Carrick's great and poisonous ego was the product of twenty centuries, and it permitted him to see nobody as an equal. Certainly not a werewolf. Nevertheless, there was a simple truth in Russell's words that even Carrick could not deny.
It was indisputable that in terms of physical strength the other man was certainly his match; as a born Alpha he was amongst the strongest of all Supernaturals, a strength only made greater by his heavily muscular build. He wondered idly what the other man would be like to face in battle. His own gift for speed and stealth would stand him well. It would be a question of evading the werewolf' clutches and striking from the shadows.
Instead of speaking his thoughts he gave a low and throaty chuckle that seemed somehow sinister. "I wish you could have seen some of the slave boys I've had over the years. Beautiful, delicate little things. So fragile; like butterflies. Believe me, you don't know pleasure until you've had a pretty seventeen year old boy crawl to you and beg on his knees for you to whip him before you fling him over the bed and fuck him until he screams."
He gave a tiny smile. "Perhaps we could share one. I could show you."
The thought of watching Russell drag a mortal boy to bed and sharing the soft young body was indescribably arousing.