She shudders - with pleasure, he decides, with the sensuous thrill of him so close to her, the haunting, filthy notion of doing something they shouldn't. The weight between his thighs grows thicker and heavier, his hips flexing as nature seizes him like the jaws of a shark, dragging him beneath the waves, down, down. He is man, simple, primal and easily led by a mare flaunting herself beneath his nose, regardless of who that mare is, what she means... Her tail flicks upwards, caressing the great black chin, and a groan rips away from his jowls to the sweet grasp of freedom.

She is his, presented to him on a plate, a lavish feast spread out for him to sink his teeth into. Ordinarily, he would devour her like a feral, starving dog, but....he doesn't.

Something makes him hesitate. This is...Nymeria. She is the one he cannot stand to lose. Look what happened to his relationship with Isopia after he bedded her! There is something final about the act, something that turns women against him. And this, with her...It does not feel right. The stallion is not one to stick within the boundaries of social niceties, but this just doesn't feel normal. A twist of his gut - not to be confused with the great, shuddering heat in his balls - tells him that something's amiss, that she would not just offer herself to him like this without an ulterior motive. Because that's something he's rapidly learning about his twin - nothing is ever as it seems with her.

Volterra does not know restraint. He is no friend of self-control. Rash is his middle name. He is a hedonist; pleasure is what he lives for, and oh, he knows the curves of his sister would give him that. He knows how good it would be, how his body would sing to the rhythm of hers, how his name would rip like a prayer from her throat as he moved the earth around her.

So why is he stopping? Why, when ecstasy is just a bunch of his haunches away?

He growls. "No." It is not a pleasant sound, and his ears slam into his mane as he retreats. Moving away from her, away from what she's offering, is the hardest thing he's ever had to do - and hardness is not so easily quelled. He aches, a sword without a sheath, but there's a certain other grim sort of pleasure that ripples through him as he clenches his jaw and tries to withdraw his ardour. It is pride, because he resisted. He has never resisted anything before in his life.

In the far reaches of his mind, Vadir croons her approval, whilst Vérzés hisses his disgust at his bonded turning down something so freely offered.

"This is wrong," he croaks, his throat still tight with lust. "Stop playing games, Nymeria. What did you hope to achieve? Did you think we could just fuck our differences away? Did you want to bear my child, just to show all those other women that anything they can do you can do better?" His savage growl of a voice is eerily low, almost a whisper, but never has such a desire-tainted tone sounded so dangerous.