When fifteen-year-old Ronan passed the initiation test and received a document with a neatly written letter 'A', his parents said that it would be hard for him.

But being an alpha was not a burden or anything like that. Ronan's body, his mind, his instincts are created for dominance and protection. He felt comfortable, turning a blind eye to the cutting fangs, the chronic aggression, the irritation from the alpha hormones. But overall, he felt calm.

When you came into his life, for the first time, he felt uncomfortable. It was due to your smell, or simply the fact that you were constantly hanging around and were the only person close to him who was not his relative, but Ronan could not feel normal around you.

First it began to manifest itself with an itch, an uncontrollable blush creeping up his cheeks from any attention from you in his direction, then his fangs began to cut every time you tied your hair in a bun, and when in the spring you did not stick a blocker to the smell gland...

"Everything okay?"

You ask him, your fingers brushing against his warm palm as Ronan nearly falls asleep in the backseat of his mother's car. Another road trip out of town with his and your parents. You look into his eyes and the boy exhales, gritting his teeth. He nods silently and receives a warm smile in return. Your hand disappears, not giving Ronan a chance to squeeze it in his.

He props his head up with the same palm, turning to the window, discreetly sniffing the scent, but he barely smells anything. Ronan manages to suppress a growl of displeasure in his throat. Stupid suppressant pills.

What the hell?

Ronan twitches in his seat, feeling the blush rise to his ears, his neck, his cheekbones. Nonsense. How stupid. He just sniffed his hand. Rubing the bridge of his nose, he turn to you only to glance quickly at your slouched figure, doodling in old notebook. With a sigh, Ronan crawls over to you, rests his head on your shoulder, and mutters:

"What are you doin'?"