novels & Stories

He sat on a fallen log at the tree line, back against a thick oak, trying to look more experienced than he felt. Finn was still new to this life. He had joined Ronan’s personal guard only six months ago, eager and wide-eyed, full of stories about proving himself to the pack. At seventeen he was barely more than a pup by werewolf standards, lanky with messy brown hair and bright amber eyes that hadn’t yet lost their innocence. He fiddled with a small knife, carving idle patterns into a stick to pass the time. A rustle sounded behind him in the underbrush. Finn’s head snapped up. In one smooth motion he was on his feet, knife gripped tight, teeth bared in a low snarl as he spun around. His hea

Frankie grouched, but Finn was glad to see that he pushed himself out of the chair. He was unsteady on his feet, but Finn knew better than to offer to help. Most of the time Frankie came across as invincible and ageless, but it was on days like these that Finn realized that he was getting old. Forty-nine might not seem old to most people, but Frankie had lived hard and it showed. On his best days, he looked like the sprite not quite fifty-year-old he was. On his bad days, he looked like he was eighty, with a bad case of arthritis and a hunchback.

Finn whispers at me all seriously, “some say he had a fallout with the Alpha, but I never believed it! That’s why I begged him to take me this time. I knew I was right!” “But something happened, right?” I frown, looking at Finn’s puzzled look as he looks at mine. “Some rumors say it was a bad birthday party thing...” Finn drawls as he thinks, “But how bad a birthday can be to drive away the best beta from his Alpha?” Don’t ask me. I have a pretty good idea of how bad a birthday can get, beyond little Finn’s wildest imagination. “...birthday...birthday!” I grip Finn, “How old is Aiden?!”

Irvin had left to walk his brother back to his room and let Henrick handle the situation. “What’s your plan now?” Henrick asked him. His arms crossed on his chest, body slouched on the chair. “I don’t know.” He said. Pouting. Finn is practically a kid in a teenager boy’s body. He’s always been the playful and predictable among them, and even until now he couldn’t fathom how Boone liked the guy so much to the point that he would let him stay on his place that even Henrick aren’t allowed.

Instead, he lowered his head and seemed to be thinking about something. Sydney felt that he was acting very strange. She touched her mole and asked, "Why are you asking me that?" Finn pushed his glasses up, did not answer, and asked again, "I have another question. Did you ever save a little boy when you were young?" "Saved a little boy?" Sydney raised his brows. Finn simply hummed. Sydney narrowed her eyes in thought. "How young?" "Around ten years old," Finn looked at her and responded.

I say automatically. “Fair, good-looking piece of shit,” Finn says. “Better,” I say, tipping back my drink. “We’ve got all the time in the world to find our mates. Hell, Nathan was, what, 26, before he fucking found Nyx? And they aren’t even together for good, yet. We’ve got time,” Finn finishes. “Yeah, but most people have found their mates by now. Like, is something up with us that we haven’t found ours yet?” Ethan asks.

“You look happy today, boss. Did something else happen? Like… um… you know.“ Finn stopped and looked at him, but there was still a blush on his face. “She is still so young,” he said. Bradley rubbed his hands together. “Twenty-two years old isn't so young. You have been waiting all these years. You better act faster or someone else will,” he said. He only wanted his boss and best friend to be happy. And it was obvious that only that girl could ever keep him happy. Finn seemed to be thinking about it, but he didn't say anything. “Did the old man find out that we are here?“

I took her in my arms and shook my head as I thought of an answer, but Finn answered. “Mommy’s,” he said, flickering his eyes at me and guessing he was right. “Mommy’s birthday is in September, and she’s turning twenty-three,” Lyra Helene told him, making me want to groan. Why do my kids just give me away? Finn raised his eyebrows, creasing his forehead like he was reminded of something, then smiled at her. “Really? That’s nice. My birthday’s in September, too, and guess what? I’m turning twenty-three like mommy.”

"But Finn is not those people. Finn is a seven-year-old who told Parliament that Uncle Callum earned his position and that earning matters more than being born to something. He is not the tool they are trying to make him." I think about Finn, who arrived three days ago and who looked at everything in London with the quality of someone for whom everything is new and therefore everything is interesting, and who sat in the shelter courtyard and counted the pigeons and told me their specific flight patterns, and who has Cormac's jaw in the way that I have Valentina's eyes, which is to say something of someone who is not here is visible in someone who is. "We're both supposed to be something," I

"You knew that. You always know where he is." Three months ago, I married his father. He’s a billionaire, and this mansion is like a palace. Most of his kids are grown up and gone, but Finn stayed. He’s twenty, with that boyishly handsome face and a quiet, nerdy vibe. He’s the baby of the family and the closest to his dad.