"The end of the night has yet to be determined," he raised his brow with that intense stare not once leaving her face. He was no lovestruck teenager, but an old god that had every intention of keeping her snared to him. She in fact had that hook on his heart and every time she left him she pulled it, so it was still sore, whether or not she had left intentionally. He pulled her close to him, his hand just on the small of her back, his own possessive way of warding other men away. He was grateful they had stepped out of the last symposium, or he might have let a hurricane put an end to it.
If Hecate was the proper hostess she was, then there would be plenty of Greek wine (specifically Dionysus' to go around). They came to the bar and his ears and eyes were sharp for anyone who might try to whisk her away.