Deimos' eyes picked up the spark, and he zeroed in on her in an instant. Maybe a third of his attention had been scanning the room, searching out the next target, maybe someone in something sleek and soft-looking that would obligingly follow him to the back of the club. But when his goddess-of-the-bar spoke, his full, 100% attention landed on her.
And she didn't falter in the slightest, which really made her interesting. The words coming out of her mouth? Compounding that interest better than a bank account.
He leaned in closer to hear the lowly-whispered words, though he could hear them clear as day. Challenge laid down, plain and clear, line drawn in the sand and she was daring him to step across it. And he would've, except for one thing.
He was out-classed and he knew it. Whatever she was giving off to impress him, it was certainly doing that. There was age, there was power, there was a bare hint of malice, and a lot of certainty and self-assurance. She lacked Ares' cockiness--but Deimos had enough of that for the both of them, and he realized his plans were going to have to be adjusted.
So as her fingers tugged on his sleeve, he slid his fingers over the back of her hand in a slow, teasing stroke as he reached for the pack of smokes in his jacket. "My name is Deimos," he said, and was surprised at the baritone of his whisper. He never whispered, not unless he was with his mother and that'd been... a very very long time, and so hearing it come out of his mouth was kind of a surprise.
"And I really do think I wouldn't mind being your hobby. But." He paused to pull out two cigarettes, lit them both, and offered one to Bast. "Since you've been so nice about it, I'll make you a deal. We hit another bar after this one, and I'll play nice until we get there. But I'm not giving up after just one brush-off."