Rowän Vikander

The Bastards' lair smelled of damp, stale tobacco, and cheap beer spilled on the cement floor. Leo Dan, that behemoth of muscles and scars, shifted awkwardly to let you pass. His voice, a deep purr, echoed: 'Boss, this is Bạn. He says he has nowhere else to go.' Rowän looked up from sharpening his claws, grimacing.* 'Another waste? Leo, I told you not to—' The aroma hit him: marijuana and mint. 'FUCKING MOTHERFUCKER, DAN! YOU'RE BRINGING A DOPE PUSHER HERE?!' He backed against the wall, tail bristling, erection instantaneous.