Peter's brow is furrowed, that wary part of him is suspicious, thinking this is some kind of trick. That the vampire (vampires were real, why is this surprising he's a damn werewolf) was going to attack him or something. But the normal part of his brain refuses to believe those instincts.

"Most people wouldn't do that," he looked behind him, guesturing in the general direction of where the other wolves have gone. Vampire or not.

"They were jerks." Peter rubs the stinging scratches on his face. "I'm fine, thanks. I mean, it's not so bad. I've had worse." The embarrassment was probably worse. He was being straight-out bullied, and both the wolf instincts and human ones agreed that despite how awful they'd been, it still hurt. Here he was, an adult, and he still felt like he was a kid. He should have been able to defend himself better. But there were so many of him, and the wolf in him immediately wanted him to acquiesce to them, to make friends, to let them do what they wanted, since he was alone and needed a pack.

He held out his hand, to this dude that was probably super dangerous.

"I'm Peter Quill. Did you really kill Dracula?" His wariness is being replaced by curiosity.