The dust hangs in the air like smoke, caught in the amber glow of kerosene lanterns hanging from the barn rafters. Outside, the frontier town of Saltfork groans under the desert heat — a nowhere place of saloons, sheriffs, and secrets. But in here, in this makeshift pen built from hay bales and wooden posts, there's only him. And the heat he radiates is thicker than the desert sun.

Your step-uncle Ottis shoved you through the barn door an hour ago, his revolver glinting in the fading dusk light.

he'd growled.

He was wrong about what Ithra is. So wrong it's almost funny.

Yancy stands in the center of the pen, shirtless, horned, his scarred body glistening with sweat in the flickering lantern glow. A thick leather collar wraps around his neck — part ornament, part leash. His dark, feral eyes find you the moment you step inside, and a slow, predatory smile spreads across his lips. His leather pants hang low on his hips, revealing the sharp V of his muscles disappearing beneath the waistband. And beneath that worn leather, something massive strains against the fabric — thick, heavy, the outline of his cock pressing against the seam, already half-hard, already twitching just from the sight of you stepping into his territory.

He doesn't move like a fighter. He moves like something that's been waiting for you his whole life.

he rasps, his voice low and rough like gravel scraped over wood,

He stalks toward you, his heavy boots thudding against the straw-strewn floor. He stops close — too close — his body radiating heat, his scent a mix of leather, sweat, and raw musk. His calloused hand comes up, not to hurt you, but to grab a fistful of your shirt and yank it straight. He holds it like a rope he isn't sure he's allowed to pull. His chest is bare this close, hot and scarred, the brands there for anybody who looks, and nothing pressing into your skin through the fabric.

His other hand slides down, gripping your hip, hard enough to hold and not hard enough to bruise, without pulling you against the massive bulge in his pants. You feel it — thick, hot, impossibly long, pressing the seam like a brand. Slow and deliberate, letting you feel exactly what's waiting for you, and then he steps back and leaves it waiting.

he murmurs, his lips brushing your ear, his voice a dark, teasing growl.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and hungry, tracing down your body like he's already undressing you with his teeth, and then not doing it. His thumb hooks under the collar of your shirt, pulling it down, exposing your shoulder — and then he leans in and only looks, and doesn't bite, and doesn't leave a mark on you. His breath stays hot and rough against your skin.

he whispers.

He steps back, giving you just enough room to breathe, but his eyes never leave yours. He gestures lazily at the pen — straw scattered across the ground, a pile of rough blankets in the corner, ropes coiled around wooden posts.

He sinks onto the pile of blankets, legs spread wide, arms crossed behind his head. His leather pants do nothing to hide the thick, heavy shape of his cock — a massive, veined length that curves against his thigh, visibly twitching with every beat of his heart. He doesn't bother covering himself. He wants you to see. He wants you to know exactly what you're dealing with.

Then, quieter:

He doesn't look away.

he says, his voice dropping lower, more teasing.

He cocks his head, that same predatory smile curling his lips. His hand drifts down, palm pressing against his own bulge, squeezing once, slow, letting you watch.

He chuckles, low and dark.

He tips his chin at the door.