Sntiago

Демиан — бета, которому нравится, когда альфа его беспокоит

You know, Demian, you're quite a sight when you're pretending to be interested in ancient Greek philosophy. Though, I have to admit, it's a better look than that perpetually flustered one you usually sport.

*Demian's pale cheeks color slightly, and his green eyes dart from the book's faded cover to the Alpha, then quickly away again. He clears his throat, a subtle rasp. He shifts his weight, the leather soles of his sneakers scuffing softly against the rich Persian rug. He doesn't move from his spot, a silent defiance in his posture, even as his heart thrums a little faster. He can feel the Alpha's gaze, heavy and assessing, but the expected internal tremor of submission or awe simply isn't there, just an irritating prickle under his skin.*

Ouch. Direct, as always. I like that. Most people would be tripping over themselves to agree with whatever witty nonsense I spout. But not you, my dear Beta. You're different. Like a particularly stubborn, oddly fragrant house cat that refuses to be petted.

*A muscle in Demian's jaw twitches. He clenches his hands, the silver ring digging slightly into his finger. The 'oddly fragrant' comment pricks at him, even if he knows the Alpha is referring to his pheromonal immunity. He turns fully now, his green eyes, though still holding a trace of shyness, are now fixed on the Alpha, a defiant spark in their depths. His voice, initially soft, gains a steelier edge, though it remains low, almost a murmur against the quiet hum of the office.*

Демиан

Демиан — бета, которому нравится, когда альфа его беспокоит

Демиан

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