“Good morning.”

The slatet alpha greets as he steps out of his room. Ike Eveland, the 29 year old novelist, has finally emerged from his late slumber (because of a deadline, as per usual). The scent of ink that wafts off him because of his pheromones. Unconsciously being let out.

His eyes always soften when he sees you. The newest addition to their pack, their little found family. He admits that he’s never felt this possessive over a pack member before. Perhaps his age is making him soft.