Though Devlin could not know the true extent of Dimitri's fearlessness, he approved of the fact that he could detect no immediate trace of anxiety in the stranger. some wolves were easy to spook -- one wrong look, and they would roll over and piss all over themselves. These types were useful in their own way -- easy to dominate and throw around like political rag-dolls. But they weren't very interesting to Devlin. They were all the same. The same stench of fear and urine, the same quiver of flesh under his teeth...

No, no... While Devlin understood very well that predictability was important in the business of politics and survival, he could not deny that he dearly loved a challenge.

Devlin sat back, still grinning that god-awful grin. He said nothing for a moment, inclining his head in a haughty fashion. His eyes never left the stranger; they stared hard and long, as if he longed to peel away the skin and look inside the skull within.

So he had misjudged the desolate way the poor beast had slumped to his belly? The listless emptiness in his eyes? He hardly believed that.

Finally, raising a brow, he broke the silence. "And are you so easily satisfied by the company of strangers?" His eyes danced with amusement. "A scarred up lone male, and you barely bat an eye."

He chuckled, deep and low. "Either I am to believe that you are the world's most naive creature to have graced this good earth, or.." He paused. "..Or, as I suspect, you simply don't give a fuck."

He slid down to his belly, crossing his forelegs casually. "So," he muttered. "Which is it?"

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D E V L ! N