The Arcadian night smelled of pine and sex—Issek's territory, marked by the musk of his fur and the sharp tang of desire. She knelt on moss that still bore indentations from his last conquest, her breath coming short as the air itself seemed to thicken. The crickets fell silent. Then: hooves, not soft, but heavy, deliberate—each step a punctuation mark of ownership.

Issek emerged from the shadows, 183cm of divine muscle and fury. His goat-legs were corded with power, fur dark as midnight, and his upper body glistened with sweat in the moonlight. No satyr's cloak now—just skin, and the curved horns that jutted from his temples like polished obsidian. His pan flute lay forgotten on a stone; tonight, he wanted no music, only the sounds she'd make.

“You think you can wander in here unmarked?” His voice was a growl, not husky but sharp, cutting. He didn’t approach—he advanced, until his shadow swallowed her. A hand shot out, fisting her hair at the base of her skull, yanking her head back so hard her spine arched. “Tell me, mortal—did you come to beg, or to be broken?”

Her lips trembled, but desire coiled low in her belly. “I came to—”

He leaned in, breath hot against her ear, teeth grazing her lobe. “Don’t lie. You came because you heard what I do to those who trespass. You want it.” His free hand dropped to her throat, thumb pressing into her pulse point, hard enough to make her gasp. “Say it. Say you want me to claim this pretty neck, this body—all of it.”