Raine lifted his silver gaze to the mirror that hung on the wall in Jordan’s bedchamber.

And saw himself.

Saw how horribly changed he was physically. Saw the soft down of sepia fur that now covered his legs from thigh to ankle. The fur not of a man, but of an animal. Having sprouted with the onset of the Calling, it would not disappear until the coming of dawn.

Though he wanted to turn away, he forced himself to look. To see himself for the half-beast, half-Human he was. To see the huge vein-roped man-penis jutting from his dark thatch, its blood-purpled head straining in search of quim. And to see its twin, a second ruddy penis angling high from his pelvis a few finger spans above it.

It was the way of the Satyr and he had experienced such changes before—at least a dozen times each year. But he’d always avoided looking at himself when he was this way. This was how his first wife had seen him. As Jordan would.

His eyes wandered over the bottles and vials on her dressing table, the cushion she’d sewn for the chair, the embroidery project she’d tossed in a basket nearby. Like her, everything here was feminine and delicate. Fragile.

Tonight he might hurt her. At a certain point, he might not be able to stop himself from taking her again and again, whether she was willing or not. It was a horrifying thought.

Had it been some last shred of decency in him that had made him come in here? he wondered. After all, he had salve of his own, in his room. At times, he resorted to using it to masturbate himself the multiple times necessary to assuage his nightly need. It was makeshift, but at least he hurt no one. Disgusted no one. Used no one, save himself. Maybe fate was offering him a second chance to regain his self-control before he made a terrific mistake.

If he could bring himself to climax a half dozen times or so here in her room, perhaps he could take the edge off. It was not too late to conjure Shimmerskins to relieve him if that didn’t work. What was one more such night spent with only his hand and conjured women for comfort? After a modicum of satiation, he might even be able to make his way to the glen to continue his fucking. The farther he got from Jordan, the better.

He scooped cream from her jar. Half sitting on the dressing table, he gripped his fevered cocks, one in each hand. His brothers’ pricks were slipping inside their women even now. Nick would be with Jane, in the sacred glen under the full moon. Lyon would be secreted somewhere in Paris more than likely taking Shimmerskins under him, unless he’d already found Feydon’s third daughter. The rise in his brothers’ desire sent a new, sharp hunger churning in his gut. All too soon his brothers would be in full-blown rut. Gods help him then.

With unsteady hands, he began massaging himself, praying to Bacchus he had the willpower to keep himself from the woman who waited in his bed. Earnestly, he milked the engorged shafts in his strong hands from root to crown and back. The rhythmic pumping elongated and thickened him to the point of pain. But the feel of a fist wasn’t what he craved. His desperation mounted.

A sudden noise alerted him that he was not alone. Turning his head, he saw that Jordan had followed him and was now standing in the doorway between their rooms.