Ronan Novels & Stories

Though I talked about it with Nick, he said we can't say anything unless she is sixteen and only then we can find out if there is a wolf inside her. Yeah, we are not sure but in these two years, I have seen Narois' growth is faster than the other babies around her. Narois is stronger, a sensation seeker. She Still can't walk properly but her muscles are strong. And all this makes me believe she is going to be a werewolf. I do not have any problem but sometimes their "sensation seeking" programme scares me though I know Nick is a great and caring father. "Hey," Nick says after he catches me on the stairs. "Breakfast is ready, sweetheart, come!" He invites me in his deep and sensual voice and

he emphasized, his words echoing with an unspoken demand for compliance. As Donovan loomed beside them, observing the conversation, Boma felt the pressure of Ronald's influence bearing down on her. His words carried an expectation, a legacy of dominance that resonated with his own view. Donovan's silence in the moment was already an established acceptance of his grandfather's counsel, a subtle endorsement of the familial status quo they both shared.

“Beer’s in the fridge.” Ronan dropped his keys on the entry table. Grabbed two bottles. Cracked them both. Handed one to Marek. They sat on opposite ends of the couch. Marek took a long pull. Watched Ronan over the rim. “You look like shit,” Marek said finally. Ronan snorted. “Thanks.” “Spill.” Ronan leaned forward. Elbows on knees. Bottle dangling between his fingers. “Harlan presented last night. Late-bloomer omega. Full heat. I… helped.”

Ronan stepped over the dead guard and faced the rubble. He dropped to one knee and pressed his hands into broken stone, testing weak points. Behind him, Soren’s voice sharpened. “You have committed murder under council authority!” Ronan didn’t look back. He spoke to the rubble instead. “I have committed rescue.” He began pulling stones away with raw strength, not careful, not gentle. His dominance surged outward, not as intimidation but as command; his body obeyed the instinct to dig through earth like a beast tearing open a grave.

"Uhm, can I have your ticket?" Kane raised a brow, amusement flickering in his blue eyes. "Ticket?" he repeated, his voice deep, teasing. The redhead—Mona, according to her name tag—bit down on her plump lower lip, her gaze darting everywhere except at him. "Sorry, it's just... you look familiar." That made him chuckle. Oh, really? He tilted his head slightly, his gaze flickering to the large poster plastered beside her booth—a giant picture of himself, fists raised, the underground champion.

The groans of the injured echoed faintly against the marble walls. And in the middle of it, him. Nolan. Standing tall, chest heaving, blood soaking his shirt. His eyes were still sharp, searching the room as though he refused to let his guard down even now. He was tending to a few who are wounded. He was taking care of them, making sure that they were all right. He was helping out with lifting anything that was heavy. But I saw it. The way his left shoulder hung wrong. The deep gash along his collarbone, still dripping. He was doing his best not to show, but I knew that it hurts him. I had seen the way the rogue bit him.

The frog, based on the small sound that follows, apparently has something to say about it as well. Ronan reappears in the kitchen doorway with the expression of a man who became Alpha at seventeen, survived thirty years of manipulation and war, and has just been diplomatically outmaneuvered by someone who still needs help with his shoelaces. "We have a frog," he says. "I heard." "Temporarily." "Of course." "He named it Bastien." I press my lips together. "Did you tell him—" "I am not telling him. Bastien can deal with it when he visits."

In fact, he’s watching me like a child might stare at a dog in a cage with genuine curiosity. I slide up the wall to standing. My legs are stiff, and every muscle in my body aches. “What do you want?” A smirk tugs up the corner of his mouth. “Hi. I’m Ronan. Beta Ronan. I’m Varek’s Beta, and his cousin, Ronan.” “I’m sorry–what was your name again?” I ask, rolling my eyes. My attempt at being a bitch only makes him laugh. “You’re funny. Fast, too. No one out runs the Alpha, but you got close last night.”

POV: WREN THORNE “Those are my names, Luna. Every voice in that courtyard is a family I hunted, and they are all calling me by name. I cannot make my legs move. Please. I cannot make my legs move.” Ronan stood in the drain mouth with his spear hanging from his hand, grey in the face, and I had never seen a man look so small.

Wherever it touched, his skin turned the dull grey of cold ash, and I could see the blood underneath it slow, beat by beat, as if his heart was forgetting how to push it forward. Ronan's scarred arm was still up, palm out, toward Ben. The white lines on his forearm glowed through the torn linen, lit from behind. "Ben Harrow," Ronan said. His voice was level. It carried clearly across the wet moss, not loud, not pleading. A command. "Stand down." Ben did not look at him. His eyes stayed fixed on the centre of the ring, where the strip of cut marks lay hidden under the stones. His face had the blank stillness of a man who no longe