“Is it?” Ethan drawled out in a manner that suggested that Rowan’s name was of absolutely no consequence, and that the wolf would call him whatever he wanted. Which was the general state of Ethan. He called people what he wanted to, generally some version of dinner or prey, and that was that.
He didn’t glance down at the blood he knew was on his clothes – he was a messy eater sometimes, what a shame, wasted blood. Ethan could still taste the coppery tint on his lips and he wanted to lick up the last drop and roll around in a carcass, but he had no such thing at the moment. Yet. Yet yet yet.
That twist of lips was back, something wicked and soulless and Ethan snapped a hand up when Rowan’s fluttered about, fingers locking around his wrist in a vice grip. “Oh, it’s not my blood,” he crooned, his head shaking slowly, his gaze never wavering. He didn’t even seem to blink. He pressed his fingers tighter, feeling the bones grind together under his grip. “Mmm, sitting down is not what I need,” he said, with a husky sort of laugh to a joke only he understood.