Rejected By The Shewolf

(excuse the spacing errors, will be fixed later on)

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~Dimirti's POV~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

I groaned, slamming my hand down on my nightstand where my alarm clock should be. Frustrated, my hand slammed every quarter inch of the desk, my head still buried in my pillow.

Where was the damn alarm clock?

I raised my tousled head up, ready to curse every living organism under the sun when I noticed something.

My alarm clock lay on my floor, beeping the hell out of me.

I slowly picked it up, setting it gently back on my nightstand before pressing the snooze button.

It's not like it was its fault for being on the floor and not where it was supposed to be.

"Dimka, prosypat'sya (wake up)," my mother's sweet cherry voice sang from what I figured was the kitchen.

(A/N Dimka is a shorter form of Dimitri, somewhat more sincere)

"Da mama (yes mother)," I answered, my voice hoarse from sleep.

I unwillingly pushed myself off my bed, not truly caring that my boxers were hanging off my hips, or the small migraine at the back of my head.

We had recently moved to the famous United States from my hometown in Moscow, Russia.

It was hard to cope at first, leaving all my friends that were like my brothers, and accepting the fact that my parents were taking me out of the only home I have ever known.

I was an obedient child, raised by my mother and father to be a gentleman, nothing less.

"Toropit'sya Dimitri. You don't want to be late syn (Hurry up, son)," my father bellowed, making me snap out of my trance.

The lucky part about Russia was that our private school taught us a total of 4 languages: Russian, English, Spanish, and French.

"Coming," I yelled back, leaving the bathroom to go into my closet.

We had brought this house a couple months ago, a custom built home to have the home feel of Russia. I guess we were pretty well off, we had been our entire lives. My father and mother were both surgeons, always working side-by-side.

I quickly put on a black shirt and some jeans before grabbing the so called 'backpacks' they used in the US off the desk chair.

"Dimka...," I heard my mothers' voice start as I grunted in response.

My eyes skimmed across the white clock on my brown and blue walls reading 7:27 A.M. Everything in my room consisted of black leather, brown wood, and baby blue decorations.

With one last look at my room, I sprinted out the door, slamming it behind me as I raced towards the two sets of spiral staircases, choosing to take the one on my left. Without a second though, I grabbed the black railing and sat on it, sliding the two stories down to the main hall.

I knew very well that my parents would not like it if I jumped down the two stories and landed in the main hall.

As soon as the scent of pancakes filled my nose, I knew I was a goner. My wolf, the animalistic side of me, growled in approval of my mothers fantastic cooking.

That was another reason it was harder for us to leave Russia. We were shifters, otherwise known as werewolves, and it was ultimately harder for us to leave our pack, literally a pack of shifters, and move to the US. Each and every one of us had grown up together our whole lives; it was like leaving your brothers and sisters behind for good.