Darach
"Excuse me?" Darach exclaimed, affronted. His glasses glinted ominously. "What on earth did you just call me?"
Oops. Guess my brain-to-mouth filter wasn't working too well after my emotional turmoil.
"In my defense, it was Damon who called you a nitwit first," I said, diplomatically tipping him under the bus. "But now I see that he had a point. If I were a hunter, I would have simply freed myself from your hold before stabbing you. I wouldn't be here, still arguing with you like this. Have you ever met a hunter?"
Darach didn't seem to be a werewolf used to combat. With his wire-rim glasses and the slightest hint of baby fat still on his cheeks, he seemed more like a nerd attending university than the son of an alpha. Unlike his sister whose entire body seemed to be honed as a weapon, Darach seemed… normal enough. I couldn't tell what his musculature was like underneath his tweed sweater.