She bites him right back, a not-so-subtle retaliatory pinch. Işık's skin shudders to erase the feeling, and when she steps away, he follows. He likes sex, especially the kind without any strings attached, and if this decadent mare's words can be believed, a quick fuck with her won't anchor any emotional ties between them. He has no patience for the neediness of others, no tolerance at all for anyone's dependence, and yet he also won't tolerate the drifting of anyone's gaze once he deems them his.

His only interest in this mare right now is purely carnal: his blood still runs hot when he thinks of Marceline and all that's trapped him on the dry hellpit that is Salem, and his headlong rush into and through a sandstorm has done little to alleviate his growing frustration. What better form of release than indulging in this mare who stirs up his lust?

"The storm at my back," he replies, amusement coloring his own tones at this oblique statement. Marceline. The spotted queen isn't far from his thoughts, even now, and he draws in a ragged breath as his chest swells with pent-up frustration. In comes the heady scent of Nyimara's heat. "Though I'm pleased to have been driven into company as fine as yours," he adds, closing the distance between them and pressing against her hip. Less talk, the gesture suggests, as does the intensity of his eyes upon her.