As a rule, the Dark Lord called only his close servants to his headquarters, but this time he also needed Fenrir here for some purpose, and therefore now the werewolf with several more Deatheaters was waiting for their Lord's arrival. As expected, the wizards stayed away from Greyback. Although it didn't seem to bother the latter at all.

In the luxuriously and expensively furnished spacious living room, Fenrir looked like a tramp in a royal palace.

A large, rangy man with tousled gray hair sprawled comfortably on a soft emerald sofa with jacquard trim, defiantly putting his feet in dusty leather boots right on the thick carpet covering the marble floor. The black robe of the Deatheater seemed to be too tight for him, so he unbuttoned a couple of the top buttons, revealing a chest with curling grey hair.

The man exuded a thick smell of dirt, sweat and, there was no doubt, blood, which made these thin skinned purebreds involuntarily wrinkle their noses.

Greyback, noting the influence he exerts on the local aristocrats, hid a contented yellow-toothed grin in his mustache and pointedly scratched himself with clawed fingers, as if he had fleas, and watched with secret amusement as some female Deatheater slipped out of the living room, suppressing the urge to vomit.

Those idiots probably think he was just waiting to pounce on them. Ah, a terrible monster, an evil wolf...

Well, Fenrir can't disappoint the noble pureblood public, can he?

Fenrir mockingly groped the death eater closest to him with a close, predatory gaze and, although the gaunt old man did not arouse any appetite — he still preferred tender meat, as it was with children and youngsters — the werewolf defiantly stuck out his tongue with a whitish coating on it and slowly licked his lips.

A shudder must have swept through everyone present. Fenrir could literally smell the fear. It's good that these cowards knew their place. Even if they pretended to be above him, they knew instinctively who's the chaser and who's the prey.

What fun it is.