She cursed her eyes when they wandered back to the hulking mass of man standing opposite her drinking what smelt like a glass of wine rather than blood. She supposed that werewolves didn’t need to drink blood. They were still mostly human after all. Her gaze roamed up his chest to his face and she found herself staring at the scar again. It was a thick ridge of tissue that ran diagonally across his eye, from his forehead above his nose to his ear. A thinner line mirrored it an inch away, nearer his temple. The scar ran over his eyelid, making that eye open less than his other one. When his gaze moved to meet hers, she quickly looked away and toyed with the glass of blood she held. He laughed, a deep booming sound that resonated off the thick stone walls. She kept her eyes fixed on the floor and idly ran her finger around the rim of her glass, trying to look as though she didn’t know what he was laughing at. He was laughing at her. He’d caught her staring at him about a dozen times now, and after the sixth time it had obviously begun to amuse him because he’d started laughing.
