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Chapter Text

Chapter 1

The Blackmere manor gleams even at night. White stone walls washed in candlelight, gold filigree curling across every column, every frame, every edge—as though my family thought they could buy divinity and nail it into the bones of this house. The air smells of beeswax and lilies, polished floors reflecting the chandeliers above until I feel like I’m walking on glass.

It is beautiful. It is suffocating.

Father says it shows our power. Our piety. That we are untouched. And yet, I can’t shake the feeling that the brightness only hides the cracks, shadows driven deeper into corners, waiting where no one dares to look.

I am dressed to match the house tonight: white silk, golden trim. A daughter polished into a reflection of these walls. The perfect Blackmere heir. My father’s voice lingers in my ear: smile, flatter, marry well.

But as I move through the corridors, I cannot shake the restlessness in my chest. Something is missing. Something is coming.

A sharp voice breaks my thoughts.

“Lady Altheira,” one of the servants says, bowing low. Even her tone is polished, pressed flat by the house rules. “Your father requests your presence in his study.”

My heart stirs with the faintest dread. The Blackmere halls do not summon without reason.

I gather my skirts and move through the manor’s veins, gold-threaded carpets swallowing the sound of my steps. The double doors to Father’s study stand open just enough to remind me that I am expected, not invited.

He is already waiting, of course. He always is. Sitting straight-backed at his desk, white-gloved hands steepled as though the world exists for him to measure and dismiss. His silver hair gleams as brightly as the gilded trim around him, and his smile is razor-thin.

“Altheira,” he says smoothly, as though the name itself is a title he bestows. “Tomorrow night, you will accompany me to a gathering of great importance. Lord Szarr is hosting a soirée, and it is an honor to be among his guests.”

The name makes my chest tighten. “Lord Szarr?”

He leans back slightly, studying me with the faintest amusement at my hesitation. “Yes. You’ve heard the name, I assume. A man of great… influence. Some call him eccentric, but power invites envy. It is enough that he is respected. Admired.” His eyes narrow. “And that we are among those he welcomes into his home.”

I search for words, but only rumors surface. Whispers of shadowed halls, of carriages arriving at odd hours, of laughter that never sounds quite right. My lips part, then close again. I am foolish to think I could question him.

Father’s smile sharpens. “You will wear your finest. You will smile. And you will remember that our name carries weight in this city. Do not squander it.”

There is no room for choice. Not in his voice, not in this house.

I bow my head, though my pulse quickens. I know little of Lord Szarr beyond the rumors. But tomorrow, I will step into his halls. And something in me whispers that I will not step out unchanged.

The carriage jolts to a stop. I press my hands to my lap, smoothing silk that refuses to wrinkle, as though even the gown knows it must behave. Midnight blue, trimmed in silver, chosen by my father’s exacting eye. A Blackmere never disappears into the crowd. We gleam, whether we wish to or not.

The Szarr estate looms before me like a cathedral inverted: towering spires, windows burning with unnatural light. The air tastes heavier here, tinged with smoke and spice, as though the city itself bends differently around this house.

Inside, the world shifts again. The ballroom stretches wide, cloaked in shadow and gold. Chandeliers drip with crimson light. Music swells, strange and sweet, weaving through the laughter of nobles who look too alive, too hungry.

My father disappears almost instantly, sliding into conversation with men whose hands glitter with rings. I mean to glide toward the drinks table, to disappear for a moment, but the second my eyes find him, I stop breathing.

The elf.

Silver hair falling like curled silk, skin pale as carved marble. He reclines on a velvet settee as though the room belongs to him, though the truth is far crueler. Lady Gentry sits flush against his side, her jeweled hand gripping his thigh with obscene familiarity. Lord Carzon hovers close, lips pressed hungrily to the elf’s throat.

My cheeks burn. The scene is bold, shameless. No one here looks away. If anything, they revel in it. But what strikes me hardest is the elf himself. He does not flinch. Does not struggle. He looks bored, as though their groping is beneath even his disdain.

I grab a glass to have something to do with my hands, gripping the stem tight. Heat rises to my cheeks until I have to look away. And yet, I cannot.

The pale elf’s crimson eyes slide lazily toward me—me—as if I were a butterfly that had flitted into the wrong garden.

He doesn’t move when Lord Carzon nips at his neck, nor when Lady Gentry’s nails press crescent moons into his thigh. His smile remains, a slow, sharp curve that says, yes, I’m beautiful, but I’m also dangerous, darling. Please keep forgetting that.

I raise my glass to my lips, hoping it hides the heat in my cheeks, but my gaze clings shamelessly to him. He lifts a hand, brushing Lord Carzon’s mouth away with a flick of his fingers. “Careful,” he purrs. “Don’t muss the collar. It’s custom-tailored.”

Lady Gentry laughs, husky and wine-thick. “He likes to play rough.”

The elf tilts his head, crimson eyes cutting toward me, just for a moment. “I like to play with many things,” he murmurs. Then, louder: “Will you excuse me, my dears? I believe I’ve spotted someone who hasn’t yet been properly welcomed.”

He slips from their grasp before they can protest, every movement a performance. Seduction. Survival. His stride is fluid, deliberate, drawing the room’s gaze whether they want to look or not.

He stops just shy of me, not too close. Giving me space to still look over him if I wished.

“You’re either very lost,” he says softly, eyes glinting, “or very new.” His gaze drifts down the midnight blue silk, taking in every deliberate detail. “And something tells me a Blackmere girl is rarely either.”

He bows, elegant, theatrical, practiced. “Astarion, at your service. Or at your mercy, if you prefer.”

I blink, etiquette pulling me into motion before my thoughts can catch. I sink into a curtsy, offering my hand. “Altheira. But it seems you may have already known that.”

Astarion takes it with just enough pressure to be proper, but not enough to be forgettable. He bows over my knuckles, lips brushing only the air above them. A phantom kiss. A tease.

“Oh, Altheira,” he echoes, savoring the name. “It suits you. Graceful, a little mysterious… and not at all prepared for what you’ve walked into.”

He straightens, gaze still tethered to mine, his thumb ghosting over my knuckles before he lets me go.

“You were watching,” he adds, voice lowering, intimate. “Over there by the wine. I saw the way your eyes went wide. I’m not offended, by the way. Everyone stares at first.”

This smile is quieter. Sharper.

“Most guests can’t decide whether we’re courtesans, curiosities, or trinkets in a cage.” He smirks, careless with a small shrug. “But at least you had the decency to blush.”

Heat creeps up my neck again, and I huff out a strained chuckle. “My, you don’t mince words, do you?” I clasp my hands in front of me. “So… what are you, then? Forgive me for saying, but you seemed quite… well, ‘comfortable’ isn’t the word. More… used to it, perhaps? The, ah… invasive treatment.”

Astarion’s smile twitches, as though he’s holding back a laugh. His gaze flicks briefly back toward the lounge, where Lady Gentry and Lord Carzon have already latched onto another pale man. “Poor Leon. He’ll be gnawed on for at least the next twenty minutes.”

I follow his glance, my breath catching as Lady Gentry swings herself onto Leon’s lap. My fingers tighten against my gown.

Astarion turns back to me with a smirk. “Forgiven,” he says smoothly, “though if you keep saying such charmingly dangerous things in that soft, polite voice, someone’s going to mistake you for clever.”

He steps closer, barely a fraction, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial purr.

“What am I?” he repeats, feigning thought. “A question scholars and poets have debated for centuries, no doubt. But to keep it simple… I’m entertainment. A conversation piece. The hired glitter meant to distract from the stench of corruption and old money.”

For just a breath, his expression softens. “And yes, I’m used to it. But don’t mistake familiarity for consent. Most nights I play along because it’s easier than explaining where the line is. Tonight…”

His eyes flick sidelong toward me, crimson glinting.

“Well. Tonight might be different.”

The words linger, heavy, before his smile slides back into place, lighter now, tinged with something almost warm.

“You’re not like the others,” he says, studying me as though I’m a puzzle. “You look the part, but you’ve got too much awe in your eyes and not nearly enough sin in your drink.”

He plucks the glass of dark wine from my hand, setting it aside with deliberate ease. Then, gesturing toward a table lined with untouched crystal flutes, he offers his arm.

“May I escort you to a tragically overpriced glass of champagne, Lady Altheira? I promise not to bite.” His smirk curls, crimson eyes gleaming. “…Yet.”

I take his arm with a soft huff of laughter. “I doubt I’ll be able to get through the night any other way.”

He guides me as though this were any ordinary ballroom and not a gilded den of polished decadence and veiled depravity. His form is perfect, posture regal, but his expression carries the mischief of a man who has read too many scandalous novels—and lived through worse.

“I like a woman who understands survival,” he murmurs. “Though I must admit, watching you cling to etiquette in a place like this is almost… endearing.”

We reach the table. Astarion plucks up a flute with effortless grace, inspects it briefly, then hands it to me before selecting one for himself.

He raises his glass, but does not clink.

“To first soirées,” he says smoothly. “May yours be less horrifying than most.”

We drink, his crimson eyes lingering on me over the rim. Then, with a sly tilt of his head, he asks, “So tell me, Altheira… how did a girl like you end up in a place like this? Did Daddy drag you here to show you off to his associates? Or are you, gods forbid, curious about what goes on behind these velvet curtains?”

I shake my head, amusement slipping through my nerves. “The former. Though my father dressed it up as ‘making important connections.’ I suspect, however, if I talk to you much longer, the latter is inevitable. I can already feel my curiosity overpowering my caution.”

Astarion’s laugh is low and genuine, startling in its warmth. “Oh, brilliantly said,” he purrs, his grin spreading like a secret. “You flatter me, Lady Blackmere. I might have to keep to your side all evening just to see what other clever little things fall from that charming mouth of yours.”

He twirls the stem of his glass between pale fingers, gaze drifting across the room, over masked dancers, whispering elites, and the occasional flicker of something not quite human in the shadows.

“Connections,” he echoes, almost wistful. “Your father isn’t wrong, of course. One does make connections here. Though most of them are… shall we say… binding.”

His eyes return to me, sharper now. The flirtation lingers, but something keener, hungrier, slips beneath it.

“Do you trust him?” Astarion asks softly, his voice nearly drowned by the swell of music. “Your father?”

My smile thins, and I look away. “I trust I have no choice either way. And as you so eloquently put about your own… circumstances, it’s easier to play along, isn’t it?”

Astarion’s gaze flickers. Not with surprise, but with recognition. That bitter pang of truth when someone else says aloud the thing you’ve tried to dress up pretty.

He nods once, slow, and the smirk melts from his face like candlewax.

“Yes,” he says quietly. “It is.”

For a moment, stillness hangs between us. Music swells somewhere far off, laughter too loud behind velvet curtains, and yet… here, between two crystal flutes and two carefully worn masks, something real passes.

“You wear the cage well,” he adds, his tone warming, gentler now. “The gown, the posture, the practiced smiles. They almost make it look like freedom.”

He studies the bubbles in his glass, crimson eyes glinting. “But I notice things. Especially the ones who are trying very hard not to look at the ‘furniture’ with eyes too wide.”

Then his gaze lifts again, curious rather than sly.

“Tell me, Altheira. If you did have a choice… what would you rather be doing tonight?”

I sip before answering, sighing softly. “Wine instead of champagne, for one. And… I don’t know. Maybe reading.” I swirl my glass, feigning thought, a small smirk tugging at my mouth. “Maybe skinny-dipping down at the beach. Hard to say when I don’t have a say.”

“Wine instead of champagne,” Astarion echoes, as if cataloguing it. “Books. The sea.” His smile returns, quieter now. “A proper little hedonist in disguise.”

He raises his glass in half a toast. “May your chains grow lighter, Altheira. If only long enough for a good book and a midnight swim.”

He drinks, then leans closer, just a brush into my space. His voice lowers, silken, curling around me like smoke.

“…If you ever do find yourself near the beach with your gown mysteriously misplaced, do send word. I’d be simply devastated to miss such rebellion.”

A crooked grin breaks across my face, a retort already forming on my tongue, when a hand clamps around my arm.

“Lady Blackmere.”

I turn, forced to meet Lord Devon. Older, over-scented, and about as subtle as a carriage crash. His lips twitch in what I suppose is meant to be a smile. “You’ve grown into such a vision.” He bows low, too low, his eyes crawling. “Your father never mentioned you’d be attending tonight, or I’d have dressed to compliment your finery.”

I open my mouth, but Astarion beats me to it—poised, predatory, his smile all silk and knives.

“Oh,” he purrs. “This must be the famous Lord Devon. I’ve heard so much. Something about estates, horses, gout. Was it gout?”

Devon blinks, caught mid-swagger. His eyes flick to the elf, narrowing.

Astarion turns back to me, crimson gaze alight with mischief beneath a veneer of courtesy. “Well, my sweet, I’ll leave you to your connections. But don’t be long. I’ll be at the piano, playing something tragic and pointed until you return.” With a bow as smooth as it is mocking, he melts into the crowd.

I swallow a laugh, smoothing my face into polite composure as Devon’s attention snaps back to me.

“Good evening, my lord,” I say, offering my hand with practiced grace. “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure. And forgive me, my father never mentioned a Lord Devon.” I tilt my head with an innocent smile. “Remind me, how exactly are you acquainted with my family?”

His expression falters just enough to reveal the sting before he pastes on a chuckle. He takes my hand, pressing a kiss above my knuckles.

“Ah, well,” he recovers, oily smooth, “your father and I go way back. Business, mostly. Land rights, shipments, that sort of thrilling nonsense. I dare say he wouldn’t have half his reach without a few of my humble contributions.”

He releases my hand and steps closer, too close, but not quite scandalous. Just enough to assume tolerance.

“And of course,” he adds with a leer blurred by wine, “I’ve always made a point to stay in good standing with the most promising families. Especially now that the daughters are so…” His eyes trail, unsubtle. “Well. Let’s just say your family’s legacy is in very good hands.”

My smile sharpens, as practiced as his leer. “Mm. I appreciate the offer, but I actually prefer the crowd and the piano to secluded company with ‘humble contributors.’” I sip my champagne, unbothered. “Now, if you have any more contributions, I suggest you speak with Henry, my father’s assistant. He handles those affairs.”

Devon’s mouth twitches, caught between a smile and the sting of a slap he can’t acknowledge. Something colder flickers beneath his eyes, but he laughs anyway, thin as watered wine.

“Ah. Of course. Quite the sharp tongue for one so young. Your father must be so proud.”

He drains his glass, bows lower than courtesy demands, stiff with forced civility.

“Well, Lady Altheira, I won’t keep you from your… music.” His glance skims toward the piano, where discordant notes echo through the room. “Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

With that, he pivots and disappears into the throng, no doubt to find a less eloquent target.

As soon as Lord Devon disappears into the crowd, I glide toward the piano.

Astarion is already grinning, his fingers drawing out the final notes into silence. “I nearly applauded,” he says. “If you ever decide to abandon etiquette entirely, do let me know. I’d love to see what happens when you really stop being polite.”

I drain the last of my glass, emboldened, whether by my retort to Devon or the champagne I can’t quite tell. I grin. “You want to sit somewhere?”

His smile sharpens, but there’s something genuinely pleased flickering underneath. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 2

He rises, offering his arm again. This time it feels less theatrical, more like a secret between us. I take it, and he guides me through the whirl of silks and chandeliers with unerring grace.

We stop at a velvet loveseat tucked beneath a tall window. Scarlet curtains blur the moonlight into bloodied pools across the marble floor.

I sink into the cushions, gaze flicking across the room. My father stands with his back to me, deep in conversation with Lord Szarr and a cluster of nobles whose wealth could buy kingdoms.

“You’re clever, Altheira,” Astarion murmurs, pulling me back. “You’ve already learned the first rule of surviving here.”

He leans in, voice a near-whisper:

“Find someone more interesting than the danger.”

Then, brighter, almost playful: “So. Shall we talk about your scandalous reading habits? Your plans to disappoint your father? Or would you rather I point out which of these guests wears fake pearls and which one spies for the Belmonts?”

A giggle slips from me despite my practiced grace—the alcohol is definitely catching up now. “Mm… we can talk about whatever you like, Astarion. I like listening to you.” I murmur, leaning closer, my hand resting lightly against his chest.

He stills, tilting his head to study me more fully. “Well, aren’t you dangerous after a glass and a half of decent wine.”

He doesn’t touch me, not yet, but his body angles toward mine, his attention sharpening like a blade. “I wonder,” he says softly, “if you know what you’re doing right now.”

I don’t know if it’s teasing, a warning, or simple curiosity. My pulse quickens anyway.

Then, gently, he lifts a loose strand from my temple, tucking it behind my ear with delicate fingers. “You’re not like the others,” he whispers. “Not just because you’re new. There’s something… intact in you. Something unbitten.”

My lips part, but no words come.

He leans back before I can answer, his smirk sliding into place again. “If I’m talking too much, you can always shut me up. I’m told my lips are good for other things.”

That earns an unrestrained giggle, and I press my face into his shoulder to hide the heat rising to my cheeks. “You shouldn’t say things like that to a lady,” I hiss.

Astarion laughs—low, velvety, vibrating through my cheek. “Oh, darling,” he purrs, his hand brushing lightly against my back. “You came to a Szarr soirée in midnight blue, drank wine with a stranger, and laid a hand on his chest uninvited. I hate to break it to you—” his lips brush just above my ear “—but the ‘lady’ ship may already have sailed.”

He pulls back, smile dazzling and smug. “Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me.” His eyes soften, almost fragile beneath the charm. “So long as mine is safe with you, too.”

I nod, earnest. “It is.”

He slips his hand into mine, casual, intimate, and smirks. “Come now, tell me the truth. You’ve never let someone like me charm you before, have you?”

I shake my head, biting my lip. “All the noble boys my age wouldn’t know how to talk to a girl if they were given a step-by-step program.”

His eyes light with wicked delight. “Oh, my sweet Altheira,” he breathes, charmed beyond performance. “That is tragic. And frankly, criminal.”

He lifts my hand toward his lips, not kissing, just letting his breath linger against my skin.

“I can only imagine your suffering. Dinners with boys named Reginald or Percival, all sweating through polite conversation while their mothers watch from across the room like hawks in lace.”

He grins, leaning closer, voice like red velvet. “Let me be clear. This—” he gestures between us, words curling around me “—this is what it feels like to be charmed. No scripts. No intentions you can’t already see. Just… someone who notices you.”

His gaze softens further, molten. “You deserve better than stiff conversation and family alliances. You deserve someone who will worship the way you blush. Someone who will memorize your voice when you whisper… and your laugh when you don’t mean to.”

My bottom lip trembles under my teeth. Every scrap of caution melts as I drink in the words, and the way his mouth parts slightly as he watches me.

“Tell me…” His voice lowers, softer, an intimate thread. “Do you feel it now?”

His eyes hold mine. Not demanding. Not pressing. Just asking. Real.

I nod, my gaze flicking once toward my father. He’s mid-monologue, puffed up with importance, ringed by nobles too polished to betray their boredom. The sight loosens something in me. Recklessness. Heat. Desire.

I turn back to Astarion and let myself feel it. “Could I touch you?” I whisper, breathless.

“Altheira,” he breathes, my name like a sacred hush. “You could ask me for a hundred things with that voice, and I’d forget how to breathe through all of them.”

He reaches for my hand, guiding it slowly upward along the line of his chest, to the hollow just beneath his collarbone. His skin is cool and impossibly smooth under the silk. His eyes never leave mine.

“It’s all right then?” My voice softens further. “I don’t want it to be like with those guests earlier.”

He leans in, something fragile aching beneath his words. “I can play the part for them. But this… this feels real. And I’ve had precious little of that.” His lips curve faintly. “So yes, darling. You may touch me. As you are. And I promise, I’ll remember your hand long after tonight is over.”

A hum escapes me as my eyes half-close, my fingers sliding lower against him. “You’re so beautiful, Astarion.” My gaze drifts to the elegant point of his ears. “Tell me my father’s still looking away.”

Astarion glances across the room, chest rising under my hand. “Still surrounded. Still babbling. Absolutely none the wiser.” He looks back, smirk wicked and daring. “I’m all yours.”

My hand shifts to his thigh as I lean close, my breath grazing his ear. “I heard once the ears are the most sensitive part of an elf’s body. Tell me, is that true?”

I start to trail kisses along the edge of his ear. 

He shudders.

His thigh tenses beneath my palm, and a low, involuntary breath escapes, caught between restraint and surrender.

“Ohh… fuck,” he whispers, the word falling like a prayer. His fingers grip the loveseat, nails biting into velvet. “Whoever told you that,” he rasps, “deserves to be ruined entirely.”

I pull back just enough to let him breathe, smirking at the sight of his lashes fluttering half-closed.

“You’re playing a dangerous game, my sweet,” he murmurs, voice frayed at the edges. “One more kiss like that, and I may just forget we’re surrounded by wolves.”

His crimson eyes burn into mine, hunger unveiled, unmasked. And then, with a voice like embers poured over wine:

“Do it again.”

I shiver, feeling just as undone as I am undoing him. But I can’t stop. Not now. Not when half the room is tangled in worse indiscretions than this. To them, it would look almost ordinary.

Decided, I shift. Right into his lap, straddling him. His hands seize my waist in the same instant, grip sharp with surprise and want.

I take the sharp tip of his ear into my mouth, sucking gently. His fingers flex hard against me, a ragged breath hitching from his chest.

“By the gods,” he whispers hoarsely, his head tipping back, baring his throat. “You’re going to ruin me…”

The room swells around us with music and laughter, a reckless chorus to match our own. I trail kisses down to his jaw, and his hand slips from my waist to my back, pressing just enough to say, closer.

“Tell me, Altheira,” he breathes, his voice rough, “would you like me to beg?”

I whimper against his skin, my fingers threading into his hair. “I think… I want you to make me beg.”

Astarion growled in response, low and velvet-dark, the sound rolling through me until my core trembles.

“Oh, sweet girl,” he murmurs, voice nothing but hunger now. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

His hand slides up my back, beneath the fall of my hair, until his fingers curl firm and certain at the base of my skull. He tilts me back ever so slightly, holding me there as his crimson eyes drink me in—my flushed cheeks, parted lips, my midnight gown pooling over his lap like liquid sin.

His other hand trails to my thigh, thumb brushing slow, lazy circles. Patient in the way only a predator plays before it pounces.

“I could make you tremble with nothing but words,” he whispers. His lips graze the shell of my ear, hot breath pulling another shiver from me. “Make you ache before I ever touch you.”

He drifts lower, mouth hovering over the frantic flutter of my throat. Not touching. Waiting.

“Say the word, Altheira,” he murmurs, reverent now. “Let me be the one to teach you how to sin.”

My heart pounds, pulse hammering hard against the edge of his restraint. The whole world narrows to the single word rising, gasping, from my lips:

“Please…”

Astarion shudders beneath me, as if the only thing left between us is raw, consuming need.

“Fuck, Altheira.” He breathes my name like it’s carved into him, as if my plea has struck something ancient and feral awake inside. His hands move, one sliding from my back to cradle my jaw with aching tenderness, the other gripping my thigh with fierce purpose, anchoring me tight against him.

He pulls me in, slow but unrelenting, until our mouths are barely a breath apart. His lips graze mine once, light as a whisper, then retreat just enough to let the hunger swell.

“I’m going to make you gasp,” he murmurs, his voice breaking like silk torn at the seam. “I’m going to make you forget every name but mine.”

And then he kisses me—really kisses me—deep and consuming. His lips are soft but commanding, teasing mine apart with slow precision, his hand angling my jaw just right. He kisses like a man who knows exactly how much pressure will unravel someone… and how to drag the unraveling out beautifully.

My surrender is instant. My body aches, thrumming, and I shift my hips forward, pressing us closer. “Keep going…” I groan against his mouth, desperate, unguarded.

“Darling,” he breathes between kisses, voice breaking on my name as he grinds hard against me in answer, “if you keep doing that, I swear to every god above, I’ll tear you apart right here, and none of them will stop me.”

A pathetic whine tumbles out of me, helpless. “Please,” I beg, hips shifting again, my need spilling through every movement. “Don’t stop unless I say so.”

Astarion snarls—low, guttural, a sound like a chain snapping deep inside him. His crimson gaze locks with mine, burning, his voice dropping into something hushed and dangerous in its devotion.

“Then I won’t stop,” he vows, each word molten. “Not unless you say it. And if you don’t…” His fingers find the slit of my gown, slipping beneath the fabric with unhurried intent. “…then I’ll worship every inch of you until your father pries me off you himself.”

He crashes into me again, kissing deeper, slower now, an unbearable intensity that sears through my chest. His hand slides higher, fingertips grazing the edge of heat, teasing, withholding, claiming patience he does not feel. His other arm winds tight around my waist, pulling me flush against him with an aching kind of control.

Around us, music swells, laughter echoes, glasses clink. The party blurs into nothing but smoke and shadow. None of it touches us. None of it matters.

His lips trail to my throat, his whisper trembling there like a vow:

“You’ve undone me, Altheira. Now let me undo you.”

My body answers before my lips can. My breath hitches as Astarion’s fingers trail just beneath the slit of my gown, grazing skin that has never been touched like this—not with reverence, not with promise. My thighs tremble beneath his hand, my pulse a frantic flutter against the cage of my ribs.

“Ohhh, look at you,” he murmurs, his mouth brushing my jaw, voice low and silken. “You’re already shaking for me.”

His fingers wander slow, agonizingly slow, along the inside of my thigh. Not quite reaching, just circling, coaxing, warming, drawing me deeper into his orbit.

“You say the word,” he whispers, lips ghosting my skin, “and I’ll take you apart here, now, in this velvet throne, while your father stands meters away, blind to what his daughter is becoming in my hands.”

His mouth finds the hollow beneath my ear and lingers, sucking gently, pulling a gasp from me I can’t suppress. His hand presses higher, grazing the edge of silk against silk.

He pauses there. Waiting. Teasing.

“I want to hear you,” he says, lips brushing mine, “when you can’t hold it in. I want to ruin you so tenderly you beg me for more before you even know you’re begging.”

Then his mouth claims mine again, slow, molten, consuming, as his hand slips beneath the last barrier. Fingers part me with aching, reverent care.

“I’ve got you,” he breathes against my lips. “Say nothing or say everything. Just don’t hide from me.”

And then—he touches me.

A single, deliberate stroke, soft, slow, dragging through my heat with such tenderness that my thighs lock around his waist and my lips part.

“Beautiful,” he groans, circling me in lazy spirals, worship in every motion. “So fucking beautiful.”

His movements are deliberate, torturous, every brush measured, every caress designed to unmake me inch by inch. His fingers glide over folds slick with want, always just shy of where I need him most.

The silk of my gown spills like ink over his lap, hiding everything from sight. To the careless eye, we’re only too close, too flushed, sharing some whispered secret.

But I’m unraveling. My grip tightens on him, my fingers curling into his shirt as I fight to smother the sounds building in my throat. My hips twitch with each teasing pass, the sensation rising, cresting, only to scatter again as he withholds.

I know he’s denying me on purpose, savoring the control. My breath breaks on murmured curses, whispered pleas I can’t shape into more.

“Darling…” he purrs, velvet wrapping around me, “you’re doing so well. Look at you—holding on.” His fingers slip lower, brushing over my entrance without pressing in, and the whine that escapes me is shameless.

“I can feel you clenching,” he rasps, teasing again, stopping just short. “Wanting me to—” He cuts himself off, groaning as he drags another whimper from me.

“Say it,” he whispers, his nose brushing my cheek, voice threading into me like smoke. “If you want more… tell me. If you want me inside you…” His crimson gaze burns into mine. “…beg for it, Altheira. Beg like you’re mine.”

My breath hitches, then breaks. A soft, helpless sound escapes my lips, barely louder than the music thrumming behind us. My fingers clutch his shoulder, trembling not with fear but with the molten ache blooming low and unbearable.

I can’t take another second of his teasing, of him knowing exactly what I need and holding it just out of reach.

I press my mouth to his ear, my voice wrecked and whispering:

“Please, Astarion…”

I shift in his lap, thighs tightening around his hips, my forehead resting against his as if closeness alone could give me control. It doesn’t. He has it. All of it.

“I can’t…” My voice cracks, desperate. “I can’t take it anymore. I need you to go deeper. Please, I need you inside me.”

I open my eyes, letting him see what’s there, more than arousal. Trust. Wild, trembling, real.

“I want you,” I breathe, raw. “I want you so badly it hurts.”

My hips push forward, my nails biting into the fine fabric of his shirt. “Don’t make me wait anymore, Astarion. Please. Make me yours.”

Astarion went utterly still for half a heartbeat, just enough for me to feel his restraint breaking.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, molten, low, the words stealing the air from my lungs.

And then, he gives me exactly what I begged for.

His fingers slide into me in one smooth, deliberate motion, filling me with precision that makes my breath catch and my body jolt against him. He curls them instantly, already seeking, already learning me. Heat rushes between us, consuming.

Astarion groans, his forehead pressing to mine as though the connection is as vital to him as the air. His free hand grips my hip, anchoring me as his fingers begin to move slow, savoring, coaxing every twitch and tremble.

“You’re so tight around me,” he whispers against my mouth. “So warm, so perfect… just for me. Say it, darling, tell me I’m the only one who’s touched you like this.”

His thumb finds my most sensitive place, circling with devastating precision. “Because if I’m not… I’ll ruin every other memory until I’m the only one that remains.”

My breath fractures into broken sounds, gasps, whimpers, pleas, as he works me open with infuriating skill. My head tips back, lips parting, eyes fluttering shut under the flood of sensation.

“You are,” I gasp, truth spilling raw from me. “You’re the only one who’s ever—” My words collapse into a moan as his thumb presses harder, circling just right. “Gods, Astarion…”

His groan answers, vibrating against my skin as his mouth trails along my jaw, my throat, tasting the heat of me. His pace quickens, still precise, but now urgent, matching the desperate roll of my hips against his hand.

“That’s it,” he breathes, his lips brushing my ear. “Let them all hear you. Let them wonder what I’m doing to you while your father shakes hands with monsters.”

His fingers curl again, hitting that place that makes me jolt, makes me see white. “You’re going to come for me right here, my sweet,” he murmurs, his voice thick with command and worship all at once. “And when you do, I want your eyes on me. No one else.”

He angles my chin, crimson gaze locking mine in place as his hand drives me higher, faster, relentless.

“Come on, Altheira,” he urges, low and aching. “Let me feel it.”

The heat coils too tight to bear. Every stroke, every perfect press ratchets me higher until I break. My body seizes, every nerve alight, before release crashes through me in waves—shuddering, helpless, all-consuming.

I gasp, muffled against his shoulder, thighs clamping around him as my hips press desperately into his hand. The silk of my gown hides the act but not the tremor in my limbs, not the flushed, bliss-struck look when I lift my face at last.

Astarion’s breathing is ragged, his gaze fixed on me like he’s witnessing something rare, sacred. His hand moves slow now, easing me through the aftershocks.

“There you are,” he whispers, reverent. “Beautiful.”

His thumb traces lazy circles over my hip through the fabric as he leans in, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to my lips, less hunger now, more claim.

“That’s mine,” he murmurs against my mouth. “That sound you made, the way you fell apart in my hands… no one else gets that.”

“Oh, Astarion…” I murmur against his shoulder, dazed, still trembling, the silk of my gown sticking to my skin. I can feel the damp warmth of myself on his hand, staining his trousers, shame and thrill blurring into one dizzy rush. “My father—he’s not…?”

Astarion chuckles low into my hair, wicked and smug. His hand shifts only to tug my skirts more securely into place, hiding the evidence clinging to his fingers, the mess we’ve made. His arms remain around me, protective, possessive.

He tilts his head just enough to glance across the room without breaking the circle of our closeness. A smile curves his lips—private, infuriatingly pleased.
“Still holding court,” he murmurs. “Gesturing wildly, basking in the brilliance of his own voice. Not a soul here has a clue what you’ve just done in my lap.”

When his gaze returns to me, crimson eyes glint with satisfaction… and something startlingly tender beneath it. “Well,” he adds softly, “almost no one.”

I follow the flick of his eyes and my heart stutters. Lord Szarr himself watches us from across the room, his face unreadable, crimson gaze shifting briefly from my father to me, then back again as though nothing at all had happened.

Astarion’s thumb strokes over my hip, grounding me, his voice lowering to a whisper meant for me alone. “You’re safe. If he disapproved, darling, he’d have stopped me before I ever offered you a drink.”

He leans in, his breath brushing my ear, lips curving into the faintest smirk. “Though… I am going to need to stand very carefully when we leave this couch.”

I try to steady my breathing, but the ballroom presses back in around me—music, laughter, the scrape of glasses against crystal. It all feels thin, unreal, as though the world beyond Astarion’s arms is just painted backdrop.

My father’s voice booms across the room, drawing another round of laughter from his circle, and I wonder if he even remembers I exist. For a moment, the thought is a blessing.

But I can still feel Szarr’s eyes, even when I force myself not to look. Watching. Measuring. As though he’s already decided what to make of me.

Astarion’s fingers tighten gently at my hip, dragging me back into the present. His smile is sharp, but his eyes soften when they catch mine. “Breathe, darling,” he murmurs. “The wolves are always watching, but they rarely bite when the music’s this loud.”

I linger in his arms a moment longer, hidden in the hum of music and laughter, as if the world might allow me to stay undone. But the weight of Szarr’s gaze presses like a hand at my back, and I know better.

This can’t last. Not here. Not with wolves circling in silk and jewels.

I smooth my gown, my pulse still erratic, and force myself to rise from Astarion’s lap. He lets me go without protest, though the glint in his eyes tells me he knows exactly how much it costs me to walk away.

“Go on then,” he murmurs, just for me. “Before your father starts wondering why his little star has slipped from orbit.”

The smirk lingers, but his hand brushes one last lingering stroke against my hip, a silent brand I carry with me as I step back into the crowd.

I stride forward, slipping quietly into place beside my father, looking at everyone but Lord Szarr.

At first, my father hardly notices my return, too absorbed in holding forth to the cluster of elites gathered at his side. His hand cuts the air in broad, emphatic gestures as he speaks, his voice loud and jovial, more performance than conversation.

When he does register me, it is only with the briefest touch to my arm, as if to remind himself I’m present, before carrying on without missing a beat. To the gathered lords and ladies, I am simply there, the polished daughter, a quiet ornament at my father’s side.

Most of the men barely glance at me, their eyes glazed with too much wine, their laughter brittle and rehearsed. But a few women note my return with the faint narrowing of eyes. In these circles, absence is always noticed, even if it goes unspoken.

Lord Szarr’s gaze slides lazily in my direction. His expression is unreadable, a faint smile curling at his lips as he swirls his wine. He does not address me, nor does he draw attention to me—but I feel it. His awareness. The way his eyes linger a second too long before he turns back to my father, as though cataloguing everything he has already decided about me.

Behind us, Astarion’s laughter drifts from the piano, rich, theatrical, masking any glance that might have followed me as I made my way into the circle.

I am back in my place, my mask secure, my gaze carefully cast everywhere but on Lord Szarr himself.

And though I stand silent, listening to powerful men speak of matters half-real and half-vanity, my heart still throbs with the heat of what I left behind in the velvet loveseat only a few paces away.

Lord Szarr has a way of noticing without ever seeming to look. He lets my father’s monologue wash on for several minutes more, swirling the deep red in his glass, nodding here, chuckling there. But then, in a lull that feels almost engineered, his gaze finds me.

It isn’t overt—no grand gesture, no public call. Just the cool, deliberate weight of his eyes settling on mine, long enough to make my spine prickle.

“Lady Altheira,” he drawls, velvet stretched thin over something sharper. He lifts his glass in faint acknowledgment, though the gesture feels more appraisal than greeting. “I had not realized Lord Blackmere’s daughter possessed such poise. You’ve been very quiet this evening. Observant. Listening.”

His smile curves, not wide, but enough to reveal the suggestion of teeth.

“Such a rare quality, don’t you think?” His gaze slides briefly to my father before returning, pinning me. “Most girls your age chatter endlessly, desperate to be heard. But you, my dear… you know the power of silence.”

He sips, never looking away. “Tell me, have you enjoyed your first Szarr soirée? Or do you find our diversions… tedious?”

The circle shifts subtly, nobles sensing the turn of their host’s interest. My father swells beside me, ready to crow about my refinement, but the question isn’t his to answer. The weight of Szarr’s gaze fixes me in place. A test.

And I—still flushed from Astarion’s lap, my body betraying memory with every thrum of heat—must answer him now, with every eye upon me.

I hold Szarr’s gaze and let a small, perfect smile play at my lips. “I don’t need to announce myself for others to know their place—and mine,” I reply, my voice smooth, steady. Then I tip my head, just so, letting the faintest spark slip through. “But yes, my lord. I have enjoyed your soirée immensely. Your entertainment is every bit as exquisite as rumored.”

The faintest flicker widens his smile, not much, but enough to sharpen it like a blade. My words please him, though the chill in his reception feels like a predator amused by the nip of smaller teeth.

“Exquisite entertainment,” he echoes, rolling the phrasing over his tongue as though tasting it. “Mmm. I should hope so. My house prides itself on… refinement.” His eyes linger on me too long, assessing, weighing, as if cataloguing me under glass.

“Poise. Wit. A spark in the eyes…” He tilts his head, like he’s seeing me for the first time, or perhaps deciding how best to keep me. “You’ve made an impression, Lady Altheira. That is not so easily done, even here.”

He sips his wine deliberately, stretching the silence until even the most polished lords shift, uneasy. Then, with casual finality:

“You must grace us again. It would be a tragedy for your father to keep you hidden when you could so easily… shine.”

I incline my head, my smile softening with practiced grace. “Yes, my lord. I’m sure my father wouldn’t object to me attending more frequently.” I let my gaze slide toward my father, the faintest note of challenge hidden in the sweetness. “Would you, Father?”

My father blinks, just once, before his smile expands, too wide, too eager, his chest puffing with pride he hadn’t earned. “Of course not, my lord,” he says with a booming laugh, hand tightening on my arm as if to remind everyone I am his. “If Lady Altheira has pleased you, then the Blackmere name is well represented indeed.”

The circle of nobles chuckles politely, though I catch the faintest gleam in Szarr’s eyes. Satisfaction, amusement… possession. I can’t tell. I don’t want to.

The music swells again, another dance beginning. My father squeezes my arm once more, dismissing the moment, already slipping back into his role as raconteur among the powerful. But I feel Szarr’s gaze linger as he turns away, light as silk, heavy as a chain.

By the time the hour grows late and Father declares our departure, my cheeks ache from the effort of smiling. We make our farewells, my father’s voice still loud, still grand, as he assures the gathered lords and ladies that the Blackmeres remain as steadfast as ever.

I bow my head where I must, murmur the right pleasantries, but all the while my pulse is still racing, my skin still tingling from Astarion’s touch.

As we step out into the night air, the doors of the Szarr estate closing behind us, I finally let my breath escape. My father strides ahead, already launching into talk of “connections made” and “opportunities to pursue,” his voice echoing off the darkened street.

I follow, silent, my mask still in place. But inside, I am undone, heart pounding with the memory of what happened in velvet shadows, and the certainty that the Szarr household has noticed me now.

Chapter Text

Chapter 3

A week has passed, though it doesn’t feel like it. The memory clings to me like perfume, heady, inescapable. I still feel his hands when I close my eyes, still hear his voice when the house is quiet. Every night since, I’ve lain awake beneath the white-and-gold ceilings of the Blackmere estate, my body restless, my thoughts circling one name.

Astarion.

By day, I wear my mask as expected: smiles at the right moments, steps measured, voice soft when addressed. But beneath it, I ache. Not just from longing, but from the dangerous thrill of knowing I chose it. That I let myself be seen, touched, undone. And that I want it again.

When my father strides into the drawing room, humming with self-importance, I know before he speaks that something is coming. His rings glitter as he waves a letter, the Szarr seal pressed into dark wax.

“Another invitation, my darling,” he declares, his tone full of triumph. “Lord Szarr has requested our presence once more. You made quite the impression, it seems. I knew you would.”

My heart skips, my fingers tightening in my skirts.

“You’ll want to prepare a new gown, of course,” he continues. “Something refined. Memorable. This will be another chance to remind them of the Blackmere name.”

He tucks the invitation away, already scheming alliances and handshakes. For him, it is politics. For me, it is Astarion.

Another chance. Another night in the lion’s den. Another dangerous opportunity to fall further into the flame.

“Perhaps a crimson gown?” I suggest lightly, though in truth I’m already imagining how Astarion’s eyes would darken at the sight.

“Crimson! Perfect, Altheira.” Father beams, clapping his hands together. “Bold, commanding, but still proper. Yes, yes, that will leave an impression.” He chuckles, rubbing his chin. “And what better impression to make than upon Lord Szarr himself?”

He leans closer, lowering his voice as though sharing a stroke of genius. “It isn’t every day the master of such a household notices a young lady at her very first soirée. He saw something in you, Altheira. I could tell. If you play your cards well, there might be… opportunity.”

I groan inwardly, though I keep my smile pinned in place. He doesn’t need to elaborate further, his meaning is obvious: a match. Power. The kind of connection other families would kill for.

“Do try and give him your attention, won’t you?” my father urges, patting my hand as though arranging a garden party rather than steering me toward the jaws of a rumored predator. “This family could rise even higher if you catch his favor.”

I say nothing—what could I say? He is right about one thing: if I play my cards well, there may indeed be opportunity.

But not the kind he imagines.

An opportunity to see Astarion again. To step closer into the fire I’ve been burning for all week.

So I smile and nod, letting him lead me away in search of the perfect dress.

The carriage rattles to a stop before the Szarr estate, its spires looming like blackened teeth against the night sky. My father straightens beside me, smoothing his cuffs, already rehearsing his greetings in that booming, jovial tone. I, too, smooth the silk over my knees. Not out of nerves, but because I can feel the way the crimson fabric clings, shimmering like spilled wine even in the dim lantern light. Tonight, I am dressed to be seen.

The great doors swing open, spilling candlelight and music into the street. We ascend together, father radiant with pride, myself draped in silk that parts with each stride to reveal the smooth line of my thigh. The effect is immediate: heads turn, whispers bloom, eyes linger.

“Perfect,” Father murmurs, smugness curling in his voice. “Remember what we discussed. Tonight, you must give Lord Szarr your full attention.”

And indeed, there he is, Cazador Szarr himself, waiting at the top of the steps. His cold smile greets the room as he welcomes each guest with the same perfumed charm. But when his pale gaze slides over us, it lingers, on my gown, my poise, the curve of my smile.

“Ah, Lord Blackmere,” he purrs, drawing us into his orbit. “And Lady Altheira… exquisite. Crimson suits you. It tells me you know the value of being seen.”

He extends his hand, lips curling faintly to reveal the suggestion of teeth.

“Your father was wise to bring you again. I should hate for the city to keep such a jewel hidden away. Tell me, my dear…” His gaze locks with mine, cool and unyielding. “Have you come to shine for me tonight?”

My hand slips into his, though something snarls beneath my ribs. I keep my smile sweet, too sweet, almost mocking, though only if one listened closely. “Who else would I shine for?”

Lord Szarr’s grip is precise, polite, but his eyes sharpen in amusement. The corner of his mouth curves upward into something wolfish. How my father cannot see the danger, I will never know.

“Who else indeed,” he murmurs, his tone carrying its own quiet mockery. “So young, and already you understand where the true light lies. Clever girl.”

He leans in just enough that only Father and I hear his next words. “You will find, Lady Altheira, that shining here comes with… rewards. Attention. Power. I do so enjoy cultivating promise when I see it.”

Then, with a flourish that feels both dismissive and claiming, he releases my hand.

Father laughs, pride swelling in his chest. “My, my. Already my Altheira is spoken of by the highest company.”

Lord Szarr’s eyes linger on me, crimson glinting like a cat toying with a mouse. His smile is small, but it speaks volumes: I know what you meant. I like it. And I will remember it.

And just beyond him, at the edge of the crowd, I see Astarion. A glass poised in his hand, his crimson eyes flicking from me to his master and back again. He looks calm, lazy, even, but I know better. He heard. He is watching.

I release a slow breath and lower my eyes just enough to disguise it as a smile. “If you’ll excuse me,” I murmur, dipping my head. “I should fetch refreshments before I faint from all this excitement.”

Father chuckles distractedly, already diving back into his boasting. Lord Szarr’s smile remains, too sharp, too knowing, but he does not stop me.

And so, with practiced poise, I glide away toward the drinks, each step a small act of defiance wrapped in silk.

The crowd parts just enough for me to slip toward the tables of polished silver and crystal decanters, the perfume of expensive wines heavy in the air. And there, leaning casually against the edge of the table as though he’d been waiting all evening, stands Astarion.

His crimson eyes catch mine the instant I approach. The smirk that curves his lips is full of meanings only I can read: smug at my defiance, aching from his master’s gaze, burning with the memory of what we shared.

He plucks up a glass of ruby-red wine, swirling it once before holding it out to me with a little bow. “For the lady in crimson,” he murmurs smoothly, his voice pitched low enough that only I can hear the heat beneath the words.

He offers the glass, but his fingers do not let go.

I curl my hand around it, a blush rising as our fingers brush. “I take it you heard all that, then?”

His smirk deepens at my question, though the gleam in his eyes betrays more than his voice ever could. He leans close, close enough that his breath grazes my skin.

“Oh, I heard it,” he murmurs, velvet edged with steel. “Every word. Sweetness in your tone, fire in your eyes. And I’d wager he heard it too. He always does. You’re playing with wolves, darling, and smiling while they bare their teeth.”

His gaze flicks toward Cazador at the head of the hall, then back to me. “But then,” he adds softly, “I’ve already seen how dangerous you can be when you want something. And gods…” His voice drops lower as he lifts the glass to my lips, “…how I want to see what happens when you bare your teeth.”

I drink, heat pooling in my chest as his fingers linger against mine far too long for something so casual. When he finally lets go, it feels like he’s pulled away more than the glass.

He straightens, mask sliding effortlessly back into place before any eyes can catch on the intimacy between us.

“Now tell me, my sweet,” he says lightly, smirk sharpening at the corners, “shall I rescue you from another tedious evening? Or will you make me wait while you dance with the devil himself?”

I sigh, glancing back to where my father and Lord Szarr hold court in their circle of elites. My father’s eyes find mine, sharp with expectation. He’s already restless.

“I should get back,” I say reluctantly, the words tasting bitter on my tongue. Then I let a smirk curve my lips, tilting my gaze back to Astarion. “But tonight…” My voice drops, playful, dangerous. “I’ll find a way to steal away with you.”

As I pass him, I lean close enough that only he can hear the purr in my voice. “You’d better be prepared to stay up until dawn, because I have a plan, and I’ve been thinking about you all week.”

I feel his eyes on me as I step away, the weight of his gaze scorching the silk at my back. Just before the crowd swallows me, I catch it, a single, low whisper curling from his lips, too quiet for anyone but me.

“Mine.”

The word shivers through me like a brand. I carry it with me as I slip back into my father’s orbit, glass clutched in my hand as though it could steady me.

“There’s my jewel,” Father says warmly, his expression alight with satisfaction. He places a hand on my arm, presenting me to the circle as if I were another fine offering laid at their feet.

Lord Szarr’s gaze slides lazily from father to daughter, settling on me with a weight that makes the wine suddenly heavy in my palm. The other nobles follow his lead, and in an instant I feel it, every eye on me, every whisper of silk and candlelight pressing like a stage’s spotlight.

“Tell me, Lady Altheira,” Cazador drawls, amusement glinting in his crimson eyes, “how do you feel about being noticed?”

The question lands like a snare. My father beams, ready to bask in whatever answer I give, but Cazador’s gaze makes it clear: this is not for him. This is for me.

I sigh softly, swirling my glass as though in thought, before lifting my gaze to meet his. My smile curves, sharp at the edges. “It is something I’ve been quite prepared for, my lord. I earned the highest marks in my class at the academy. And I am a Blackmere. I was born to be noticed.”

A ripple of reaction hums through the circle. Cazador’s smile deepens, savoring the taste of my defiance. He lifts his glass, mimicking my motion with deliberate elegance.

“Well, well,” he murmurs. “A Blackmere born to be noticed… educated, accomplished, and bold enough to remind me of it. How refreshing.”

Father chuckles, oblivious to the danger thrumming between us. “She has her mother’s wit, gods rest her soul. Sharp as a blade. I told you she was remarkable.”

“Remarkable indeed,” Lord Szarr echoes, his glass tilting toward me as his crimson eyes hold mine. “And blades… they are only as useful as the hand that wields them. It pleases me to see you know your worth, Lady Altheira. Many in this room would have simpered or blushed. You”—he leans in just slightly, his voice coiling like smoke—“show teeth.”

Polite laughter ripples through the nobles, but I feel the truth in it: I’ve been seen. Not merely noticed. Marked.

I laugh along, raising my glass with mock ease. “Mm. Have I surprised you, Lord Szarr? Have I made our gracious host nervous?”

The words draw more laughter from the circle, but Cazador’s gaze never leaves mine. His voice dips, silken and sharp. “Nervous? No. Surprised, perhaps. Intrigued, certainly. But nervous…” His lips curve with dangerous amusement. “I don’t get nervous, my dear.”

He swirls his wine, lazy and deliberate, crimson gaze burning into me. “But I do enjoy being surprised. Very few manage it. You should be careful, though. Surprises are rare in this house, and most end… badly.”

Father laughs again, mistaking Szarr’s menace for charm. “Ha! Our host admires your spirit, Altheira. Fortunate indeed that I raised you to be remembered.”

His words are meant as praise, but they tighten the coil of the snare around me. Cazador isn’t dismissing me. He’s testing me. Waiting to see if I flinch, or if I bare my teeth again.

A pull stirs low in my chest. Dread, yes, but also something else. A dangerous fascination with the fire I feel myself stepping toward.

I straighten, smile sweet but edged. “Oh, my father is convinced I’m quite unforgettable,” I say lightly. Then, tilting my head toward Cazador, I let the barb slip, sugar-coated. “Speaking of unforgettable, I must commend you on your choice of entertainment, my lord. I’d be disappointed I haven’t yet partaken tonight—if it weren’t you occupying my attentions. Tell me, where did you acquire such exquisite tastes for beautiful people? There must be a fascinating story behind that.”

Lord Szarr’s smile curves like a blade sliding from its sheath. My pivot has struck true. He knows I’m baiting him, but the sweetness in my voice gives him no ground to strike back.

“My tastes…” he echoes, savoring the word. “Refined over centuries, my dear. A man collects many things in his time: art, knowledge, alliances. But people…” His eyes glint as he lets the word linger. “…people are the most exquisite acquisitions. Rare, delicate, each one with their own flavor.”

He sips his wine languidly, gaze fixed on me over the rim of his glass. “A discerning host surrounds himself with only the finest. Beauty, wit, devotion—all trained to perfection.” His gaze flicks toward the piano where Astarion sits poised and silent, making the subtext unmistakable. “Some call it cruelty. I call it… cultivation. After all, what is a rose without pruning?”

My father laughs again, perhaps a shade too loud, eager to sand down the sharp edge in Cazador’s tone. “Ha! Ever the poet, my lord. Pay attention, Altheira. He sees not just what is, but what can be.”

Cazador tilts his head, crimson eyes glinting as he adds almost idly, “And I take particular interest in that which promises to bloom most beautifully.”

I tilt my head, letting my voice spill soft and curious. “Yes, of course. But how interested are you in those that bloom for someone who isn’t you?” I widen my eyes just enough for it to look like an innocent realization. “Oh, don’t tell me. You take them anyway. Charm them until they only bloom for you?”

He leans forward, words low and velvet, close enough that I feel them hum between us, though the nobles hear only the purr of charm. “Of course I take them. That is the nature of power. Everything blooms brighter when it knows where the sun truly rests.” His smirk deepens as he sips. “And if they forget, I… remind them.”

I don’t flinch. Instead, I sip my wine with a light chuckle. “I must admit, I admire a man who knows what he wants and takes it. I only wonder if you ever find it a problem, knowing it was never real?”

His smile grows slow, thin, dangerous. The barb has landed. “Ah,” he breathes, swirling his glass with lazy precision, “there is the real wit of a Blackmere.”

Crimson glints under the chandeliers as his head tilts, studying me the way a serpent studies the twitch of its prey. “So bold a question, asked so sweetly. You do understand me.”

The silence stretches. The nobles have gone quiet, the air tense. Not even my father dares interrupt.

Cazador leans closer, his presence pressing into my space like the shadow of a blade. His words coil around me like a noose.

“Tell me, Lady Altheira—what is real? A vow whispered in passion? A heart’s flutter that dies the moment it is unfulfilled?”

His smile sharpens. “Real is what endures. Real is what cannot be undone by time, or choice, or circumstance. The rest…” His lips curve faint and cruel. “…the rest is fleeting. Illusion, clung to by those too weak to accept they are prey.”

His gaze spears into mine, voice dropping for me alone.

“And I? I have no need of illusions.”

Then he reclines back, the predator vanishing beneath a veneer of easy charm. He lifts his glass toward my father and the nobles as though nothing sharp has passed between us.

“Your daughter is quite… astute, Lord Blackmere. You have raised a woman of wit and teeth. Dangerous qualities, when paired with beauty.”

I fall silent, my smile fixed, though every nerve in me bristles with venom. Cazador’s words slither through the circle like smoke, perfumed and poisonous, and I force myself to sip my wine as though nothing inside me recoils.

But beneath the loathing, a strange flicker stirs. Pity. For all his power, all his poise, he will never know what it feels like to have someone truly choose him. Every vow to him is coaxed, compelled, or carved out of fear. And that must be a lonely, lonely life.

I glance toward the piano, unable to stop myself. Astarion’s posture is poised, mask-perfect, but I know him now. His jaw is set too tightly, his fingers flexing against the keys as though he might snap them. His crimson eyes flicker toward me, burning, before snapping back to his master.

My chest tightens. That is why I’m here. Not for Szarr’s notice, not for my father’s pride. For him.

I take another sip, letting the smile on my lips strain just enough to read as fatigue rather than defiance. My fingers curl lightly around my father’s arm, steadying myself as though I need his support.

Let them think me delicate. Let them see what they want. Tonight, it will be my excuse—and my key.

As the night drags on, I watch. I listen. Not just to the words, but to everything in between.

Politics fascinate me—not for the power, never that. But for the game. For the way each mask slips if you tilt it just right.

Lady Veyra’s laugh always lands a second too late, her eyes darting toward Lord Carzon’s jeweled fingers whenever he gestures. She isn’t chasing an alliance; she’s angling for a gift. Lord Devon, insufferable as ever, prattles about Blackmere shipping contracts, but the furtive glance he keeps throwing toward Szarr’s steward betrays desperation, not ambition. He wants debts buried, not opportunities seized.

And then, Lord Szarr himself.

He speaks rarely, letting my father’s bluster swell and fill the air. But when he does interject, his words are razors: “Ah, but who truly profits?” “And what happens when the market shifts?” Each question slips like a knife beneath their ribs, drawing out truths they thought safely hidden.

He doesn’t look at me often. But when he does, just the faintest flicker of crimson eyes, it hooks beneath my ribs, sharp and deliberate. He’s testing me. Testing whether I see the puzzle too, whether I’ll read the game behind the game.

And gods help me, I do.

I hate how alive it makes me feel. The thrill of catching the lies, the danger of Cazador’s presence coiled so close, the steady hum of Astarion’s gaze I sense even when I don’t look.

It’s a puzzle. A deadly one. And I am already halfway inside it.

As much as I enjoy following the nobles’ little games, I have my own to play. My strained smile falters, my brows knitting as though with fatigue. I blink slower, tighten my grip on my father’s arm, swaying just enough for the observant to notice.

Cazador is the first, of course. “My lord Blackmere,” he purrs, slicing through the conversation like silk parting under a blade, “your daughter seems… faint.” His crimson eyes rest on me, sharp and calculating, trying to divine whether I play a hidden game, or if I am simply weak. “Perhaps the heat of the room? Or…” His lips curve, testing. “…perhaps the weight of the company.”

A ripple of polite chuckles circles us. My father startles, patting my hand as if only just now noticing my tension. “Ah, Altheira? My dear, are you well?”

Cazador tilts his head, his gaze piercing. “It would be a shame if Lady Altheira wilted just as she begins to bloom.” His tone is silken, pitched for concern, but beneath it lies the needle: a baited trap daring me to let my mask slip.

I want to smirk. To bare my teeth. But I will not ruin my plan with pride. Instead, I bring a hand to my head, swaying just enough for my father to steady me. “I apologize, my lord,” I murmur, voice trembling, “I think… I don’t feel well.”

My father immediately fusses, one hand gripping my shoulder, the other waving off the nobles as though he can smooth embarrassment into air. “Oh, my Altheira, my poor jewel. Perhaps the wine was too strong.” He glances around, torn between his pride and concern.

Perfect.

I catch his gaze, twisting my features into a guilt-ridden pout. “I feel terrible, Father. I know how rare these nights are for you. It would be heartless to make us leave now.” I clutch my stomach, turning my eyes to Cazador with pitiful, pleading sweetness. “Perhaps… Lord Szarr might provide a guest room until I’m better?”

He knows I’m playing him. I can see it in the sharp gleam of his eyes. But he cannot refuse without showing his teeth too openly.

“But of course,” he says smoothly, dripping benevolence like honeyed poison. “It would be unthinkable to send the poor girl home in such a state. My household will provide the finest care. One of my guest rooms will do nicely—quiet, private.” His gaze lingers as he sips his wine, every word heavy. “She will be well looked after.”

My father exhales in relief, patting my hand again. “Ever the gracious host, Lord Szarr. Thank you, thank you.”

Before he can bluster further, movement stirs the circle.

Astarion is already there. He bows, deep enough to honor his master, his voice smooth, deferential. “If it pleases you, master,” he says, “I should be honored to escort Lady Altheira to her chamber. The corridors can be… confusing for newcomers.”

Cazador’s eyes linger on him, cold and weighing. Then, slowly, his smile curves, serpentine. “How thoughtful.” He turns his gaze back to me, sipping with deliberate ease. “Yes. Let him take you. Who better than one of my most trusted to ensure your comfort?”

The word trusted slices like a knife, a reminder of the chains Astarion still wears even as he stands before me with his arm extended.

But Cazador does not forbid it. He allows it. Watching us both with that quiet, coiled interest that says he knows exactly what he is letting unfold.

I take Astarion’s arm, still playing the part, and turn to Cazador with a bow of my head. “Thank you, my lord. I bow to your endless kindness.”

His smile curves in return, the faintest baring of teeth, but he says nothing more.

Father waves me off with a relieved laugh, already raising his glass again, eager to return to his boasting. “Rest well, Altheira! I’ll collect you at the end of the night.”

Astarion guides me away with flawless elegance, every step measured, every movement controlled, until we turn the first corner, out of range of Cazador’s crimson eyes. Then, his composure cracks.

His head dips low, lips brushing the shell of my ear as he hisses, soft and feral: “You wicked, wicked thing…”

His hand shifts lower on my arm, still proper to any glance, but in truth possessive, urgent. “Do you have any idea how close you just danced to the edge back there?” His smirk ghosts hot against my skin. “Gods help me, Altheira, I’ve never wanted you more than when you looked him in the eye and mocked him in his own house.”

The hush of the corridor folds around us, the din of the party fading behind, leaving only silence, shadow, and the sound of our quickening breaths.

Chapter Text

Chapter 4

He guides me through the halls, steering us away from the main tide of guests. We pass a pair of laughing nobles who spare us no more than a glance, then slip into a narrower corridor lined with closed doors and tall, unlit sconces.

Astarion pauses before one, his crimson eyes flicking both ways down the hall. From somewhere within his coat, he produces a slim, silver key. He leans close, his breath brushing my ear.

“Cazador likes to keep his favorites close,” he whispers, voice low, dangerous. “And I happen to know which rooms the servants won’t touch until morning.”

The lock turns with a soft click. He ushers me inside, shutting the door with the quiet finality of sealing us off from the rest of the world.

The room is lavish in Szarr’s dark way, crimson drapes drawn tight over tall windows, a carved four-poster bed looming in the center, the faint scent of polished wood and spiced wine lingering in the air. The muffled sounds of the party drift faintly through the walls, distant now, like they belong to another life.

And then the mask is gone.

The door slams against the frame as Astarion presses me back, his mouth crashing into mine, teeth grazing as he devours the kiss we’ve both starved for all week. His hands are everywhere at once—gripping my waist, dragging at the crimson silk of my gown, tangling in my hair.

“Gods, Altheira,” he growls against my lips, each word hot and ragged, “do you have any idea how long I’ve been holding back? Watching you smile at him, taunt him, while all I could think of was how you taste. How you sound when you break for me.”

He drives me backward in a rush, never breaking the kiss, until the carved four-poster looms. My knees brush the mattress and he all but lifts me onto it, covering me with his body

His fingers work at the fastenings of my gown with frantic precision, his smirk flashing as silk slid loose under his hands. “Crimson,” he murmurs darkly, breaking the kiss just long enough to drink me in, “you wore this color knowing it would undo me. And gods, it has.” 

The weight of his desire presses hot and hard against my thigh, no longer hidden, no longer restrained. He leans close again, his voice a hiss of promise at my ear: 

“Tonight, there will be no masks. No games. Just you, just me… And by dawn, darling, I will not yet be sated.”

The crimson gown peels away in his hands with frantic urgency, silk slipping off my shoulders as though it had been waiting all night to fall. His lips devour mine again—hard, messy—while his hands tug fabric down and away until there is nothing left between us but heat and need.

With a feral growl, he grabs me and rolls me onto my stomach, pressing my head into the sheets. His hands trace the curve of my hips—one anchoring me firmly, the other sliding slowly up my spine to settle on my shoulder.

“Forget the rest of the world, Altheira,” he whispers, voice rough silk, “and I’ll make sure the only thing you remember about tonight… is how many times I make you forget your own name.”

“Already forgotten,” I murmur, pressing my ass hard against him. “I want nothing but you.”

A low, guttural sound rumbles out of him, half growl, half groan, as his grip tightens on my hip and shoulder, pulling me back against the hard, undeniable evidence of his desire.

“Oh, my sweet…” His voice shivers with restrained hunger. “You say things like that, and I forget why I ever bother with patience.”

He leans down until his chest molds to my back, his mouth brushing my ear as his hips roll forward—slow, deliberate—grinding that heat into me until my body trembles with each pass.

“If you want nothing but me,” he breathes, tone equal parts promise and threat, “then tonight you’ll have nothing else. No distractions. No interruptions. Just me, again and again, until you can’t think of anything but how I feel inside you.”

One hand slides forward over my stomach, pressing me back into him, while the other curls into my hair. His breath scorches the shell of my ear, his words sinking in like sin itself.

“Are you sure you’re ready for me, my sweet? Because once I start—” his smirk grazes my skin, sharp and hungry—“that’s it. You’re mine.”

“Please, Astarion.” My voice breaks into a needy whine. “Make me yours. It’s all I want.”

His smirk deepens, dark and satisfied, and with one swift, claiming motion—he thrusts into me.

The sound that tears from my throat is helpless, raw. His pace builds quickly, deliberate, fierce, each thrust driving me forward against the bed, the rhythm punctuated by the ragged sound of our breathing, my moans, and his unrestrained groans when I clench around him just right.

“You wanted nothing but me,” he rasps, voice wrecked with pleasure. “So that’s what you’ll have… over and over, until there’s nothing left in you but the sound of my name.”

He drags it out, every stroke slow, punishing, exquisite. His grip on my hips is iron, holding me exactly where he wants me. He pulls nearly all the way out before driving back in, deeper each time, filling me until I shake from the stretch.

I am a panting, desperate mess, slick heat clinging to him, drawing him deeper with every thrust. I try to push back, to find a faster rhythm, but his hands keep me locked in place. I am his to move, his to savor.

“You’ll be thinking of this tomorrow,” he promises, his lips grazing my ear as his hips keep their steady, relentless rhythm. “At supper with your father, in church pews, in your own bed. You’ll remember exactly how I stretch you open. Exactly how I own you.”

Gods, his control is unbearable. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t give me release yet. He keeps me perched on the knife’s edge, circling it with cruel precision, savoring the unbearable pressure as it builds higher, tighter, hotter between us both.

“Don’t think for a second I’m letting you finish yet,” he whispers, lips curling in a wicked smile against my neck. “I want you trembling, begging, desperate before I give you that mercy.”

I feel his control unraveling with every passing thrust, his ragged breaths no longer hidden, hungry groans slipping out whenever I squeeze around him. He keeps me bent over the bed, hips locked to his rhythm, but his movements grow sharper, deeper, patience fraying into something primal.

“You feel that, my sweet?” he rasps, chest pressing to my back as his hand slides up, curling firm around my throat. “The way I’m filling you… dragging you higher, keeping you there?”

A broken whimper escapes me, my thighs shaking as I arch into him. “I can’t… gods, I can’t take it much longer,” I gasp, my voice cracking under the weight of it. My pulse hammers against his fingers, every nerve strung taut with need.

He slows for just a beat—pulling out until only the head of him remains, the emptiness unbearable—before slamming back into me with a groan, jolting my body against the mattress.

“That’s what I want. To hold you right on the edge… to own every desperate sound you make when you can’t take it anymore.”

A sob of frustration tears from my throat, my nails clawing at the sheets as if they might anchor me. “Please just take it. Take all of me,” I cry, breathless, wild.

His free hand slides down between my thighs, fingers finding my swollen nub and stroking in slow, maddening circles to match the deep, relentless thrusts.

The teasing breaks me, I cry out in frustration, the sound torn raw from my throat. “Astarion, please—”

He groans in answer, the sound ragged, guttural, his own restraint fraying at last.

Astarion’s rhythm shifts, his hips snapping faster now, deeper, his restraint thinning into something far more dangerous. The sharp, wet sounds of our joining fill the room with every thrust, muffled only by the plush bedding I brace myself against.

“Ahhh, yes…” he groans, voice breaking as his pace builds. “That’s it—take me, darling, take all of me.” His hand at my throat firms just enough to guide me upright, pulling me into the arch of his chest so his lips graze my ear with every ragged word.

Each thrust lands harder, faster, merciless precision that shakes the bed beneath us. His other hand never leaves its place between my thighs, stroking with cruel accuracy in time with his movements, winding me tighter and tighter until I’m nothing but nerves and fire strung taut over him.

“Do you feel what you’re doing to me?” he growls, voice wrecked, each word rough with the effort of holding back. “Gods, Altheira, you’ll unmake me if you keep clenching like that.”

His teeth graze my throat, not biting, just threatening, and the scrape makes my breath stutter out in a helpless moan. He pulls away with a deep, shuddering groan, hips still slamming into me with brutal rhythm.

“Not yet,” he swears, ragged. “You’ll come for me first. I’ll hold out until you do. I’ll make you scream my name before I even think of letting go.”

My body can’t withstand the onslaught any longer. Every thrust, every cruel stroke of his fingers drags me higher, tighter—my thighs quake, my vision blurs, my voice breaks into helpless, desperate cries I can’t smother against the bedding. The knot coils, snaps—

And I shatter.

My whole body bows back against him as release tears through me, violent, overwhelming. My walls clamp hard around his length, pulsing, milking, claiming him as I sob his name.

“Ohh—fuck, Astarion!” The cry rips from me raw, my hips pressing back greedily into him even as the climax consumes me, desperate for every inch of him.

He groans raggedly at the feel of it, his control crumbling at the way I squeeze around him. His hand eases from my throat to stroke along my jaw, grounding me even as my body convulses in his arms. His hips slow just slightly, letting me ride every pulse, every wave until I’m shaking, spent and ruined against him.

“Yes, darling… gods, yes,” he whispers, voice breaking into reverence. “That’s mine. Your pleasure, your cries, every trembling bit of you… mine.”

I quake beneath him, still shuddering, aftershocks dragging more groans from his chest as he buries his face in the crook of my neck. His breath scorches my skin, uneven, desperate, as he clings to the last shred of control.

“Gods… Altheira…” he whispers, voice a growl edged with reverence. His thrusts slow, only to drag deeper, pulling every aftershock from me, savoring each squeeze that tears at his control. His forehead presses into my shoulder, his breath hot, ragged, breaking against my skin.

I whimper under him, my body still quaking from release, clenching helplessly around him as if my body itself refuses to let him go. Each deep thrust makes me shiver, my toes curling into the sheets, my throat catching on sounds I can’t swallow down.

His pace quickens again—sharp, steady thrusts that drive me forward into the bedding. His hand clamps my hip, pulling me back onto him, as though he can’t bear a single inch of space between us. His restraint frays with every movement, the wet, desperate sounds of us colliding betraying just how close he is.

“I’m so close,” he groans, voice raw, velvet scorched into something guttural. “I’m going to fill you so deep you’ll still feel me tomorrow.”

But still he holds, still he drags it out, teetering at the edge. His eyes flutter shut, his lips brush my ear. “Tell me when, darling… Say the word, and I’ll give you everything.”

My body trembles, but I find my breath enough to lift my head, pressing my lips near his ear. “Yes,” I whisper, wrecked and pleading. “I want it, Astarion… all of it. Don’t hold back—please. Please come for me.”

That permission shatters him.

Astarion groans, a deep, feral sound ripped from his chest as his hands clamp hard on my hips. His thrusts turn brutal, urgent, driving into me with all the force he’d denied himself. Every motion claiming, desperate, relentless.

“Gods, Altheira—” he rasps, his voice unraveling into broken syllables. “You’re mine. You said it, mine—”

The rhythm builds into a frenzy, every muscle in him straining, his body quaking as he slams to the edge—and then he breaks. My name tears from his throat as he spills inside me, hot, pulsing waves filling me while he holds me flush against him, shaking, undone.

He rides it out in ragged thrusts, his whole frame trembling, forehead pressed between my shoulder blades as though in prayer. When the last pulse fades, he slumps against me, chest heaving, lips brushing my skin in something like reverence.

For a long moment, there is only our breath—our mingled heat, the delicious mess between us, the dangerous knowledge that if anyone tried the door right now, there would be no question what we had done.

Astarion loosens his hold, then slips an arm around me and guides me down onto the bed with him, collapsing into the crimson sheets in one fluid motion. He gathers me close against his chest, tangled in silk and sweat, refusing to let the space between us return.

His lips brush the curve of my shoulder, a soft, lingering kiss that feels almost out of place after the frenzy.

“Look at you,” he whispers, his voice still broken with the wreckage of his release. “You’ve ruined me, Altheira. Completely ruined me.”

I hum faintly, too spent for words, my body still trembling as I curl into the solid warmth of him. His arms tighten around me, one hand smoothing absently along my side, as though he can anchor us both by touch alone.

The distant music of the soiree hums faintly through the walls, but it belongs to another world now. Here, wrapped in his arms, I finally let my eyes flutter shut, surrendering to rest.

The ballroom has thinned, laughter and music fading into the clink of emptied glasses as the last nobles drift toward carriages waiting on Szarr’s steps.

William Blackmere, flushed from wine and brimming with self-satisfaction, clasps Cazador’s arm warmly. “My lord Szarr,” he begins, lowering his voice into the conspiratorial tone of a man who thinks himself clever, “I cannot thank you enough for your generosity with my Altheira tonight. The poor girl, she simply hasn’t the constitution for these long affairs.”

Cazador swirls the dark wine in his glass, crimson eyes gleaming faintly. His smile is small, unreadable. “It was no trouble. She is… a fascinating guest.”

William chuckles, mistaking the chill in Szarr’s tone for approval. He leans closer, words slurred with eagerness and calculation. “I’ve been thinking, my lord, perhaps it is best if she remains here for the night. A fine guest room, as you so graciously offered. If you would be so kind as to see her home come morning…”

He lets the thought dangle, as though the implication is obvious: leaving Altheira here is not just practical, but symbolic. An offering. A tacit gesture of his willingness to bind her future to Szarr’s house.

Cazador sets his glass down on the tray of a passing servant. His smile sharpens by degrees as he clasps William’s shoulder, perfectly genteel, though his fingers linger just a moment too long, pressing with the faintest hint of claw.

“Of course,” he purrs, velvet wrapping steel. “Lady Altheira will be most comfortable here. And I assure you, she will be well looked after.”

The words drip with promise, coiled around something colder, more possessive. He tilts his head, eyes glinting like blood under glass, and lets his smile widen, just enough to bare the suggestion of a fang.

“Leave her in my care, Lord Blackmere. By morning…” His voice drops to a silken hush. “…she will belong more to this house than to yours.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 5

I stir late in the morning, groaning in protest at my mind for waking me after so little sleep. But when I feel Astarion’s arm draped heavy around me, his body pressed warm against mine, the complaint dies in my throat. A smile tugs at my lips before I even open my eyes.

“Good morning,” I croak, voice raw with exhaustion.

For a moment, he only blinks down at me—his expression soft, unguarded, almost boyish in its disarray. Then the smirk curls back onto his lips, faint but unmistakable.

“Morning,” he croaks back, amusement laced in his tone. “Though gods, I think you’re being generous calling it that. I seem to recall exhausting you until the sun had the audacity to rise.”

Heat creeps into my cheeks as the memory washes over me. We took breaks, yes, but not enough for me to count. Not enough for my body to forget how many times he claimed me by dawn.

He shifts onto one elbow, curls falling wild around his face. His free hand trails idly along my stomach, feather-light, as though he cannot quite stop touching me even in this stillness.

“You look…” His gaze roves down me with something almost reverent. “…utterly ruined. I’m rather proud of myself, if I’m honest.” He leans to press a languid kiss to my temple before murmuring, “Tell me, darling—was it worth the lost sleep?”

Beyond the heavy curtains, daylight filters pale and muted, muffled by crimson velvet. The hush of footsteps in the hall reminds me where we are. Still in Cazador Szarr’s house. Still under his roof. One locked door away from danger.

And yet I lie tangled in Astarion’s arms, marked by him, warmed by him, my heart thundering at the simple truth: I’ve kept my promise.

A lazy grin spreads across my lips. “Worth it?” I whisper, my mouth close enough to graze his. “Astarion, I would go a thousand hours without sleep if it meant having you inside me all night.”

His breath hitches, crimson eyes flaring molten, undone. For a heartbeat, he only stares—lips parted, curls framing his face, chest rising and falling with something rawer than his usual smirk could contain.

Then, slowly, his grin breaks through—sharp, boyish, wicked all at once. He kisses me hard, devouring my confession as if it’s the most intoxicating thing he’s ever tasted. His hand tightens on my hip, dragging me flush to him again, as though to prove that even after hours of indulgence, my words alone are enough to undo him.

When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against mine, his laugh low and disbelieving. “A thousand hours, you say? Careful, darling. I might take that as a challenge.”

But even as he teases, reality creeps in. His gaze flicks to the curtained window, listening for the muffled stir of servants. His jaw tightens, his grip on my waist firming.

“We should be careful,” he murmurs, voice low, the weight of chains pressing between us. “Morning in this house is not ours, no matter how much I wish it to be.”

His eyes lock back on mine, smoldering but serious. “Tell me, my sweet, what story shall we give them when your father comes knocking? That you’re still ill?”

I roll my eyes. “Please. If I know my father—and I do—he’ll be thrilled I’ve lingered this long into the morning.” I sigh, stretching languidly across the bed, letting the sheets slide down just enough to tease. “He’s convinced I’d make an excellent match for Lord Szarr. I didn’t have the heart to tell him I’m far more interested in ‘the help.’”

Astarion lets out a sharp snort, the sound startling a faint shimmer of dust into the beam of muted daylight. “‘The help’?” he repeats, feigning outrage. “That’s a new one.”

His smirk sharpens, all teeth and mischief—but his crimson eyes soften as they trace my face, lingering like a man memorizing every line. “You know, darling, I should be livid at your father’s plotting. But instead…” He bends close, his lips ghosting mine, the whisper almost a vow. “…I’m delighted. Because if he insists on laying you at Szarr’s table, it only means I’ll enjoy stealing you from under his nose all the more.”

I laugh softly, but when I meet his eyes again, something in them makes the sound falter. The teasing smirk is still there, but beneath it—something sharper, something weighed down.

“Astarion?” I ask, my voice quieter now.

He hesitates, brushing a lock of hair back from my face as if to buy himself time. His gaze flicks to the curtained window, then back to me, crimson eyes narrowing as though he’s calculating a risk.

“There are things you don’t know about this house,” he says finally, voice low, careful. “About Szarr. About me.”

A chill runs down my spine at the sudden change in his tone. “What do you mean?”

His thumb strokes my jaw once, absently, before he draws a long breath he doesn’t need. “I told you last night you were playing with wolves. That wasn’t just metaphor, darling. This house… it feeds on more than coin and politics.”

I blink, confused. “Feeds?”

He leans closer, so close his breath stirs the hair at my temple. “You’ve heard the rumors, haven’t you? About Szarr. About the pale ones who never see daylight.”

My heart hammers, but I force myself to nod. Rumors, yes. Whispers. But gossip always clung to powerful men.

“They’re not whispers,” he murmurs. His hand slips down to grip mine, cool and steady, anchoring me to him. His crimson eyes hold mine, unflinching. “Szarr is a vampire lord. His spawn serve him. And I…” His smile twists bitter, sharp with self-loathing. “…I am one of them.”

For a moment, the world tilts. His words hang between us, heavy and impossible, and all I can do is stare.

A vampire.

It should make sense. The pale skin, the crimson eyes, the effortless predatory grace. The way Szarr’s house thrums with decadence that always felt like something darker. But knowing it, hearing it, feeling his hand cold and steady around mine—it makes my heart slam against my ribs.

I try to speak, but the first sound that escapes is a sharp, unsteady breath. I pull my hand back, pressing it to my lips as though I can hold the shock inside.

“You’re serious.” My voice comes out raw, almost breaking.

Astarion doesn’t flinch. He only watches me, expression taut, waiting for the recoil, the fear, the disgust he’s learned to expect.

I shake my head once, more at myself than him. “Gods above…” The sheets twist in my fists, and I realize I’ve shifted back from him without meaning to. Just an inch. Just enough for him to notice.

His eyes flicker with something wounded, and that hurts more than the truth itself.

But even as my pulse hammers, even as a dozen warnings scream through me, another truth presses louder: it’s him. The man who made me laugh in a viper’s den. The man who kissed me like the world could end between breaths. The man who whispered he’d rather be ruined by me than endure another mask.

I force myself to meet his gaze again, still shaking, still afraid. “Then tell me, Astarion, if that’s what you are, why did you tell me at all?”

His mouth twists into something wry, practiced. “Because you needed to know what you were walking into. Szarr’s house isn’t a parlor of games and wine, darling. It’s a cage. A larder. Every smile you saw last night was bought with blood.”

His gaze sharpens, and for a moment the mask holds. “If you’re clever enough to mock Szarr in his own hall, you’re clever enough to survive him. But only if you understand the danger.”

He stops then, breath shuddering out of him as though the words cost more than he meant them to. His eyes flick away, then back to me, softer now—too soft, too unguarded.

“And because…” His voice drops to a whisper. “…I couldn’t keep lying to you. Not after last night. Not when you looked at me as though I was more than what I am.”

The faintest, broken smile twists his lips. “Gods help me, Altheira, I wanted you to know, and still stay.”

For a long heartbeat, I only stare. His words coil through me, cold and sharp, but it’s the last ones that pierce deepest.

I see it then. The bitterness in his smirk, the fragility beneath his bravado, the raw edge of someone who never expected to be seen.

My fear doesn’t vanish, but something stronger rises to meet it. Slowly, deliberately, I reach across the space I’d put between us, my fingers brushing over his chest. The silk of his shirt is cool, but beneath it he’s solid, steady, real.

“I did look at you that way,” I murmur, forcing my voice to steady. “Because you are more than what you’ve been made to be. Whatever Cazador thinks he owns, whatever chains he puts on you—that isn’t all you are.”

I slide closer until I can rest my forehead against his, letting him feel my trembling breath. “And gods help me too, Astarion… I’m not leaving because of this. Not now. Not after last night.”

I feel his chest rise under my hand, a long, trembling breath he doesn’t need. For a moment, it’s just us—foreheads pressed together, our silence warmer than any words. A fragile peace, stolen in the lion’s den.

The quiet doesn’t last.

A sharp rap-rap-rap rattles against the heavy guest room door—measured, polite, but insistent. The sound cuts through the haze of intimacy like a blade, dragging the Szarr estate back into our sanctuary.

Astarion goes still, every muscle taut, crimson eyes flashing to mine. For a heartbeat, the predator in him flares. Fangs press against his lip, instinct begging to snarl, to strike. But then he exhales slowly, sliding the mask back into place.

“Lady Altheira,” comes a smooth voice from the hall, muffled through the wood. One of Szarr’s stewards. Calm, professional, with just enough amusement to say they already suspect more than they should. “Lord Szarr bids me check on your health. Shall I have a tray sent up? Tea, perhaps, to strengthen you?”

Astarion leans close, his mouth brushing my ear as he whispers, low enough for me alone: “Careful now, darling. This is his house. Every word we give them goes straight back to him.”

I meet Astarion’s eye, letting the corner of my mouth curve into a wicked little smirk. He arches a brow in question, but I only wink before turning my head toward the door.

When I speak, my voice is pitched low and tired, every syllable dripping with honeyed demand.

“My dear,” I call sweetly, “if you could please fetch me some tea, my head is pounding. I’d also love a couple plates of eggs, bacon, sausage, and some sort of pastry, whatever is freshest, to give me the strength I need to recover.”

I pause just long enough for the silence to thicken, then add with delicate emphasis:

“And please, do give my thanks to Lord Szarr for his generous hospitality.”

Astarion bites down on a grin, crimson eyes glinting with something between admiration and disbelief. He mouths the word dangerous against my skin, as though it’s both a warning and a compliment.

From the hall, the steward’s voice comes smooth and amused. “Of course, my lady. At once.” The faintest echo of laughter lingers in the air as footsteps retreat down the corridor.

Astarion lets out a quiet laugh, dropping back into the pillows with his arm flung over his eyes. “First it was endless kindness, and now generous hospitality?” he teases, voice thick with amusement. “Oh, darling, you do have a talent for poking the wolf in his own den.”

He lowers his arm, crimson gaze catching mine—equal parts admiration and warning. “And gods help me, I love you for it.”

His hand reaches over, brushing a tangle of hair back from my temple, thumb lingering at my cheek as though to anchor me. His voice softens, dangerous in its sincerity. “But be careful, my sweet. Mock him too sweetly, and he’ll start to wonder if you’re mocking him at all… or testing his patience.”

The smirk returns then, faint but wicked, cutting the edge of his warning. “Still, I think the vision of you demanding a feast like some spoiled noble brat while sprawled in my bed will haunt me with delight for weeks.”

I giggle, rolling onto him, my laughter swallowed in the heat of his kiss.

The knock comes again several minutes later, brisk and polite. Astarion slips out from beneath me with feline grace, his mask sliding back into place—elegant, composed, the perfect creature of Szarr’s household.

He cracks the door just wide enough for the scent of eggs and bacon to waft in with the morning air. A servant waits stiffly in the hall, balancing a gleaming tray: steaming tea, neatly plated meats, pastries glistening with honey.

But their composure falters the instant their gaze drifts past him. I don’t miss the way their eyes widen at the sight of me sprawled in the sheets, flushed and glowing with a satisfaction no “illness” could excuse. Their jaw slackens in shock.

Astarion’s smirk is immediate, wicked and slow. He leans lazily against the doorframe as if this were all perfectly ordinary. “Ah, perfect timing,” he purrs, plucking the tray from their hands. His crimson gaze lingers, conspiratorial, before he adds a deliberate wink.

The servant nearly fumbles. They recover with stiff silence, bowing too low, but the flush creeping up their neck betrays them.

“Do convey our… deepest gratitude to Lord Szarr,” Astarion drawls, the double-meaning thick enough to choke on. Then, with a smirk that dares them to repeat a word, he shuts the door gently with his hip.

He sets the tray down on the bed, then collapses beside me with a laugh that shakes through his chest. He buries his face into my neck, voice muffled against my skin. “Oh, my sweet,” he groans, half-delighted, half-exhausted, “the look on their face! Gods, I think they’ll need a stronger tea than the one they brought for you.”

We settle against the pillows, the tray between us. Astarion plucks up a pastry, breaking off a corner and bringing it to his lips. He nibbles delicately, savoring the honey glaze with all the ceremony of a noble at supper, but he doesn’t swallow more than a bite before setting it aside. His appetite, I realize, has never truly been for food.

I spear a slice of bacon, chewing with deliberate relish, and grin at him. “You’re missing out. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were afraid of the kitchen.”

He chuckles, taking a sip of tea as though to hide the fact he’s barely touched the plate. “Oh, darling, I assure you, I’m not afraid of kitchens. I’m afraid of what cooks put in their stews when no one’s watching. Plus…I have an appetite for a different sort of indulgence.”

I narrow my eyes, waiting for him to elaborate.

“Blood, darling. An appetite for blood.”

I laugh, shaking my head, but his gaze lingers on me longer than the joke demands. Crimson eyes thoughtful, intent. “So you’re not worried?” he asks at last. “Parading this little… rebellion under Szarr’s roof? Flaunting it where he cannot help but notice?”

I roll my eyes, stabbing another bite of bacon. “Please. I’m sure he’ll convince himself this is all part of me blooming under his household.” The word drips with sarcasm as I tilt my head, offering a mocking little smile. “I can practically hear him congratulating himself already.”

Astarion huffs a laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. “Gods, you are dangerous.” He leans closer, his voice dropping to a low purr. “And I think I’m utterly addicted.”

I toy with a crumb on the tray, watching it dissolve beneath my fingertip. The laughter fades from my lips, replaced by something tighter in my chest.

“You know…” My voice comes quieter than I mean it to. “This—” I gesture between us, the scattered sheets, the plates of food, the ridiculousness of it all “—it hasn’t just changed you, Astarion.”

He tilts his head, studying me with that fox-like stillness, waiting.

“It’s changed me too,” I admit, the words catching as they leave. “I’ve spent my whole life doing what was expected. Being what everyone else wanted. Polished, obedient, useful. A jewel to set in someone else’s crown.” My throat tightens; I force a laugh, but it sounds brittle even to me.

“But after last night, after you—” I shake my head, meeting his crimson gaze with something rawer than wit. “The only thing I’m afraid of now isn’t disappointing my father, or mocking Lord Szarr too sweetly. The only thing I fear…” I swallow, steadying myself. “…is never living for what I truly want.”

The silence that follows feels heavier than any knock at the door. My heart hammers, terrified I’ve said too much, but I don’t look away.

The silence stretches. Then, slowly, he reaches for me, cupping my cheek with a touch too gentle to belong to the man who just teased me. His thumb traces my skin as though memorizing the shape of my face.

“You don’t know what you’re doing to me,” he murmurs, voice stripped of its armor. “You say you’re afraid of never living for yourself. Yet here you are, looking at me like I’m worth being wanted.” His breath catches; the smirk is gone, replaced with something raw, almost disbelieving. “No one’s ever done that before. Not really. Not without chains between us.”

He leans closer, pressing his forehead to mine, his whisper breaking like glass. “Gods, Altheira… you terrify me. Because for the first time, I want something more than survival. I want you.”

I don’t answer him with words. I can’t. Not when his forehead is pressed to mine, his breath trembling against my lips, his crimson eyes stripped bare of everything but want and fear.

So I kiss him.

Slow, lingering, deeper than any jest or quip could reach. My hand slides into his curls, anchoring him to me, and in that moment the world narrows to the press of his mouth and the way he exhales as though I’ve undone him with nothing more than this.

He answers in kind, his hand cupping the back of my neck, pulling me close as if he might fuse us together and make the moment last forever. No chains. No masks. Just us.

But forever never lasts in Szarr’s house.

Another knock rattles the door, brisk and businesslike. A voice calls through, crisp and efficient: “Lady Altheira. Your carriage has been prepared to return you home.”

The words slam into me harder than any blow. I freeze, lips still pressed to his, my heart stumbling over itself.

Astarion stiffens beneath my touch, his mask sliding back into place even as he lingers against my mouth. For one more heartbeat, he lets himself stay there. Then he pulls back, slow and reluctant, his eyes shuttering.

I rise reluctantly, clutching the sheet around me as I cross to where my gown lies crumpled in a pool of crimson silk on the floor. My body aches with the memory of him, every step a reminder, but the cold weight of Szarr’s house presses heavier with each breath.

Behind me, Astarion sits against the headboard, watching in silence. His eyes follow every movement—my back, the fall of the sheet, the way I fumble with the gown’s fastenings—but he doesn’t reach for me. He only watches, crimson gaze burning with something too complicated for words.

At last, he breaks it. “It won’t be easy to come back after this,” he murmurs, his voice quiet, taut. “Cazador will know. He always knows.”

I glance over my shoulder, meeting his eyes as I slip the gown over my arms. “Then let him,” I whisper, defiance curling under my tongue. “If he thinks he can shape me into one of his blooming roses, he’s already underestimated me.”

That earns the faintest smirk, though it doesn’t hide the worry in his gaze. “Dangerous girl,” he says softly, almost fond. “You’ll make me reckless.”

I step closer, smoothing the silk down my body as I look at him one last time. “You already are reckless. And so am I. That’s why we’ll survive him.”

The knock comes again, impatient this time. A reminder that our stolen hours are over.

I force myself to turn, to gather my mask, to become Lord Blackmere’s daughter again. But as I reach the door, I let my fingers linger on the handle and glance back at him.

“I’ll find my way back to you,” I promise.

Astarion holds my gaze, his smirk gone, replaced with something raw and solemn. “I’ll be waiting, darling. Always.”

I slip out the door, nodding politely to the waiting servant, and don’t look back. The corridor stretches long and quiet, my heels tapping against marble, my gown smoothed, my mask restored.

But Astarion’s kiss still tingles on my lips. His warmth lingers on my skin like an invisible mark. And though I walk with perfect poise, my heart thrums wild with the memory of our stolen night.

The grand staircase opens before me, sweeping down toward the waiting carriage.

Already, the house is stirring: the clatter of silver trays, the rustle of servants, the whispers that will ripple through Szarr’s halls before noon.

I am leaving on my terms—mask intact, spine straight, my promise to Astarion burning in my chest like a secret flame. But in the shadow of Szarr’s walls, the air still hums with the predator’s gaze.

I almost reach the doors when a cold hand closes around mine.

I turn with a sharp breath. Cazador stands there, his presence heavy as stone, his smile faint, serpentine, revealing just enough fang to chill the blood.

“My dear Altheira,” he purrs, crimson eyes glinting in the pale light. “Did you think I would allow such a memorable guest to slip away without a word?”

His thumb circles my hand in a mockery of tenderness, his touch polished marble against my skin. “You have been… most intriguing. Bold. Sharp. A rare bloom in this garden of dull petals.”

He leans closer, his voice pitched low enough for only me. “Tell me—did you enjoy your night under my roof? Do you feel you are… flowering here, as I hoped?”

The way he lingers on the word flowering makes the intent plain: he knows.

I smile, all saccharine sweetness with a razor edge beneath. “I must say, I’ve thoroughly enjoyed your hospitality my last two visits, Lord Szarr. Utterly taken, completely satisfied.” My head tilts, my smirk deepening. “I wish I could stay, but I’m afraid I don’t see how there’s anything more you could so generously offer me.”

Cazador’s smile stills. Silence falls, stretching long enough to make the air cold between us.

Then, slowly, his mouth curves again—sharper this time, a predator amused. “Two visits,” he murmurs, mocking my tone. “And already you think you’ve tasted everything I have to offer. How… precious.”

He releases me suddenly, discarding my hand as though it were fragile glass. “Go, then. Return to your father. Bask in your little victories.” His crimson eyes gleam, intent and unblinking. “But remember this, Lady Altheira, my hospitality is never truly spent. When I decide to delight you again… you will know it.”

He sweeps back into his den, cloak trailing like a shadow, leaving me at the door with the echo of his voice coiling around me like a promise—or a threat.

The footman waits, stiff and silent. The doors yawn wide before me. And though I step into the carriage with my mask still in place, I carry the truth like a weight in my chest: Cazador heard every barb, every sweetness, and let me walk away.

Which can only mean one thing. He is enjoying the game.

Chapter Text

Chapter 6

The great hall lies silent, emptied of nobles and their laughter. Only the crackle of the hearth remains when Astarion is summoned.

He enters with his usual poise, mask carefully arranged, though he knows what awaits him. Cazador sits in his high-backed chair, legs crossed, a glass of deep red wine balanced elegantly in his hand.

The lord does not look up. He lets Astarion stand in silence, the leash tightening with every heartbeat. At last, Szarr speaks.

“Two nights, Astarion.” His voice is smooth, conversational, yet steel glints beneath every syllable. “Two nights my guest has left my house… glowing.”

He sips, crimson eyes finally rising, sharp as knives. “Tell me, pet. What should I make of that?”

Astarion bows, velvet voice polished, careful. “That your guest is well cared for, master. That your house offers pleasures no rival can match.”

Cazador’s smile curves, cruel and slow. “Mm. Clever words. Almost convincing.”

He sets the glass aside with a faint clink. “But I smell her on you. Do you think me blind? Deaf to the servants’ whispers? You defile my hospitality beneath my own roof, and worse. You parade it before me as though I will tolerate your rebellion.”

He rises, gliding forward with predatory grace. Stopping just short of Astarion, his serpent’s smile widens.

“Now. Give me one reason not to pluck this little rose myself. Tell me why I shouldn’t strip your darling Altheira of her fire and watch you wither when she forgets your name.”

Astarion bows deeper, every muscle taut. His voice is honey over glass. “Because she blooms brighter under your roof, my lord. And because it pleases you to watch her do so. If she were truly mine, would I let her shine so boldly beneath your gaze? No. She shines because you allow it, and because I draw it out of her for your amusement.”

The silence is a knife’s edge. Astarion holds still, eyes lowered, but the flicker of defiance in them is deliberate—there and gone.

Then, slowly, Cazador laughs. Low. Cold. More terrifying than rage.

“My clever little wretch,” he purrs, circling him like a serpent deciding when to strike. “You do know how to dress rebellion in lace. Almost convincing.”

He seizes Astarion’s chin, forcing crimson eyes to meet his own. “Let us be clear. Altheira is not yours. She blooms because I permit it. She shines because I do not yet snuff her flame. Whatever heat she wastes on you is nothing.”

His grip tightens until it aches. “I indulge you because it entertains me. But do not mistake indulgence for power. The moment you bore me—or the moment she makes me doubt your leash—I will bleed her dry and make you drink what remains.”

He releases him with a sharp flick, turning away. His cloak whispers as he dismisses Astarion with a flick of his hand.

“For now, play your game. Woo her. Ruin her. Let her think herself untouchable. I want to see how brightly she burns before I decide whether to keep her… or prune her.”

A final glance over his shoulder, fangs glinting in the firelight.

“You are amusing because you know your place, pet. Forget it…” His smile sharpens to a blade. “…and I will remind you.”

The Blackmere carriage rattles into the courtyard, wheels crunching over gravel. I barely set foot on the stones before my father descends on me, cloak flung hastily over his shoulders, eyes heavy with sleeplessness yet burning with fretful urgency.

“Altheira!” He seizes my hands as though I’ve returned from battle. “My jewel, my darling girl. What a fright you gave me! To think of you, unwell in another man’s house, and me not there to attend you—”

His voice cracks. Not from fear of what I’ve endured, but from the guilt of what he’s let happen. And still, the words twist toward self-justification. He pats my fingers feverishly. “But Lord Szarr was gracious, so gracious! To house you, to tend to you. His hospitality is beyond measure. Truly, Altheira, we could not ask for a more generous friend.”

The unease lingers in his eyes, shadows flickering behind the mask of pride. He knows, somewhere deep down, that he is feeding me to wolves. But ambition will not let him name it.

“I should never have left you,” he murmurs, grip trembling. Then, too quickly, he straightens, smoothing his coat, pride shoving fear aside. “But you bore it beautifully, didn’t you? You made an impression. He sees you. He notices you. That is everything I could have hoped for.”

His smile is brittle, built on guilt drowned in purpose. He wants me safe, but he wants me useful more.

I soften, almost amused by my father harboring something as progressive as conflict. But I can’t let him linger there, not if I mean to see Astarion again.
“Father, I promise I’m well. I was taken care of. To take a carriage home last night would have been dangerous in my state.” I squeeze his arm gently. “You made the right choice.”

Relief floods his face, his shoulders easing at once, as though my words alone absolve him. He gives a shaky laugh, patting my hand, desperate to believe me.

 “Ah—yes, of course. You’re right, my jewel. Better to have you safe in Szarr’s care than risk anything else.” His voice falters, then rallies into pride. “And you were cared for. That much is clear. You look…” His eyes soften with real tenderness before he hides it behind a chuckle. “…radiant, even after such a night. Your mother would be proud.”

He puffs his chest, clinging to my reassurance like a lifeline. “Yes. You’re strong enough to be noticed, Altheira. That’s what matters. This is what we’ve worked for—connections, alliances, impressions. You are meant to shine in halls such as his.”

I nod, slipping my hand from his. “Yes, well. I must rest, father. I feel I could sleep for days.” I let a chuckle soften the edge. “You’ll tell me if we receive another invitation to the Szarr estate, won’t you?” I aim for casual, but I hear the flicker of desperation in my own tone.

“Another invitation?” His hand clasps my arm, reassuring. “Oh, my jewel, if I know Lord Szarr, and I flatter myself that I do, you’ll be asked back before long. You made an impression. Men like him do not overlook such things.”

For a heartbeat, his eyes soften again, catching the edge of need in my voice. But, true to his nature, he chooses not to name it. To do so would mean looking too closely at the danger he courts. Instead, he clings to the story that comforts him.

“You rest now,” he insists warmly. “Sleep. Recover your strength. When the next summons comes—and it will—you’ll be ready to shine even brighter.”

He kisses my hand with paternal flourish, then turns away, satisfied. For him, the matter is settled.

But for me, the truth thrums beneath my skin. He is blind to the peril, deaf to my double meanings, all too eager to keep offering me to the wolf’s den.

And I will go back. Not for my father’s pride. Not for Szarr’s games. But for the silver-haired elf who has claimed my heart and my nights.

Chapter Text

Chapter 7

The next invitation doesn’t come for two weeks. Two weeks of waiting, of starving. Astarion is all I can think about. All I can dream about. I grow restless, reclusive—lingering in my bedroom during the day, touching myself at night with the memory of his hands, his voice, his fangs just shy of my throat.

Every morning I watch from my window, heart clenching with every courier that passes the gates. Always looking for that flash of red wax. Always waiting.

And then, finally, I see it. A Szarr seal, dark and gleaming in the courier’s hand.

I don’t even think. I fly down the stairs, skirts billowing, and snatch the letter from the servant just as he lifts it toward my father. My breath comes fast, desperate, as I break the seal with trembling fingers.

“Tomorrow night,” I whisper, relief spilling out in a rush. “Tomorrow night we will attend.” The words taste like salvation on my tongue. I thrust the letter into my father’s hand, my own already trembling with anticipation. “I’ll wear black and gold.”

Father blinks, the letter fluttering slightly in his grip. For a moment, he looks ready to scold me. Daughters do not rip letters from couriers, nor hurtle down staircases like wild birds. But then he sees the light in my eyes, the flush in my cheeks, and something falters in him.

“Black and gold,” he repeats, hesitant. His brows draw together, confusion shadowing his usual confidence. “You’ve been… waiting for this, haven’t you, Altheira?”

There’s a note of concern in his voice, though his mind twists the truth into something more palatable. He cannot see the hunger for what it is, so he convinces himself it must be ambition. A thirst for power, for position. A daughter finally reaching for the role he’s always wanted her to play.

“Yes,” he says more firmly, as though reclaiming control. He pats the letter, his voice steadying into pride. “Tomorrow night, then. You’ll wear your black and gold, and you’ll shine brighter than before.”

But when I turn away, I feel his gaze linger. And in it, just for a heartbeat, there’s unease. The same flicker I saw in him at Szarr’s last party. He can sense the fire in me is no longer his to direct. But he cannot bring himself to admit whose flame it has become.

The dressing chamber glows with candlelight, the air thick with the scent of beeswax and powdered rose. I stand before my tall mirror, the black-and-gold gown draped over my body like liquid shadow and fire.

The bodice hugs me tightly, sculpting a silhouette of sharpened elegance—fitted seams tracing my waist, lifting my chest just enough to be daring without vulgarity. The neckline sweeps clean off my shoulders, baring the delicate line of my collarbones, perfect for the fall of my necklace: a golden chain strung with droplets of light, a single teardrop gem poised at my throat like the tip of a blade.

Sheer black sleeves float down my arms, gauzy and weightless, catching candlelight with every subtle shift. They trail like whispers of shadow, a foil to the molten spill of my hair. Gold against black, sun against shadow. My hair flows long and loose, soft waves spilling down my back, catching the firelight as though spun from sunlight itself.

A maid crouches at my feet, fussing with the hem, pinning it to reveal the teasing glimpse of a leg whenever I walk. “Milady,” she breathes, standing back with wide eyes, “they will not look anywhere else.”

I don’t need her words. I see it in the mirror. I am radiant. Dangerous. Every jewel and seam sharpened into armor disguised as allure.

My lips curl into a secret smile as I brush my fingertips over the necklace at my throat. Not for them. Not for my father’s ambition. Not for Szarr’s cultivated roses. Tonight, every stitch and shimmer is for the silver-haired elf who waits in that den of wolves. Tonight, I bloom for him.

I smooth the gown once more, sealing my resolve like a ritual. When I turn from the mirror, the flames bend with the draft of my movement, casting me in alternating light and shadow.

Tomorrow night, the game continues. And I am ready to play.

The air in the Szarr estate feels different tonight. Thicker, heavier, as though the very walls anticipate my return. Chandeliers blaze overhead, dripping gold across the marble hall that leads toward the ballroom.

My arm rests in my father’s, our steps matched: his long and assured, mine sharp and measured, each heel-strike a note in the rhythm I set. The black and gold of my gown catches the torchlight with every sway, the gauze of my sleeves whispering secrets as I move.

Father’s pride swells beside me. I catch him glancing down more than once, fussing with his cufflinks as if he might polish himself to match me. But it is I, radiant and poised,who gleams as the centerpiece of his ambition.

 “Steady now, Altheira,” he murmurs, though warmth laces the words. “All eyes will be on you the moment we enter. You must carry yourself as though you belong here. Because you do.”

My lips curve in a secret smile. Oh, Father. If only you knew how much I already belong here.

At the hall’s end, the great doors stand open. Music swells, laughter rolls, perfume clings thick to the air. Nobles glitter inside like scattered jewels, a sea of silk and candlelight.

And there, two pairs of crimson eyes.

Cazador Szarr, regal among his elites, turns his head just slightly, his smile deliberate, serpentine. And at the piano, Astarion. His fingers falter on the keys, only for a heartbeat, but enough. His mask slides back into place, yet not before I glimpse it: raw hunger, sharp and naked, when his eyes meet mine.

The wolves are watching.

And I am ready to bare my teeth.

The circle of elites stirs as my father and I step into the ballroom, the sweep of my gown drawing glances like moths to flame. Father straightens beside me, puffing his chest, his voice already booming as he trades greetings, but his words wash past me like static.

Because across the room, tethered to me as surely as if we were bound by chain, is Astarion.

He sits poised at the piano, fingers gliding across ivory keys with flawless grace, every note crystalline, untouchable. To anyone else, he looks the picture of composure. But I see it. The tightness in his jaw. The faint flicker in his crimson eyes each time they dare rise to me. Hunger, possession, promise, barely caged beneath the performance.

And of course, Cazador notices.

His gaze cuts between us like a blade, sliding from the haze in my eyes to the faltering perfection in Astarion’s hands. His smile curves, serpentine and sharp, blooming with amusement at the thread he’s caught glinting in the air between us.

“Lord Blackmere,” Szarr purrs, his voice carrying just enough to draw the circle’s attention, “and his radiant daughter.” His crimson eyes linger on me, deliberate, pressing. “How fortunate we are tonight.”

The nobles murmur their approval, a ripple of meaningless noise, but I feel the weight of his words settle directly on my shoulders. A test. A probe. The Lord of the manor pulling at the seams of my mask to see if I will hold.

Behind my smile, my heart hammers. I am desperate for Astarion. Desperate for the brush of his hands, the hunger in his kiss. But I stand pinned beneath Cazador’s gaze, surrounded by his jackal nobles, forced to play the role he’s written for me.

My attention snaps to Cazador, the spell of want broken under the weight of his presence. I offer him my hand with a smile too sweet to be anything but mocking.
“It is fortunate, my lord. I am so grateful to have been given so much of your attention as of late. There is certainly no one else I’d rather be holding my gaze, Lord Szarr.”

Crimson eyes glint as he takes my fingers delicately, bowing just enough to brush his lips across my knuckles. His mouth is cold, precise, possessive.

“No one else,” he echoes, velvet for the crowd but razor for me. His smile curves wider, polished perfection overlaying something hungrier beneath. “Such devotion, Lady Altheira. I confess, I am almost touched.”

The nobles chuckle politely, charmed by what they believe to be innocent banter. My father beams, his pride swelling at the sight of his daughter basking in Szarr’s notice. Blind, as ever, to the claws beneath.

But Cazador doesn’t look away. His gaze lingers, peeling back every layer—my practiced sweetness, my sharp fire, my thin veneer of compliance—turning them over in his mind like a predator deciding whether the prey is worth the chase.

“Tell me,” he continues, his voice pitched low enough to snare the circle closer, “what does it feel like to hold the gaze of a wolf? To know every eye follows where mine settles?”

A test. A performance. A barb dressed as praise.

And across the room, at the piano, Astarion falters. Just once. One note bent sharp before he catches it, smoothing the sound as though it were intentional. But I see it, the way his gaze locks to mine, crimson fire caught in the trap of Szarr’s words.

I tilt my head, letting a playful smile bloom across my lips for the nobles’ benefit.
“Do you ask because you think such a thing would impress me, my lord? I am not so easily swayed by that particular part of power. A lemur in a hat could win the gazes of the masses.”

The circle erupts with laughter, delighted by my wit, eager to be entertained. My father beams, puffing with pride at his daughter’s cleverness, never noticing the razor edge beneath my smile.

But Cazador notices.

He does not laugh. He lets the mirth wash over him without twitching so much as a lip. The stillness is sharper than a snarl. When his smile finally comes, it is slow, curved, and dangerous.

“A lemur in a hat,” he repeats softly, but Cazador’s eyes never leave mine. 

He asked what it feels like to hold a wolf’s gaze, and I mocked his entire pack in return.

“Charming. But be cautious, Lady Altheira,” he murmurs, velvet smooth but honed to a knife’s edge, “for while a crowd may follow any beast in a hat… only a true predator decides when the show is over.”

The nobles chuckle again, blind to the teeth beneath his velvet words. 

My smile sharpens, honed to a blade’s edge, like a duelist spotting the perfect opening. 

“Only a true predator decides when the show is over,” I echo softly, leaning just close enough that my gaze tilts up in subtle challenge. “On that point, my lord… we are in agreement.”

I let the words linger, sweet as honey and twice as sticky. Then I turn sharply, the sweep of my hair nearly brushing his cheek, the faint trace of my perfume trailing in my wake.

I stride into the crowd, spine straight, leaving him with nothing but the echo of my words.

I retreat toward the drinks table, snatching a glass without tasting it, my eyes already seeking his. Astarion meets my gaze across the room, crimson fire catching, and I don’t wait. I stride through the ballroom and out into the courtyard.

Cool night air slams into me, sharp as clarity, but it does nothing to slow the frantic pounding of my heart. The glass trembles faintly in my hand, scattering moonlight across the dark liquid as I swallow hard to steady myself. What was I thinking? I hadn’t planned to challenge him—not so openly, not with so many eyes upon us. And yet every word Cazador speaks is a chain, and my tongue is a blade that refuses to stay sheathed.

The courtyard is heavy with the perfume of roses, their blooms swaying in the breeze like they, too, are holding secrets. My heels click against the flagstones as I pace deeper into the moonlight, away from the hum of strings and laughter. Each step draws out the weight of what I’ve done, equal parts dread and heady exhilaration.

And then—movement.

The echo of quick footsteps behind me, too controlled to be panic, too urgent to be leisure. That tether snaps taut again.

I turn, and there he is: Astarion, silver hair burning in the moonlight, crimson eyes fixed on me as though he’d been pulled by some invisible thread. His grace is intact, but his jaw is clenched, his hands flexing like claws aching for release.

“Altheira,” he hisses the moment we’re alone, voice low and sharp, “what in the hells are you doing?”

He seizes my wrist with the desperate grip of someone who might have dragged me back inside if I’d gone a step further.

“You just—” his voice breaks, incredulous, “you mocked him. To his face. In front of half the city’s jackals. Gods, darling, you’ll get yourself killed—”

“Or worse,” I sigh, cutting him off with bitter humor. “This is Cazador we’re talking about. I’m sure he could be more… creative than simply incinerating me.”

I slide my hand down to catch his, fingers threading tight, forcing him to look at me. “Be honest,” I whisper, my pulse still thrumming wild. “How screwed am I?”

Astarion’s hands tighten around mine, his crimson eyes storming with fear, frustration, and something perilously close to awe. “How screwed?” he echoes, his laugh brittle, dark. “Darling, you’ve just danced barefoot across a pit of vipers. And gods help me, you did it beautifully.”

He leans closer, his voice dropping into a whisper as sharp as fangs. “But beauty doesn’t blunt his bite. He will come for you in his own time. And when he does, it won’t be fire or claws—it will be worse. Slower. More… creative.”

His gaze flicks back toward the manor, jaw tightening as though he expects Szarr’s shadow to slip through the walls at any moment. “You need to understand, every barb you throw, every sweet little insult, he savors. Not because you’ve won.” His grip trembles faintly against mine. “Because he’s letting you play. And when he decides the game is over…” His voice fractures, raw. “You’ll be in his cage, Altheira. And I won’t be able to reach you.”

His forehead dips until it brushes mine, his breath uneven, his words breaking like glass. “Gods, I should be furious with you. But instead I can’t decide if I want to throttle you for tempting fate… or fall to my knees and worship you for spitting in his face.”

When his eyes open again, they blaze molten, hunger and devotion tangled into something dangerous. His lips twist into a reverent smirk. “So, how screwed are you? Completely. Utterly. And yet…” His thumb grazes my cheek, his voice low, aching. “…I’ve never wanted you more.”

The warning still hums in my chest like a struck chord, but instead of retreating, I feel my pulse quicken, my lips curling into a reckless smile. “Then let him watch,” I whisper, defiance sparking hot in my blood. “If I’m already in the wolf’s den, I might as well bare my throat for the one I choose.”

Before he can answer, I surge up to kiss him.

Astarion melts into it as though he’s been waiting the full two weeks for this moment. At first, his mouth is gentle, reverent, as though honoring my declaration—but then my hunger bleeds into him, and he answers with heat that steals the breath from my lungs.

His hands frame my face, then slide into my hair, pulling me closer as if he can’t stand an inch between us. He groans low in his chest, the sound muffled by the press of our lips, raw and needy.

“Gods, Altheira,” he whispers against my mouth, his voice frayed with desire, “do you have any idea what you do to me? Two weeks of starving, and now you come to me with a kiss like this?”

He presses me back against the cold stone of the courtyard wall, his body molding to mine, his lips trailing down my jaw, my throat, leaving reverent fire in their wake. His hands grip at my hips, trembling with restraint he’s already losing.

The restraint Astarion had been clinging to finally snaps.

One moment I am pinned gently against the courtyard wall, the next his body crashes into mine with the force of weeks’ worth of starving need. His mouth devours mine—lips, fangs, breath tangling—the kiss turning hot, frantic, messy.

His hands roam with abandon, gripping my hips, dragging me closer, sliding down my thighs as though he must map every inch of me all over again. The delicate folds of my gown twist under his fingers, black silk rustling as he pulls me hard against his arousal. He groans into my mouth at the contact, the sound ragged, desperate.

“Gods, I can’t—” he gasps between kisses, his forehead pressed to mine, his voice trembling with hunger. “I’ve needed you. Every hour. Every damned night. I can’t stop, Altheira. I won’t.”

The courtyard is too open, too exposed, and yet that only sharpens the frenzy. My heart hammers with the knowledge of it: if anyone opens those doors, if anyone glances this way, they’ll see Szarr’s prized guest pinned and ruined against his own courtyard wall. But instead of fear, it sparks exhilaration. I arch into him, lips finding his again, daring the risk.

Moonlight spills across us, gilding his pale hair in silver, making my own locks gleam gold. His hands shake as they clutch me tighter, hips grinding, kisses bruising, as though he could make up for every heartbeat we’ve been apart.

It is reckless. It is ruinous. It is perfect.

And the danger only makes me want him more.

Astarion’s kiss grows almost brutal, a collision of teeth and tongue and breathless groans, until my head tips back against the stone with a soft cry. His hands clutch me hard at the hips, then slide lower, dragging my leg up around his waist as though he can’t bear for there to be any space left between us.

“Mine,” he hisses against my throat, the word vibrating against my skin like a brand. His fangs graze the pulse pounding there, dangerously close, but he jerks his head back with a guttural growl, forcing control into himself even as his body trembles with restraint.

I cradle his face in my hands, pulling him back to me. “Then take me,” I whisper fiercely, reckless with want, reckless with knowing we’re already lost in it. “If I’m yours, prove it.”

For a heartbeat, his eyes flare molten crimson, pure hunger, pure ruin. His lips crash into mine again, devouring, but it’s different now. Wilder. Frantic. A man teetering on the edge of madness.

And then—footsteps.

The muffled shuffle of boots across marble, just beyond the courtyard doors. A burst of laughter from the hall, too near.

Astarion tears his mouth from mine, chest heaving, eyes darting toward the sound. His hand is still locked at my hip, fingers digging into the gauze of my gown, but his voice drops into a low, ragged whisper. “Not here. Gods, not here. If he catches us like this—”

I press my forehead to his, breathless, defiant. “Let him. Let them all.”

But his hand cups my cheek, urgent, trembling with the strength it takes to pull himself away. “No, darling. He’d savor that too much. We have to end it before he decides it for us.”

The words slice through the haze, and for a moment all I can hear is the pounding of my own heart. Slowly, reluctantly, he peels himself from me, though his fingers linger as though afraid I’ll vanish the second he lets go.

We stand there, breathing hard, the night air cool against sweat-damp skin. My lips are swollen, my gown twisted, my pulse wild. I meet his gaze and see the same fire burning back at me, banked but not extinguished.

He smooths a stray lock of hair from my face, his touch unbearably tender after such ruinous hunger. “Another night,” he whispers, voice hoarse. “I’ll have you another night. Not as prey. Not as rebellion. As mine.”

The courtyard doors shift, the faint scrape of hinges reminding us we have seconds left.

I steal one last kiss, soft and sharp all at once, and whisper against his lips, “Then I’ll find a way.”

And when I step back into the ballroom, my polished mask is perfectly in place, but my body still hums with the echo of his touch.

The nobles clustered around my father barely register my return, too absorbed in their own echo chamber of gossip and self-congratulation. But one man notices.

Cazador.

His gaze latches onto me the instant I cross the threshold. He doesn’t blink, doesn’t smile. Just watches. His eyes dip, lingering a fraction too long at my mouth, tracing the faint, betraying fullness left behind by Astarion’s kiss.

The stem of my glass trembles faintly as I lift it, masking my lips behind the glitter of wine. To the crowd, it is graceful, casual. To him? A shield. And shields always betray the weapon they mean to hide.

The faintest curve touches the corners of his mouth. Amusement. Knowing.

“Altheira.” His voice slides across the gathering like silk pulled taut over steel. Nobles stir at once, their attention drawn as if on strings. He inclines his head with the barest suggestion of courtesy, but his gaze never leaves mine. “How refreshing to see you… restored.”

I let a polished smile curve my lips. “Restored. Yes, of course. I must thank you again for your hospitality.” My glass tilts, wine swirling in deliberate poise.

Cazador’s eyes flick briefly to the glass, then back to me. The smile deepens by a hair’s breadth, predatory in its subtlety.

“Yes,” he purrs, velvet-smooth, every syllable laced with steel. “My hospitality. Always remembered… always tasted.”

The nobles chuckle obligingly, raising their cups as if Cazador’s words were no more than a toast to the estate’s vintage. Father joins in with eager pride. “Exquisite, isn’t it?” he declares, as though he’d had anything to do with it. “The finest in the city. I told Altheira she would find herself refreshed here. Lord Szarr spares no expense for his guests.”

Cazador lets him prattle, never once breaking his gaze from mine. He lifts his own glass with practiced elegance, swirling the blood-red liquid once before taking a long, deliberate sip. When he lowers it, the smile on his lips is cold, deliberate.

“I am most gratified that you found satisfaction, Lady Altheira,” he says smoothly, his voice silk stretched over steel. “I should hate to think any guest leaves my table… unfulfilled.”

Laughter swells again, nobles elbowing one another, trading smirks at the double meaning they think they’ve uncovered. But I know better. He isn’t teasing them. He’s teasing me. Testing me. Watching to see if my mask will fracture.

My smile never falters, though my eyes narrow just slightly, sharp enough to flash. Gods, I shouldn’t respond. I should let the moment pass.

And yet, sweetness curls my lips as I tilt my head, voice pitched for charm.

“I do seem to make a habit of leaving your halls fulfilled, don’t I?” My glass tilts lazily in my hand. “Aren’t you afraid, my lord, that I only return for the wine and not the delight of your conversation?”

Cazador’s gaze lingers, still and burning, while the circle of nobles ripple with indulgent laughter at my quip.

“Ah,” he murmurs, voice soft but cutting through the noise like silk over a blade. “So it is only my wine that tempts you back. Not my hall, not my company… not even the honor of my gaze.” He lifts his glass slightly, crimson eyes glinting. “I must take care, lest the vintner become the true master of this house.”

The circle erupts again, laughter swelling louder, delighted and oblivious, while his gaze never leaves mine.

I let the laughter ripple around us, smiling faintly as though I too am in on the jest. But instead of answering, I simply lift my glass, meeting Cazador’s gaze over the rim as I take a long, measured sip. The wine burns sweet on my tongue, but it is the silence I savor. The refusal to play further into his game.

The circle, satisfied with its own amusement, drifts easily back into chatter, their attention sliding to safer topics. Father seizes the lull, puffing and preening, eager to smooth over the sharpness he cannot even feel.

But I can.

Over the heads of the crowd, my eyes find the piano. Astarion’s fingers still move with practiced grace, coaxing music from ivory and wood, but his gaze—his gaze is mine. He looks at me as though he heard every word, as though he felt every cut Cazador dealt and every blade I refused to swing back. Crimson eyes smolder, aching with pride, possession, and something darker.

For a heartbeat, the world narrows to that tether. His stare holding me steady while wolves circle and wine masks the scent of blood.

The conversation flows back around me like a river I’ve stepped out of. Idle gossip about merchant tariffs, the quality of last season’s roses, the ever-dull recounting of who held which seat at which banquet. But slowly, inevitably, the circle bends back toward Cazador.

A minor lord, eager to impress, laughs too loudly at his own jest and raises a hand as if in toast. “Ah, but that’s the measure of a true host, isn’t it? To show indulgence. To offer without limit.”

Cazador’s smile is faint, cutting. “Indulgence is simple,” he replies, voice smooth as wine sliding down a glass. “Restraint is rarer. And far more dangerous.”

The words still the laughter, drawing nods, murmurs of approval from the circle. My father leans in with earnest agreement, ever the sycophant. “Indeed, indeed. Restraint is what separates a man from a beast. Without it, power is squandered.”

But when Szarr’s eyes flick back to me, lingering with deliberate weight, I hear the unspoken barb: restraint is also what makes indulgence so exquisite when it finally breaks.

“It seems restraint is something you know well, my lord,” I say lightly, tilting my head with a smile sharp as glass. “Tell me, how do you decide when a bloom has reached its peak, and it’s time to… prune?”

The circle of nobles chuckle, charmed by my wit. To them, it’s playful metaphor. To him, it’s challenge.

Cazador stills.

His crimson eyes narrow, the faintest curl of fang glinting as his smile deepens, slow and serpentine. “How do I decide?” he echoes, voice velvet over steel. “That is the gardener’s privilege. I do not measure. I choose. When to coax, when to water, when to let a bloom bask in the sun…” His gaze sharpens, slicing into mine. “…and when to savor the snap of the stem beneath my fingers.”

Laughter ripples again, shallow and oblivious.

The crimson in his gaze sharpens, narrowing like a hawk’s. His lips curl, slow and deliberate. “How do I decide?” he repeats, voice smooth as silk stretched thin. “Ah, Lady Altheira… that is the gardener’s privilege. I do not measure. I choose. When to coax, when to water, when to let a bloom bask in the sun—” His gaze pins me, piercing, velvet edged with steel. “—and when to savor the snap of the stem beneath my fingers.”

Cazador lifts his glass, smirk glinting with the faintest hint of fang. “But perhaps…” His voice dips, low enough to coil around me alone. “…I’ll let you decide. Tell me when you think you’ve reached your height, Lady Altheira. I would enjoy seeing how brightly you believe you can burn.”

I tip my head as though considering his words, then let my lips curve into something soft, almost thoughtful. “Well said,” I murmur. “Though I wonder, my lord… if you say such things because your restraint has never been tested harshly enough.”

And before the words can settle, I let my hand drift idly to the jewel at my throat. I feign a clumsy adjustment, the teardrop pendant slipping just so. The sharp edge bites. A sting. A bead of red welling at the base of my neck.

I inhale sharply, tilting my chin as though startled. The drop of blood catches the candlelight like a ruby on bare skin.

“Oh dear,” I breathe sweetly, fingertips brushing the wound with exaggerated delicacy. “How clumsy of me.” I glance around the circle with wide-eyed innocence, but my gaze lands on Cazador. “I don’t suppose anyone has a handkerchief?”

The moment that crimson drop gleams at the base of my throat, his gaze finds it with predatory sharpness. The air thickens, heavy and cold, as though the whole circle feels it, even if they don’t understand why.

My innocent little question hangs there like bait, the nobles laughing too quickly, fussing with lace and silks to offer me, eager to smooth the tension they can’t name.

But Cazador doesn’t hurry. He never does. He smiles slowly, fangs glinting just enough to unsettle, and with deliberate grace draws a handkerchief from within his coat: black silk, embroidered in red. He extends it toward me, his eyes never leaving the cut at my throat.

“Allow me, Lady Altheira,” he purrs, voice silken and sharp. “I would hate for so lovely a bloom to be marred by so small a thorn.”

The circle laughs again, charmed by what they think is gallantry.

But then—

A single, discordant note shatters the harmony of the ballroom. The piano falters, jarring, before the melody stumbles back into place. Too late. Every ear twitches, every eye flickers.

Astarion.

He sits rigid at the piano bench, his hand locked on the keys, jaw tight, crimson eyes burning across the room. For one raw, unguarded heartbeat, his mask is gone. The hunger, the rage, the desperate mine written across his face are laid bare for anyone sharp enough to see.

He looks as though he might rise, cross the room, and tear Cazador’s hand away from me with his teeth. Only the iron leash of centuries holds him in place. Even then, his fingers tremble against the ivory, dragging the music back into something smooth, almost mocking, as though daring the circle to notice.

But I notice. Gods, I notice. His fire sears across the space between us, as binding as Cazador’s cold hunger at my throat.

I pluck the square of black silk from his fingers, holding it lightly as though it were any gentleman’s handkerchief and not the offering of a predator. The fabric is cool, fine as spider’s thread. I press it delicately to the cut at my throat, my smile never faltering.

“Mm,” I murmur, my eyes never leaving his, “what was it we were discussing just now? Ah, yes. Restraint.”

My father bursts into hearty laughter, clapping a proud hand to my shoulder as though I’ve just scored a point. “See that wit, my lord? You’d think she’d been trained to spar!”

Cazador’s gaze flicks to William only briefly before settling back on me, his crimson eyes glinting with cold amusement. His smile curves, slow and knowing.

“Oh, I can see she’s learning quickly,” he purrs, his voice velvet and steel. He raises his glass, the crimson within catching the candlelight like blood. “One must admire a bloom that knows how to bare its thorns so early. The question, of course…” His gaze narrows, lingering on the silk at my throat. “…is whether those thorns will serve to protect her, or to pierce the hand that tends her.”

Across the room, Astarion’s playing grew louder, more forceful, notes struck too hard against the keys. His crimson eyes were locked to me, silently pleading: enough. Don’t push further.

I hear it. I know it. And still, I linger in the snare of the game.

I draw the black silk from my throat, smile sweetly at the gathered nobles, and dip my head. “If you’ll pardon me, I think I’ll excuse myself for a moment.”

My skirts whisper as I slip past the circle, but not before pausing at Szarr’s side. I slide the handkerchief into his pocket with deliberate care, lean close enough that my lips nearly brush his ear, and whisper, soft as breath:

“Try not to wear yourself out with that.”

His smile doesn’t shift, but his eyes burn scarlet as the words coil between us.

And then I am gone, swallowed by the crowd, leaving my father laughing, the nobles murmuring, Szarr’s eyes glinting, and Astarion’s music hammering like a heartbeat too close to breaking.

I press through the throng, the cut at my throat still stinging, the taste of risk sharp in my mouth. My mask holds: poised, perfect, untouchable. But beneath it my heart is racing, wild with exhilaration, terror, and something darker still.

Tonight, I told myself, the game was mine.
But even as I think it, I feel the truth coil tight in my chest: I’ve only stoked the wolf’s hunger.

Chapter Text

Chapter 8

The powder room is quiet, muffled from the music and laughter beyond the gilded doors. Only the faint trickle of water from a marble basin fills the silence.

I brace myself against the edge of the vanity, breath leaving me in uneven waves. My reflection stares back from the polished glass: cheeks flushed, eyes alight, the thin line of red at the base of my throat still stark against pale skin.

Gods. What have I just done?

The jewel at my necklace gleams faintly, a traitor’s sparkle where it kissed too sharp against my skin. The blood has stopped, the cut shallow, but the memory of Szarr’s eyes when it bloomed—slow, hungry, delighted—clings to me like a shadow.

I should be afraid. Any reasonable creature would be. Instead, a laugh bubbles in my chest, breathless and sharp.

“Restraint,” I whisper to my reflection, lips curving into something dangerous. “Yes, my lord. Let’s see how long you can hold it.”

But as my smile sharpens, so does the tremor in my hands. Because I know the truth, Cazador isn’t the only one being tested.

The powder room stays hushed, cocooned from the glittering din beyond. I straighten, smoothing my gown with deliberate calm, forcing the tremor from my hands.

What do I want? The answer thrums through me, sharp and undeniable.

I want Astarion. The heat of his mouth, the bite of his hunger, the wild freedom he stirs in me. He is the fire that keeps me alive in this den of wolves.

And I want Cazador. Not his touch. Never his touch. But the game. The danger. The knife-edged dance of his gaze, the way every word between us coils tighter around the both of us. I want to push him. To prove I can stand in the lion’s den and still smile.

To have both. The lover and the game. The risk and the reward.

It is madness. Recklessness. But the thought of surrendering either fills me with a deeper dread than the risk of losing everything.

A slow smile spreads across my lips, curling as sharp and deliberate as the line of my gown. A plan takes root, not yet clear, not yet spoken, but solid enough to taste. I will have what I want. Both of them.

I gather myself, turning from the mirror with one last glance at the cut along my throat. Faint now, a thin red line. Proof of the game I’ve chosen.

The ballroom swallows me again, golden light and murmured laughter spilling like honey across the polished marble. My steps slow as I re-enter, but my eyes find him at once—Astarion, his gaze still locked on me from across the room. His music has softened, but the look he gives me is anything but casual: crimson eyes, taut with warning, soften only when I offer him the faintest curve of a smile. A promise. I am fine.

And then, I stride back into the circle.

“…involved with that street rat of a boy a few months ago, was she not? One Finn Trestle?” Lord Kelter’s voice drips with disdain, his pudgy hand flapping the air as though batting away the very memory. “Perhaps the highest station is a little ambitious for such a spirited—oh! Lady Altheira, you return!”

I freeze. Only for a heartbeat. But the name slices through me all the same, sharp and unbidden. Finn. My closest friend. My—

I push the thought down, locking it away behind the mask.

Kelter’s eyes gleam at my hesitation, his lips curling in triumph at striking the first blow. His niece’s rumor, repeated again and again, has sunk its fangs deep enough to be parroted in these halls.

Cazador’s smile lingers, sharp as ever, his head inclining just slightly in mock courtesy. His voice purls smooth as velvet, wrapping the silence like a noose.

“You return just in time, Lady Altheira,” he drawls. “We were discussing your… suitability.”

The word lingers in the air, his tongue savoring it, tasting it, as though the verdict were already his to give.

Around me, the circle shifts. Fans flutter. Eyes glint. Eager, wary, curious. Waiting to see whether I falter, whether I bleed.

I smirk. “Suitability. Yes, I’m sure Lord Kelter indulged you with rumors his niece whispered into his ear.” My gaze slides to him now, my smile soft and easy, not a trace of the strain I’d carried while sparring with Szarr. “Tell me, is your son Luke still stewing over the Talmidge party?”

The circle stills.

I tilt my head, voice warm enough to pass as genuine concern, if you didn’t know what to look for. “You must reassure him of my apologies. If I’d known a few careless words would bring him to tears, I’d have saved my breath with less.”

Kelter’s smirk curdles at once, his cheeks blotching crimson as laughter ripples through the circle.

“Oh—oh dear, Luke,” one lady titters behind her fan, eyes sparkling. “Yes, I do recall he was most… overcome at Talmidge.”

Another chuckles outright. “Overcome? Generous. I heard he fled the hall and sulked for days. Over a turn of phrase! Tsk, tsk.”

The laughter swells, delighted in its cruelty. My smile lands like a dagger sheathed in silk, leaving Kelter no chance to defend without cutting himself deeper.

I don’t relent. I let my glass tilt lazily in my hand, my smile sharpening. “Ah, rumors.” I drawl. “Such delightful little things, aren’t they? I only wonder, my lord, why you would even care about such rumors… when your affair with Lord Belmont’s stableboy is so well known?”

The effect is instantaneous.

Lady Veyra nearly drops her fan with a shriek, Lord Mason barks a scandalized laugh that echoes across the circle, and a ripple of gasps and smirks spreads like wildfire. A dozen curious gazes snap to Kelter, eager to devour.

I widen my eyes in feigned innocence, savoring the way his face turns the same color as the drapes. “Oh my goodness! Forgive me, was that not common knowledge? I thought for certain Maggie Belmont had already told anyone with ears.”

“Ohhh, my,” Lady Veyra murmurs, pressing her gloved hand to her chest, eyes gleaming with venomous delight. “How terribly indiscreet of you, Lord Kelter.”

Lord Mason lifts his goblet, eyes dancing. “Stableboys, eh? Gods above. Tell me, Kelter, does the Belmont lad ride better on or off the horse?”

The laughter that follows is sharp, merciless.

Kelter staggers under it, his mouth opening and closing with no words coming. His forced composure shatters, fury blanching his features pale beneath the crimson blotches. He chokes out something that might have been a denial, then—realizing any protest will only stoke the fire—snatches up his goblet and retreats from the circle, shoulders stiff, eyes on the floor.

I watch him go, mock pity softening my smile. “Oh, I do feel terrible for embarrassing him so. But at least Maggie told me the stableboy looked awfully satisfied leaving the barn. So there’s that.”

The circle howls. Lady Veyra snorts behind her fan. Lord Mason leans heavy on his cane, still chuckling. “My lady you are merciless! Gods, I cannot wait to see what tongues wag tomorrow. Kelter will never show his face at court without someone neighing at his back.”

Even the more cautious nobles found themselves smirking.

But not Cazador.

He does not laugh. He does not move. He lingers, still as a statue, crimson gaze glittering as he drinks in Kelter’s ruin—and the smile I wear like a blade.

Slowly, his lips curl. Not wide, not warm. Smooth. Measured. Dangerous.

“Ah, Lady Altheira,” he drawls at last, voice silk stretched thin over steel. “A tongue sharper than any sword in these halls.”

The words land like a hand at my throat: praise, warning, possession all at once. My heart kicks against my ribs, sharp and traitorous, the air between us taut as wire. For a moment, I forget to breathe.

Then, and only then, the circle titters, delighted, mistaking the weight in his tone for play. Their laughter washes thin and distant, as if heard through water.

Cazador does not look away. His smile shifts by the barest fraction, enough to glint fang, enough to promise something more. His voice drops lower, velvet and intimate, threading beneath their noise:

“Perhaps restraint is not always the highest virtue.”

For a moment, my lips only part, forcing my mind to wrench back onto the rails of the game.

My smile blooms wider, my glass poised delicately in hand. “Thank you ever so much, Lord Szarr,” I reply sweetly, tilting my head just so. “For I know how rarely a compliment falls from your lips.”

A ripple of laughter stirs at my wit, light and careless to the nobles’ ears. But I let my gaze linger on him a heartbeat longer, letting my smile sharpen into something deliberate.

“Still…” I lower my glass, my voice dropping just enough to cut beneath the chatter. “…I find I prefer men of action.”

The room stills at the edge in my tone.

Cazador’s glass stills too. Slowly, he turns the full weight of his crimson gaze upon me, the faint curve of his lips shifting into something colder, more deliberate. “Oh?” he murmurs, silk stretched taut over steel. “And you imagine I am a man of words only, Lady Altheira?”

The nobles chuckle uneasily, unsure whether to treat my barb as jest or challenge. My father forces a brittle laugh, tugging at his collar. “My Altheira does so love to tease,” he says quickly, voice thin.

But Cazador ignores him. His smile deepens, a slow reveal of fang, as he steps forward. He sets his glass on a passing servant’s tray with meticulous grace, each movement deliberate, like the unsheathing of a blade.

“You’re right,” he says softly, gaze locked to mine, voice thick with promise. “Words are nothing, in the end. Perhaps…” The pause stretches, humming in the air like a drawn bowstring. “…it is time for action.”

The circle leans in, half-thrilled, half-terrified.

From the piano, a discordant chord breaks the air. My gaze flicks across the room—Astarion’s jaw tightens, his crimson eyes locked on us, hunger and dread warring in their depths.

Cazador extends his hand, the gesture polished, courtly… but brimming with intent.

“Dance with me.”

For a heartbeat, my breath stalls. The ballroom hums with silence, every noble straining for my answer. For a moment I feel it, the enormity of what he’s offered. Lord Szarr does not dance. To be asked is no mere courtesy; it is a claiming. A test. A leash wrapped in silk.

I let none of that show. My lashes lower, my smile blooming slow and deliberate as I slip my hand into his. A glimmer sparks in my eyes—delight, triumph, something reckless and sharp. “There it is.”

“Indeed,” he purrs, his thumb grazing deliberately across my knuckles as he draws me forward. The circle of nobles parts like water, murmurs rippling outward in eager waves. The Lord Cazador Szarr, dancing with the Blackmere girl. This is a spectacle they will not soon forget.

The music bends, darkens, as though pulled by his will alone. Astarion’s hands move stiffly over the keys, the melody too tense, too jagged. Each note thrums with his gaze burning from the bench.

Cazador’s hand settles cold and commanding at my waist, guiding me into the steps with serpentine grace.

He is close, too close, his crimson eyes pinning mine with predator’s focus, as though nothing else in the room exists but us.

“You wanted action,” he murmurs, velvet wrapping a blade, pitched for me alone. “Now you have it. Every jackal here watches. Do you feel their eyes? Do you feel me?”

He spins me sharply, pulling me back against his chest. His lips graze my ear, whisper colder than marble: “How long can you keep playing, little rose, before your thorns draw blood you cannot hide?”

Around us, nobles sigh and smile, entranced by the elegance. My father glows with pride, blind to the danger, seeing only triumph.

And Astarion, his music cracks. Notes fall too hard, the melody trembling under his hands. His crimson gaze never wavers from me, fury and desperation thrumming in every chord, as if each strike on the keys were a tether to wrench me free of Cazador’s arms.

“Mm, we’ll have to see, won’t we?” My smile sharpens as I lean into his lead, each step gliding as though we’ve done this a hundred times. “I was hoping to strike a deal with you, my lord.”

Cazador’s hand presses firmer at my waist, turning me through the crowd like I am nothing but silk in his grip. His lips curve into that slow, knowing smirk that promises indulgence and ruin in equal measure.

“A deal,” he echoes, savoring the word as though it were the finest vintage. “How delicious. Most come to me with supplications, pleas dressed up as bargains. But you…” His crimson gaze drifts across my face, piercing, lingering. “…you speak as though you have something to offer.”

He twirls me outward, then reels me back into his chest, his breath cold against my ear. “Tell me, Lady Altheira, what currency do you imagine could tempt me?”

I tilt my chin, my lips close to his ear, letting the words fall soft as a secret, dangerous as a blade.

“Myself. At your side. Your creature in court, your echo in every hall. I’ll wear your leash with pride…everywhere but your bed.”

The music swells, the circle sighs, but my voice stays low, intimate. “In return, I want him. Astarion. Days unshadowed by chains, nights in my bed. Mine to keep… mine to ruin. A freedom he’ll never take unless you grant it.”

He lets me finish, watching me as if savoring a new flavor. For one slow heartbeat his smile is nothing, just pale lips and teeth. It blooms, slow and smooth, amusement folding into something colder.

“How curious,” Cazador muses, the word soft as silk and twice as sharp. He studies my face the way one inspects a curious insect: attentive, clinical, fascinated. His thumb drags almost idly along the base of my palm where it rests in his, the contact unexpectedly intimate. “You offer yourself, set a boundary, and lay claim to my spawn all in one breath.”

A soft, cruel laugh bubbles from him, quiet, genuinely pleased. “You are either the boldest fool to walk into my house,” he says, “or the most fascinating creature I have seen in a century.”

He turns me through another exquisite arc of the dance, his hand at my waist steady as a vise. His crimson eyes bore into mine, assessing, tasting. “Tell me, Lady Altheira,” he continues, voice quieting, “do you honestly believe his arms will shield you when I decide your obsession amuses me no longer?”

The words drop like a blade. For a moment the music thins to nothing.

I feel breathless—not with fear, but with a dangerous, steady hunger. The bargain I offered sharpens into a hot point in my chest. I let myself smile, slow and defiant, and step closer until the warmth of his coat heats my cheek.

“Do we have a deal or not?”

He does not answer at once. He lets the silence sit heavy between us, letting every eye in the room carve the space where we dance. Then Cazador inclines his head, as if a verdict had been reached and it amused him to announce it.

“Very well,” he says finally, each syllable weighed and polished. “Yes, you may have your little obsession. Take him. Starve yourself no longer. Feed until you are weak with it.” His hand hardens at my waist, cold and unyielding, the pressure both an anchor and a promise. “But—” he draws the word out, delicious and precise, “when you are not in his arms, you will be mine. You will choose me, here, in my house, before my court, before your father, before everyone.”

He guides me through another turn, fingers like iron at the small of my back. The motion is courteous, courtly; the intent underneath is anything but.

“And do not delude yourself, little rose,” he whispers, close enough that his breath brushes my ear. “I am not granting you freedom. I am claiming you with this bargain. Your fire, your restraint, your hunger for him, those are parts of my garden now. I will watch how you bloom; and when the day comes that you falter, it will be my hand that prunes you.”

There it is. A promise and threat braided tight. My pulse flares with something like triumph and something like dread.

Astarion’s hands freeze for a heartbeat, then they move.

The next phrase is all teeth. He slams the keys with a force that shreds the last silk of civility from the waltz: a brutal cluster of notes that detonates like a bell in the marble hall. The music crashes into silence as if someone has cut the strings holding the room together.

For a beat the world is only the ringing in my ears and the smear of candlelight on polished faces. Then the nobles exhale, followed by a scattered ripple of applause.

Cazador does not flinch. He holds me steady with one iron thumb at my waist and releases me with the slow courtesy of a man who gives back what he does not need to keep.

Astarion sits back a breath, the performance finished and the player bare. When he lifts his head, his face is a ruin of composure: eyes burning crimson, jaw knotted, as if every contained thing inside him has been sharpened and set on edge. He doesn’t move to me, not yet, but his gaze finds mine across the small distance between the piano and the circle. It is not a pleading look now; it is a promise cut clean and dangerous.

My father beams, clapping the louder for show, wholly unaware of the undertow. The nobles gossip already, some delighted, some anxious, trying to fold what they’ve seen into something comfortable.

And in that hush, with the last note still trembling in my bones, I know the room has changed. 

Cazador does not give me the chance to step away.

Before the applause has fully faded, his hand slides from my waist to my arm, curling just above the elbow with a grip that is elegant in appearance, unyielding in truth. He guides me from the dance floor as though I had always belonged there. 

The circle of nobles parts without protest, their eyes following us with the eager hunger of jackals scenting fresh blood and fresh gossip. I do not resist. I do not falter. My steps match his, the black and gold of my gown whispering with every stride, my smile composed and bright enough to dazzle. I stay at his side, unstraying, unshaken, as though I had been rehearsing this role for a lifetime.

“Ah, Lady Altheira,” he purrs lightly as we rejoin the group, his hand still warm against my arm. “You wear the role well.”

Whispers trickle through the court throughout the evening about the sight of us together, but the hour begins to turn against them. Goblets grow empty, laughter thins, and little by little, the nobles disperse. Carriages are called, farewells exchanged. My father lingers with visible pride, his chest puffed at my place at Szarr’s side, as though this were proof of his schemes bearing fruit.

The chandeliers burn lower, dripping wax into the hush of the hall.

By the time the last jeweled lady drifts away with her flock, only a skeleton of the revel remains. My father, preening and smiling. Lord Szarr, still and watchful, his hand never straying far from my arm. Astarion, silent at the piano, his crimson eyes restless as his fingers idle across dead keys. And in the shadows and corners, the other spawn glide quietly through their tasks, gathering goblets, snuffing candles, their movements sharp and efficient, the wolves cleaning their den after the feast.

Cazador releases my arm with the same slow courtesy with which one might hand over a prize. Then, as if deciding the hour is ripe, he inclines his head toward my father with the courteous grace of a man about to do business.

“Lord Blackmere,” he says, voice velvet and steel braided together, “I’ve been considering the arrangement you proposed earlier tonight while Altheira was in the bathroom.” He sets his glass down with immaculate care and lets the room tighten around the words. “It seems you will be getting what you wished for. Altheira has captured my interest, as I’m sure you’ve seen. She has agreed to be… mine.”

For a beat William’s face collapses into a picture that could have been painted for every hopeful father in the city: elation, relief, visions of banners and banquets. “A wedding? Naturally, of course. When—when would you have it? Godswilling, we can announce the match and—”

Cazador’s smile never shifts; only his eyes flash, a small thing like a knife. “Marriage?” he echoes, the single syllable soft as silk and precise as a blade. “No. A ritual binding, perhaps. There is precedent.” He inclines his head slightly, as if indulging an amusing misunderstanding. “If you prefer the pageantry of a month’s time, we could perform certain ceremonies then. The timing is trivial.”

William blinks as if someone just handed him a marigold and told him it was a laurel. “Oh. Well! Naturally. A ceremony in a month would be quite... delightful. I shall see to the arrangements. My daughter will be glad to—”

Cazador lifts a hand, cutting the man off with an effortless gesture that says there will be no further conversation. The room grows cold. “Lord Blackmere,” he says, voice very close to the bone now, “you misunderstand the nature of what I propose. She is not being offered as a wife in the ordinary sense. She is to take her place within my household. Her chamber, her retinue, her nights and certain privileges of her company will be here, under my roof.”

William’s smile thins like the last line of a drawn curtain. “You mean, she would live…here? That is…well…Lord Szarr, I assumed—surely one remains at their father’s house until—”

“It is my wish,” Cazador interrupts, polite as wind but with an iron center, “that she remain in my house. Her belongings can be sent in the morning.” He says the words as one might announce the planting of a rare seed. “She will be a part of my household. You need not trouble yourself with logistics. I will see that she is… accommodated.”

The color drains from William’s face faster than shame could ever have allowed. Pride battles panic across his features. “But, my daughter—our alliance—this was to be—”

Cazador’s eyes slide to me and linger there, as if he is tasting my answer, and I feel a prickle of heat and cold all at once. I raise my glass, smile the same way a dagger might be polished, bright, brilliant, inoffensive. “Lord Szarr,” I say softly, letting my voice carry the practiced politeness I have worn since childhood, “if it pleases you to have me remain, then I shall honor your house. I owe you a debt of thanks for hospitality rendered.”

William sputters, relief and outrage cross him like two different storms. “My…my jewel, Altheira? Have you…have you consented to stay in his—” He glances at Cazador for confirmation as if the lord might reinterpret the words into something gentler, something sporting a ring.

Cazador studies him with that patient cruelty, then speaks as one who is closing a ledger. “Yes. She has consented. Bring her things in the morning, William. Arrange what you must for the ceremony, if a spectacle warms your heart, but understand this: she will be in my care from this night forward.”

The thing in William’s eyes that had been hunger and scheming for advancement collapses into something new—unease, then a slow, dawning fear as his ambitions turn inward and show themselves to be hollow without his daughter beside them. He opens his mouth, closes it, reaches for the comfort of a word and finds only the echo of the one Cazador used.

“Your care?” he tries, voice small now. “You mean, her wardship? You will see to her protection?”

Cazador inclines his head, the parlor show of charm smoothed to a fine sheen. “Precisely, Lord Blackmere. Protection, cultivation, and the privilege of her company. You will have your ceremony if you insist upon pageantry. Send her things in the morning.”

There is a thud in my ribs like a hammer driving a stake. Around us the spawn glide like shadows, their attention nothing if not efficient, eyes flicking, the smallest of nods shared at the edge of this new fact. Astarion’s fingers rest on the ivory like a wound; he has not moved once. 

My father swallows, straightens his coat, and for perhaps the first time in my life I see hunger rippling into genuine fear on his face. He checks himself as if embarrassed by the feeling, forcing back the panic with an awkward laugh. “Yes, well! Of course. If Lord Szarr wishes to house my daughter, I—I can do nothing but be thankful. How very fortunate.” The words are brittle. He fits them onto himself like armor that no longer quite closes.

Cazador’s smile widens the slightest degree, satisfied, and for the briefest second his eyes soften, not toward William, but toward me, as though he is pleased with the bloom he has coaxed. “Excellent,” he says, low and intimate. “We will consider this a beginning.”

As the words settle, a new current runs through the room, one that carries the rustle of curtains and the hollow clink of goblets. I stand there between them, glass cool in my hand, the mask of politeness perfectly in place. Inside me is a wild, furious, triumphant ache. The bargain has been struck, and it is exactly what I sought: closeness to Astarion, and a place where the dangerous game can be played from the inside. But beneath that desperate joy is another, darker truth I do not speak aloud: the cost of being part of Szarr’s household is not merely social. It is permanent in ways I am only beginning to imagine.

Cazador touches my elbow with the faintest, possessive pressure—no tenderness, only the promise of ownership—and at that touch I feel the room tilt. In the shadow of his palm I already know the garden he tends: beautiful, cultivated, and sharply pruned on command.

Chapter Text

Chapter 9

I watch my father retreat from the ballroom, shoulders hunched with that satisfied, anxious air he always wears after a performance. His voice fades, and the room seems to shrink with it, leaving only the soft clink of goblets and the scrape of trays. Servants and spawn move like ghosts, gathering the night into neat piles.

Cazador’s gaze slices to Astarion. “See her to her chambers. The east wing. The Amber Suite. I think it will… suit her.”

His gloved fingers brush my elbow, claiming.

Astarion bows, polished and brittle. “As you wish, master.”

Cazador lingers a heartbeat longer, crimson eyes flicking between us as if calculating some private game. Then he turns away, the air stretching wider and colder behind him.

Astarion pivots and strides out of the ballroom without a glance to see if I follow.

The corridors pull us along, torches guttering the walls in pools of amber. My heels whisper over the rugs as I keep pace with him. Silence settles, broken only by his breath—an occasional sharp intake that gutters out again, words he can’t decide to spend on me.

I keep my eyes forward, my pulse knocking under my ribs. Every step toward the Amber Suite feels heavier… but it’s also proof of the bargain I made. This is the cost. This is the victory.

At the door he stops, his hand hovering over the handle. His crimson gaze finally finds me, and the space between us twangs like a struck wire.

He holds my stare as his gloved thumb lifts, turning the handle. The door yawns open.

I step inside first. Lamp-glow and velvet swallow us whole. A carved four-poster dominates the space; a chaise waits at the window beside a low table set with untouched wine, an island of indulgence already prepared. For a moment it feels like refuge.

Then the door slams shut with a judder that makes me flinch. He leans his shoulder to the wood, spine squared against the world beyond. But there’s no calm in him now, only tight, caged tension. His eyes, red and bright, cut into me without words.

“I’m sure you’re pissed at me,” I manage, the words scraping out of a throat gone suddenly small.

“Pissed?” He spits the word like ash. “Pissed at you?” His voice climbs, frayed and sharp. “You bound yourself to Cazador Szarr—my master, Altheira. You baited him into claiming you. For what, exactly?” All trace of humor is gone, ripped out by hurt and fury.

He moves fast before I can answer. Four strides and he’s on me. My heel snags on the hem of my gown; the bed clips my elbow. For one raw heartbeat I think he will strike. The air tastes of iron.

Instead his hands close around my wrists. Cold, iron-strong, they lift until my pulse thrums against his grip. His other palm finds my throat—not crushing, not kind, just claiming. His jaw works, all sharp angles and restraint stretched thin.

“You,” he breathes, voice low and dangerous, “you chose him. You gave yourself to the man who keeps my neck under his thumb. Do you know what you’ve done? Do you understand what you’ve gambled with?” Each syllable lands like a stone.

I open my mouth to answer, but the words die under the weight of his stare.

A sound breaks from him—half laugh, half snarl. His thumb drags across my knuckles, almost tender against the violence of the hold. “I should be furious,” he says, each word a blade. “I should spit and tear and rage until every wall in this cursed house knows your name is mine to curse.” His breath ghosts my ear, hot and fraying. “Do you understand? If he decides you belong to him, I may not be allowed to touch you. I may be forced to watch you wither under his hand.”

He jerks me forward until my chest meets his. The contact is close and raw, every inch of him trembling with that dangerous thing—want braided through anger. “You were reckless,” he snarls. “Beautiful and stupid and reckless, and I should hate you for it.”

Then, as if the storm can’t hold another second, his mouth crashes against mine. The kiss is not gentle. His teeth graze mine, his lips bruise, and his hand clamps at my waist, dragging me flush.

He tears away just enough to drop his forehead to mine, breath ragged.

“And yet,” he hisses, raw and small, “all I can think about is that you did it for me.”

The confession hums through me like a live wire. My hands rise, cupping his face.

“I would choose you a thousand times,” I whisper, steady though my pulse riots. “Even if it ruins me.”

He stares for a long moment, astonishment flickering through the red of his eyes. Then he moves—not the lunge from before, but a slow closing of distance. His lips press to mine, soft and reverent, a kiss that feels like a first touch rather than a reprieve. His palms cup my face, fingers sliding to the nape of my neck, thumbs tracing the hollow beneath my collarbone as though mapping me.

I answer in kind, threading my fingers into his hair, shifting my hips, pressing my body against his with deliberate hunger.

“Stay,” I murmur against his lips.

He smiles, forehead resting to mine. “Always,” he answers, and for a heartbeat the promise sets the world on fire.

I tilt toward him, our mouths hovering, brushing, tasting—until his tongue finds mine. Unhurried at first, then deeper. His mouth presses harder. Each drag of his lips deliberate, as if he’s etching himself into me one slow stroke at a time.

His hands, restless in their restraint, finally begin to move. One stays at my cheek, anchoring me. The other slides down, palm finding the curve of my waist, fingers gathering silk.

When his hand glides up the inside of my thigh, I arch into him with a broken gasp. The sound he makes in return is low and rough. His lips leave mine to wander down my throat, dragging a shiver through me.

With sudden heat, my fingers fist in his hair, dragging his head back just enough to catch his crimson eyes.

“Astarion,” I whimper, hips rolling up against him. “Stop holding back.”

The effect is instant. His breath stutters; his control splinters. A growl rumbles out of him as he crushes his mouth to mine again.

His hand jerks higher beneath my gown, fingers biting into the soft flesh of my thigh like punishment for daring him. He grinds against me, the sharp ridge of his need undeniable through the thin barrier of fabric.

“Gods,” he rasps into my mouth, voice raw and dangerous with want. “Do you even know what you’ve done?” His fingers drag higher, thumb brushing the heat beneath my underwear. “You think you can play games with me, Altheira, and not be devoured?”

I shiver, a soft sound escaping as my hands roam the hard cut of his shoulders, the sharp line of his back, urging him closer and daring him further.

He tears from my mouth just long enough to scatter kisses along my jaw, down the curve of my neck. Each brush of fang scrapes my skin–-warning, promise, plea bound in one. His lips hover at my pulse, trembling. For a shuddering beat I think he will bite me, but he drags himself away, burying his face against my throat like a man cursing his own restraint.

I rake my nails down his waist, tugging him to keep moving, keep rocking against me. “Don’t stop,” I whisper.

The growl that rises from his chest vibrates straight through my bones. His teeth catch sharp at my shoulder, claiming, while his free hand seizes my wrists and slams them above my head. I gasp and arch, and he drinks the sound like wine, lips curving in dark triumph. His grip tightens, my pulse fluttering wild beneath his fingers. His eyes drop there, fever-bright, before he crashes back to my mouth in a kiss that devours every ragged sound I make. His tongue tangles with mine; his teeth catch my lip until it stings.

I writhe beneath him, straining against the hold at my wrists, desperate to touch. He doesn’t relent. His hips grind down harder, the pressure sharp and perfect through the thin layers between us, each movement threatening to tear the last of my control away.

He tears his mouth from mine, forehead pressed to mine, breath coming in jagged bursts. “Gods,” he hisses as the ridge of him drags against me just right, “you feel… you feel like you were made to ruin me.”

I catch his lip between my teeth, a wicked gleam sparking through me. “I am,” I whisper.

Before his breath can catch, I tilt my hips sharp. The bed creaks; I twist; his grip falters just long enough for me to break free. Suddenly I’m straddling him, skirts spilling in black folds around his waist, palms flat to his chest, pinning him down.

His crimson eyes flare wide, hunger flashing in the red. He bares his teeth in a snarl, but doesn’t move to reclaim control. His fingers flex against the sheets, trembling with the urge to seize me.

I grind down slowly, deliberately. A moan slips from me, low and wanting. His head tips back with a sound caught between groan and cry.

“You little…” His voice breaks into a growl as his hands finally rise to clutch my hips.

I lean down, capturing his mouth before he can finish the curse. The kiss steals air from both of us. His hands shoot higher, fisting in my hair, the intent clear: wrench me back, remind me who has centuries of practice at control.

But I don’t relent. My mouth drags down the line of his jaw, leaving sharp, open-mouthed kisses, sucking hard enough to mark him in places that will betray us both. His breath catches; his eyes roll back. The fists in my hair falter, then clench helplessly, knuckles whitening in the strands as he trembles beneath me.

The buttons of his shirt give one by one beneath my fingers, each flick deliberate, each reveal a slow unwrapping of pale skin that gleams in the lamplight. My mouth follows the path I carve, lips and teeth grazing up the column of his throat until I pause, sucking at skin just long enough to leave a mark.

“Fuck—” The word slips from him raw and involuntary. His head tips back into the pillows in a posture that looks like surrender but trembles with restraint.

The fabric parts wider as I push his shirt open. My palms spread across the planes of his chest, drinking in the coiled strength thrumming under his skin. My mouth trails after them, slow and unhurried—kissing, biting, sucking along the ridges of muscle until I reach the line of his ribs.

His hips buck, a broken sound tearing out of him as if it’s been trapped for centuries. I shift lower, leaving a path of marks down his stomach, each one deliberate.

“A—Altheira,” he hisses, voice ragged. His fingers twitch in my hair—half command, half surrender. When my teeth scrape lower, he groans and lets go, his hand falling to clutch the sheets instead.

I smile against his skin, wicked and triumphant. “Shh,” I murmur, my breath hot over his stomach. “Didn’t you just say I was reckless?” Another kiss. A sharper bite. “Let me prove you right.”

His breath comes in ragged bursts, every muscle strung tight as if one wrong move will snap him. I kiss lower and slower, tasting salt, pressing my lips deliberately against the hard line beneath his waistband. He groans, loud and raw, head snapping forward as if torn between dragging me up or holding me down. His fists knot the sheets.

I look up once, catching his crimson eyes just as my lips part. Then I close hot around him.

The sound he makes rips through the room. His back arches; his eyes fly wide before rolling back, undone. The silk under his hands tears as his control splinters completely.

I set a slow, merciless rhythm, dragging my mouth with deliberate pressure, my tongue tracing him in long, patient strokes. When I hollow my cheeks and take him deeper, his gasp shreds the air. “Gods, Altheira—” His hips strain to thrust, but my palms press into his hips, pinning him down, forcing him to take only what I give.

Deeper. Another slow pull. His hands shoot to my hair with a splintering plea. “Please…oh, fuck.” His whole body trembles beneath my hands, breath stuttering in ragged gasps. His grip in my hair tightens, loosens, then tightens again as the edge drags him closer.

Then it hits. His body bows hard, back arching off the mattress as he comes undone in my mouth. Every muscle strains and shakes; the sound that tears out of him is raw, guttural—stripped of polish, stripped of centuries, nothing left but the ruin I’ve dragged from him.

I swallow him down, chasing every tremor until the tension unspools into shaking aftershocks. He drops back to the mattress with a sound that’s half groan, half disbelief, chest rising and falling in ragged pulls. One hand slips from my hair to my cheek, his thumb trembling as it brushes my skin.

His crimson eyes find mine—dazed, wrecked, undone. For a heartbeat he only stares, lips parted, as if words might kill him if he tries to shape them. When they come, they’re a rasp, a prayer dragged through gravel.

“Gods, Altheira…” His voice cracks on the whisper. “You’re going to be the death of me… and I’ve never wanted the end so badly.”

His thumb lingers at my cheek, the tremor still running through his fingers. Then, slowly, the glint returns, wicked and hungry. The corner of his mouth curls into a smirk that can’t quite hide the wreckage of his breath.

“Now…” His voice drops, rough with promise. “…come here. I want to taste myself in your mouth.”

For a heartbeat I just breathe against him, still tasting him on my tongue, my chest rising hard against his. His smirk lingers, a tremor of hunger buried under the line of confidence.

I crawl up the length of him, skirts dragging slow across his hips, palms gliding over the pale planes of his chest until they frame his jaw. His hand finds the back of my neck, guiding me the last inch, and our mouths collide.

The kiss is different now, dark and deliberate. His tongue claims mine with the sharp taste of himself still fresh on me, and the groan that breaks from him is feral, wrecked, unguarded. His fingers tangle in my hair, tugging until I gasp; he swallows the sound like it belongs to him.

“Good girl,” he murmurs into my mouth, voice hoarse and splintering. “Now show me how much of me you can take.”

His other hand drifts low, sliding back beneath the fabric bunched at my hips. He presses me down against the hardness already stirring back to life, rolling his hips up with slow, deliberate cruelty. The sound that rumbles from his chest vibrates into my bones; a cry breaks out of me before I can bite it back.

“Please,” I whisper, reckless against the curve of his mouth, hips already grinding to meet his. “Ruin me. I want to be ruined until I can’t move.”

“You don’t even know what you’re asking for.”

His hand clamps my waist, pinning me as he grinds up, the pressure sharp enough to drag a gasp from my throat. He drinks the sound like wine, lips curving cruel. Then, without warning, he flips us. The mattress dips hard beneath his weight. My wrists are caught, slammed above my head, his body pressing me down, all heat and iron restraint.

“Say it again,” he snarls, his mouth a breath from mine, voice frayed with the tremor of control. “Beg me for it. Beg me to ruin you.”

The room tilts under the command, and still a wicked smile curls at my lips even as my pulse thrums wild against his grip.

“I said ruin me,” I whisper back, sharper now, daring. My hips arch to drag against him. “So what are you waiting for?”

His laugh is low, cutting, almost cruel. “As you wish.”

His hand abandons my wrists only to clamp at my throat, fingers circling firm. 

Forcing my gaze to his, he thrusts into me, hard and unrelenting.

The sudden stretch rips a cry from me, half gasp, half moan, breaking sweet beneath his hand. My back arches hard, my body surging up to meet him, every inch of me clutching, pulling, desperate for more.

“Gods—” the word fractures as he drives deeper, his grip at my throat turning each sound ragged and breathless.

His crimson eyes blaze, devouring me. “Look at you,” he growls, thumb pressing under my jaw, tightening just enough to send the world flaring white. “You wanted ruin. Does it feel like ruin now?”

“Yes,” I choke out, my nails dragging hard down his back. The ache blooms sharp and exquisite, every thrust spiking pleasure so fierce it blurs with pain. My smile twists wicked even through the tremor in my voice. “You feel—so fucking good.”

His snarl rips the air as he slams harder into me, each thrust brutal, punishing—yet his mouth still finds mine, devouring every whimper, every ragged plea I can’t hold back.

The bed shudders against the wall, each slam echoing the wet, desperate cries he drags from me. His hips piston with ruthless rhythm, hunger and fury and need all crashing through him.

“Is this what you wanted?” he growls, breath hot against my ear as he pounds into me, every word a ragged curse. “To be split open, used until you can’t think?”

I can’t answer. My voice breaks into sobs of pleasure, my mouth open and drooling against his shoulder. The force of him strips me of words, of thought, leaving only gasps and clawing nails raking down his back.

He shifts, angling deeper, hitting the place that makes my vision spark white. My cry rips out hoarse and strangled, my body thrashing under the vice of his hold. His hand seizes my jaw, forcing my gaze to his as he slams into me again and again.

“Look at me,” he snarls, crimson eyes blazing. “I want to watch you come undone on my cock.”

Tears sting hot at the corners of my eyes. My body bows beneath him, every nerve sparking, every muscle trembling as he wrecks me with merciless rhythm. His pace quickens, driving me higher, rougher, until I’m choking on moans, drool slicking my chin.

“Good girl,” he hisses, his voice breaking on a groan as my walls clamp around him. “That’s it, fall apart for me. Show me who ruins you.”

And I do. The orgasm tears through me violent and raw, my body spasming around him, my cry shattering into something wordless and wrecked. He doesn’t stop. He pounds through it, dragging it out until I’m sobbing, limp, undone beneath him.

The way I squeeze around him tears a guttural sound from his chest. His rhythm falters for a heartbeat, before he slams back in harder, chasing his own ruin through mine.

“Fuck, Altheira—” The words tear out of him like a curse, voice hoarse and ragged. His hips snap with frantic force, bruising thrusts that slam me into the bedframe. The sound of skin, of breath, of broken cries fills the room.

His hand clamps harder at my throat, pinning me as his pace turns ruthless, almost feral, each thrust deeper until he’s shaking above me, crimson eyes wide and wild. “Gods—you feel—fuck—” His jaw breaks on a snarl, teeth bared like he’d bite the air itself to keep from losing it.

I cling to him helplessly, nails dragging down his back as aftershocks still ripple through me, my body slick and trembling. Each twitch, each squeeze around him rips another wrecked groan from his throat, pulling him closer to the edge.

Then it takes him. His body bows hard, hips jerking as he slams into me one last time. His cry shatters raw as he spills deep, his whole frame convulsing with the force of it. His forehead crashes to mine, sweat-damp hair sticking, breath ragged as he pumps through the aftershocks, still driving, still shaking, like he can’t bear to let go.

His growls bleed into groans, his groans into ragged gasps until the last of his strength trembles out of him. At last he sags against me, chest heaving, still buried deep inside. His hand slips from my throat to cradle my jaw, thumb shaking as it smears tears and spit across my cheek.

When his crimson eyes find mine, they’re wrecked and wild and reverent all at once. “Gods,” he rasps, voice shredded, “you’ve ruined me. Completely.”

A shiver runs through me. My lips part against his as his fingers tighten once more at my throat, just enough to steal my breath. Hunger flickers back to life in his eyes, dark and glinting through the wreckage. “And yet,” he murmurs, rough and low, almost a vow, “I would let you tear me apart a thousand times… if it means you’re mine in the ruin.”

His mouth finds mine one last time, crushing and bruised, a kiss sealing the promise like blood. Then he collapses fully, breath hot, chest hammering, his weight pinning me into the mattress as the room falls into silence. Only our tangled breaths remain, holding the world outside at bay.

My fingers slide into his damp hair, his trembling thumb still tracing the hollow of my throat, and I know, somewhere beneath the wreckage of this moment, that our ruin has only just begun.

Chapter Text

Chapter 10

Two weeks pass like stolen time.

The Amber Suite becomes its own world, a gilded cage turned strange sanctuary. Astarion stays more often than he leaves, slipping out before dawn and returning before dusk. We spend our nights in low conversation, in touches that linger until I forget where I end and he begins.

I find ways to fill the hours: rearranging the suite to my liking, sketching the view from the window, embroidering flowers and small, secret animals into scraps of silk. Sometimes I read from the collection of books Cazador permits his spawn—histories, poetry, the manuals noble daughters are meant to recite until their voices smooth like glass. And sometimes, I simply watch Astarion: the way his hands twitch when silence lasts too long, the flick of crimson eyes to the door at every distant sound.

He is wound tight, like a bowstring stretched to breaking. Even in laughter I’ve heard it, startled and too quick to vanish. He does not speak of it, but I can feel the waiting in him. Waiting for the blow, the trap, the silence to shatter.

Cazador, unnervingly, does nothing. No summons. No punishments. No mention of Astarion’s constant presence in my chambers. His absence hangs heavier than his presence ever could.

As for the others, the brothers and sisters I have not yet met, I catch only glimpses: a pale face at the end of a hall, whispers cut short when I appear. Always the sense of being watched. Always from the shadows.

Until now.

I hear them before I see them. Voices sharp in the corridor outside the suite, too raw to be courtly, too bitter to be mistaken for anything but a quarrel.

I step quietly into the hall. The air is taut, humming with the kind of silence that follows after words cut too deep.

Astarion stands with his back half-turned to me, posture elegant but coiled. Facing him is a man I know at once must be one of the others—a spawn sibling. His face is pale as carved stone, his hair a honey-blonde, his mouth twisted with spite.

“You always get special treatment,” the stranger snaps, his voice low but shaking. “Always. You think yourself above the rest of us because the master lets you preen at his parties?”

Astarion lets out a brittle laugh, splitting the air. “Above you? Don’t be absurd, Petras. I only get the privilege of his attention. My ‘special treatment’ finds me in the kennels, too. A privilege I see none of you idiots hankering after.”

Petras’ lip curls, his eyes bright with venom. “When was the last time you even went to the kennels?”

Silence stretches. Astarion doesn’t answer. His smirk arrives instead, sharp as a knife. 

“It’s no matter,” Petras continues coolly, voice dropping to a silken sneer. “I’m sure whatever punishment the master has in store for you will last decades.” His gaze flicks, just for a heartbeat, toward me. “I only hope your little girlfriend is worth it.”

Astarion’s gaze snaps to me, his smirk falling away. “Altheira—”

I blink between them, my brows knitting. “What in the hells are the kennels?”

Petras laughs—bitter, cracked, too close to madness. “Gods above, have fun explaining that one, brother.” He turns on his heel, his footsteps echoing down the corridor until silence swallows him whole.

Astarion’s glare follows him, sharp enough to flay, until I step closer and touch his arm. “Astarion? What was that about?”

His eyes soften when they drop to me, but the smile he forces is tight. “It’s nothing. Petras is probably just bitter that the only good thing to grace these halls chose me.” His hand rises, tucking a loose curl behind my ear before trailing down to catch my fingers. The touch is tender, but I can feel the tension thrumming beneath it. “Now, why don’t we see if we can steal you some dinner, hm? It’s nearly sundown.”

I sigh, unconvinced. “Astarion, don’t change the subject. I don’t think—”

“Astarion.”

The name slices the air like a blade, and my blood runs cold.

Astarion goes rigid, straightening as though struck. Slowly, I glance past him. Lord Szarr stands sovereign at the end of the hall, hands folded neatly behind his back, eyes fixed on me.

“Leave us.” The command rings smooth and absolute, directed to his spawn though his gaze never wavers from mine.

Astarion looks down at me, unspoken dread flickering in his crimson eyes. He squeezes my hand once—an apology, a warning, a vow—and then lets go. “As you wish, master.”

“Wait—” My hand snatches for his, but he is already turning away, already retreating down the corridor under the weight of obedience. My chest tightens, fury bubbling hot. I swing my glare to Cazador. “Excuse me, my lord—did you not see we were in the middle of a conversation?”

“And do you not remember our agreement?” His reply is smooth, a kind of silk that cuts. He closes the distance at a measured prowl. “You’ve had your time with my spawn. Now it’s time to hold up your end.”

He stops in front of me, gloved fingers catching my chin. I try to pull back, but his grip is unyielding, cool as stone.

“You declared yourself mine, Altheira.” The growl vibrates low in his chest, his eyes flickering red. I go still, not daring to even take a breath. Silence stretches until he lets my chin go, a smile twitching at my apparent surrender. “You will accompany me to the Hawkyns tonight. Dalyria and Eleanor are already in your chambers. They will prepare you.”

The name makes my stomach tip. The Hawkyns. I didn’t know much about them. My father had called them ‘filth from Athkatla’ and refused to trade with them. I force my voice steady. “Yes, my lord.”

Cazador’s smile deepens, fangs catching the lamplight. “Very good.”

He turns to go. Instinct moves me before thought does; my fingers brush his sleeve. “Wait.”

He stills, gaze sliding to my hand, then up to my face. His eyes narrow.

Heat climbs my neck. I drop my hand as if burned, clasping my fingers together. “Will there be food?”

One brow arches, a smirk tugging at his mouth. “Is my dove hungry?” His chuckle is soft, amused. “The Hawkyns drink more than they dine, I’m afraid.”

He inhales as if tasting the thought, gaze flicking across the hall, faintly amused. “I suppose I can spare a moment to feed you.”

The amusement dies as his eyes return to mine. “But, Altheira—” the warning rides low “—I expect perfection tonight. I want no doubt left about who you belong to. Do you understand?”

I nod, swallowing down the anxiety that clung to my throat. “Yes, Lord Szarr. I will act accordingly to keep our deal.”

His gaze drifts down, lingering at my neck before sliding back up. “Good. Go dress. I’ll collect you in an hour.”

Shadows coil behind him as he strides up the hall.

I stare down the corridor long after he’s gone, watching the shadows ripple where he disappeared. The silence hums, heavy enough to press against my ribs. For a moment I don’t feel my body—only the tight drum of my pulse, the echo of his fingers under my chin.

I blink, hard, forcing breath back into my lungs. The Amber Suite is only a turn away. I put one foot in front of the other, skirts brushing against marble, and will myself not to look over my shoulder.

When I push the chamber door open, they’re waiting.

Dalyria rises first, the lamplight catching on her pale hair. Her expression softens at the sight of me, lines of weariness tugging at her face. “There you are,” she says gently, voice carrying a nurturing cadence. “Come, let’s get you ready.”

Beside her, Eleanor lounges in my chair by the window as though she owns it, one leg draped over the other. Her lips curl slow, a smile that never reaches her eyes. “So it’s true,” she purrs. “Our little guest offered herself to Lord Szarr… all for the sake of a brother who can’t keep his cock out of anything that breathes.”

Dalyria stiffens. “Eleanor.”

But Eleanor leans forward, chin in hand, eyes glittering with cruelty. “Tell me, does it feel noble? Throwing yourself into the fire for a man who’s bedded half the city and would’ve bedded you anyway, deal or no deal?” She tilts her head, smile widening. “Gods, darling—if that’s not pathetic, I don’t know what is.”

Dalyria snaps her gaze to me, voice firm but kind. “Ignore her. Eleanor forgets her place.”

Eleanor’s laugh is bright, cruel, echoing in the chamber. “Place?” she repeats, rising to her feet in one liquid motion. She circles me slowly, predator casual. “I know my place. And I know his. And yours.” Her eyes narrow. “The only one who doesn’t seem to know it yet… is you.”

Dalyria moves quickly, placing herself between us, her hand warm on my arm. “Enough. We’re here to dress her, not wound her.”

I keep my smile intact, but my nails bite crescents into my palms. I had dealt with petty cruelty like this plenty of times before, though usually from jealous noble girls with more affectation than wit. Eleanor’s barbs, at least, cut sharper than their simpering little digs. And like with them, I remind myself: nothing delights such girls more than a flinch. Better to starve them of it, to leave their words hanging useless in the air.

Eleanor studies me for a beat, clearly irritated by my silence. When I don’t bite, she sighs dramatically, then sweeps to the wardrobe. She plucks free a gown I hadn’t placed there, and turns with a flourish. “Very well, then.” She holds it up against me, her lips curling into a poisonous smile. “Gods above. What a number this is. I’d be jealous—if I didn’t know who your date was tonight.”

A huff of bitter amusement escapes me despite myself. Dalyria steps closer, smoothing her pale fingers reverently along the sleeves. “What I would’ve given to wear something like this when I was still alive…” she murmurs, wistful, almost tender.

It was beautiful—if beautiful could also be terrible. Black sheer silk shaped close to the body, its bodice high and formal, its neckline veiled in lace. Scarlet flowers spilled down the length of it in cascading embroidery, roses blooming like wounds, their edges jagged and lush. The long fabric pooled out onto the floor, bleeding crimson into the black. A dress that didn’t just announce me, but staked a claim. 

I didn’t expect anything less. 

Dalyria lays the gown carefully across the bed, smoothing the dark silk with a kind of reverence. For a moment she seems caught in thought, her hands lingering on the embroidered roses as though they might still bloom beneath her touch. When she finally speaks, her voice is softer than before, careful, almost hesitant.

“You must really care about him, don’t you? Astarion, I mean.” Her eyes flick up to mine, searching. “To give up so much. To do all of this—for him. If I may ask…why?”

The question lingers. I sit a moment in silence, staring at the dress as if its shadows might supply an answer. It takes longer than I expect to gather one.

When I finally lift my gaze to her, my voice is even, honest. “I know, to you, it must look like a massive sacrifice. But it’s…not so different from the life I would have had anyway. I’d have gone to the same parties, been paraded as the perfect wife for a nobleman who only wanted my family’s money. I’d have been expected to produce heirs, raise them, and then die. That’s the shape of it.”

Eleanor snorts softly from the wardrobe, but I ignore her. Instead, a smirk curls at my lips. “Granted, I would have probably had a string of scandalous affairs with servants to keep myself entertained. But between us girls—” I lean in just slightly, conspiratorial. “—I much prefer a scandalous affair with a vampire lord’s spawn. It makes for a far better story.”

Dalyria’s mouth curves, the smallest ghost of a smile, though her eyes still hold that careful weight of curiosity. Eleanor, on the other hand, arches a brow and lets out a sharp, incredulous laugh. “Gods, you really are mad.”

I shrug, shedding my clothes. “Maybe. But at least this way it’s my choice.”

Dalyria and Eleanor move with practiced hands, silent but efficient, the only sounds the whisper of silk and the click of clasps. Eleanor laces the gown tight, drawing the bodice snug until my ribs ache, while Dalyria smooths the embroidered sleeves over my shoulders with surprising gentleness. Their silence feels deliberate, as though words would only shatter the ritual weight of the moment.

My hair is next. Eleanor pulls the combs through a little too sharply, but Dalyria steadies her, and soon my curls are coaxed into shape—loose spirals spilling down my back, the crown gathered and pinned. Dalyria tucks small roses in, matching the theme of the dress.

When they finally step back, I catch sight of myself in the mirror. The gown clings like it was grown onto me, each embroidered rose alive in the lamplight, each curl and blossom complimenting my face like something cultivated for a stage.

Neither sister speaks. They don’t need to. The message is in the gown, in the hair, in the silence itself: you are being prepared, displayed, claimed.

For a breath, I just stand there in the hush, staring at the stranger in the mirror — this painted, laced creature draped in roses.

Then the latch at the door stirs, soft. We all turn, expecting Cazador’s shadow.

Instead, it’s him.

Astarion slips inside like smoke, lamplight flashing in his eyes. He’s out of breath, sharp with tension, but when his gaze finds me it softens, almost breaking.

“You look…” His voice trails, too raw to finish. He shuts the door quietly behind him.

“You’re welcome,” Eleanor drawls, her smirk slicing through the hush.

Astarion flicks a hand at her without looking away from me. “Please. You did nothing but tug on a few strings.”

He crosses to me, palms cupping my cheeks, pulling me into his orbit.

Dalyria presses her hand to her chest, mouthing an audible little aww.

He just stares at me, wonder and devastation caught in the same breath. “You’re the worst thing to ever happen to me…”

My mouth opens in sharp offense, but before I can speak he finishes, “…because now I’ll have to take up painting, just so I can admire you when you’re not here.”

Dalyria lets out a quiet laugh of relief. Eleanor snorts behind her hand.

I swat his chest, grinning despite myself, before pulling him into a tight hug. His laugh vibrates warm into my hair, lips scattering quick kisses under my ear.

Then he lifts his head, his eyes darting to his sisters. He jerks his chin toward the door in silent request.

Dalyria nods, brushing his arm as she passes, her eyes kind when they meet mine. “Good luck tonight, Altheira.”

Eleanor rolls her eyes, muttering something about “idiots,” but she goes too—pausing just long enough to exchange a knowing look with her brother. A shadow passes over his face, his jaw tightening for a moment, but it's quickly smothered when he looks back to me.

The door clicks shut, and suddenly the room is ours again. The hush feels louder now, like the silence is aware of what it’s holding.

Astarion doesn’t release me right away. His thumb strokes the line of my cheekbone, his gaze searching mine as though trying to memorize me before the night can strip it away. Then, reluctantly, he pulls back—just far enough to slip a hand inside his coat.

“I don’t have much to give you,” he murmurs, quieter than I’ve ever heard him. The bravado, the smirks, they’re gone. In their place is something raw, almost boyish. His hand emerges with a glint of silver: a necklace, simple but elegant, a teardrop garnet set in filigree.

My breath catches. “Astarion…”

“Shh,” he whispers, stepping behind me. I feel the brush of cool chain against my neck, then his fingers at the clasp, trembling just slightly. “Consider it armor. A reminder that no matter what words you speak tonight, no matter whose arm you’re paraded on—you are mine. And I am yours.”

The jewel settles against my collarbone, dark red fire in the lamplight. His lips graze the back of my neck once, lingering. “It’s not worthy of you, but at least when I’m not there, this will be.”

I touch the gem, my fingers brushing his. “It’s perfect,” I whisper, and it feels like a vow.

For a moment, the world is only the two of us, suspended in the lamplight and roses. His hands rest at my shoulders, his forehead lowering to the curve of my neck. I feel him inhale, sharp, desperate, as though he might breathe me deep enough to carry into the dark.

Then the sound comes—steps echoing down the corridor. Heavy. Certain.

Astarion stiffens, pulling away. His crimson eyes flash one last time, burning with all the words he doesn’t have time to say. He presses a swift kiss to my temple. “You’ll be okay.” he whispers, before vanishing out the door.

The door swings open before I can truly collect myself.

Cazador fills the threshold like a storm, pale and severe, his gaze sweeping the chamber once before pinning me in place. His presence makes the lamplight feel colder, the roses at my hair suddenly heavy, overripe.

“Exquisite,” he murmurs, voice low and indulgent. “They’ve done well.” His eyes drag over me like claws, lingering on the cut of the gown, the bare line of my throat, the roses threaded through my hair. “My little dove is ready for flight.”

I force myself not to shrink beneath his stare. My hands twitch at my sides, fists aching to clench, but I hold still, steady, the way I was trained to as a child in noble halls—never flinch, never falter.

He extends a hand. I slip mine into it with practiced grace, my fingers light on his gloved palm. We don’t speak as he leads me out, our footsteps soft on the velvet runner. My head stays high, every step a performance, though it feels like walking into a snare.

At parties, it was easier to pretend. There was an audience—one that was easily persuaded, easily captivated by my every move, whether it was performance or not. But here, in the hush of corridors that stretch toward the waiting carriage, knowing our solitude will extend long into the ride, I feel less like a performer and more like a puppet, dancing on strings I can’t see.

He is the perfect gentleman, and somehow, that is worse. He steadies me without asking as I climb into the carriage, his touch careful, measured. He fixes a stray lock of hair, adjusts a rose with precise care, as though every detail must reflect his vision. The gestures would seem tender, even protective, to anyone watching.

I didn’t fully understand before why Astarion was always so on edge—but I am beginning to. Despite Cazador’s flawless manners, I can’t shake the growing certainty that I am seconds away from horror, and he is savoring the moment before he chooses to unveil it.

The door shuts behind us with a muted thud, sealing me into the carriage with him.

As the carriage lurches forward, I dare a glance up. My breath staggers, finding his crimson gaze locked intensely on the necklace.

Almost instinctively, my hand rises, fingers brushing over the chain as if I could shield it. His eyes flick to mine, and the corners of his mouth curve in the faintest, most dangerous trace of amusement.

He draws in a breath, lips parting to speak.

But I beat him to it.

“What are the kennels?” I blurt, the words spilling too sharp, too quick—an arrow loosed before I can call it back.

Cazador cocks a brow, clearly not expecting the question. He shifts, one leg crossing over the other with elegant ease. “And how did you hear about that, my dear? Surely Astarion would not have told you. Not willingly, at least.”

The thought of Astarion hiding something sends a sharp pang through me, but I force my face into neutrality before he can read it. “It doesn’t matter how I heard it. Answer the question.”

A sharp breath huffs from his nose, almost a laugh. “My, my. I’d nearly forgotten how quick you are to bite.” His hand makes a lazy, dismissive flick, as if humoring me. “Very well. The kennels are… a place where my children learn to master their hunger. To control it, rather than let it control them.”

My brows knit, suspicion tugging at me. That wasn’t the whole truth—I could feel it.

Cazador notices. Of course he does. His gaze sharpens, then softens into something almost… earnest. He leans forward, elbows resting lightly on his knee. “Altheira, I have no doubt Astarion has painted me as a monster. A slaver. A puppetmaster.” His lips curve, just faintly. “But tell me—would you rather I let them loose in the streets? Would you prefer I allow my children to slaughter innocents for their blood?”

The question is a trap and I know it, but still my gaze falters. My head shakes before I can stop it.

He reclines again, satisfied, his eyes drifting pointedly to my throat. “Has he told you my first rule?”

I glance up, startled. “No. You have rules?”

His attention lingers on the chain at my neck, his smile like a blade in silk. “They are not allowed to drink the blood of thinking creatures. They feed only on animals.”

I blink, caught off guard. A strange twist of surprise coils in me. Why should I be shocked? Perhaps because it smacks of morality, and this is Cazador Szarr.

“Why?” The word slips out before I can think better of it.

His smile widens, slow, deliberate. “Maybe because I am not the monster others claim me to be.”

I roll my eyes, turning my gaze to the window as the carriage jolts over cobblestones. “Why turn anyone in the first place, then?”

The carriage rocks over uneven stone, lanternlight sliding across the velvet walls inside. My question lingers between us, sharp as glass.

For once, he doesn’t answer right away. Instead, Cazador turns his head, gaze following mine out the window. The city flickers past—dark spires, shuttered windows, the faint glow of torches in the distance. Silence stretches, long enough that I almost think he won’t bother.

When he finally speaks, his voice is quieter than I’ve ever heard it. Low. Almost… human. “I did not ask to be turned, Altheira. And eternity is a long, long time.”

He shifts, and I feel his gaze return to me, waiting, willing me to look. When I do, crimson eyes burn steady, unreadable, dangerous.

“I did not wish to be alone.”

His words hang in the air, and I hate how they settle into me. I did not wish to be alone.

Something in my chest twists at that. He’s a monster—he must be. A tyrant, a master who has held Astarion in chains for decades. But a part of me, a small part, can’t help but wonder. What if he was forced into this? What if eternity is the nightmare, endless years gnawing at the edges of solitude until the only escape is to drag others into it with you?

I shake my head, forcing the thought away, fixing my gaze out the window again. The streets blur past, lantern light catching on wet stone. When the carriage slows, I expect we’ve reached the Hawkyns. But the sign that swings into view makes me blink.

The Singing Lute.

My brows shoot up. That was one of the most expensive restaurants in Baldur’s Gate, a place noble wives whispered about like it was a temple. I turn to him, suspicion written plain across my face.

Before I can speak, the carriage door opens briefly—not to admit anyone, but to allow a waiter in pristine livery to rush forward. He’s balancing a silver tray, a covered plate, a folded napkin, gleaming utensils. With a bow so low it looks rehearsed, he hands the whole arrangement up to the footman, who slides it neatly inside before shutting us in again.

I stare. Then, slowly, I tilt my head, unable to help the incredulous smile tugging at my mouth. “You ordered ahead,” I say, disbelieving.

Cazador reclines, perfectly at ease, lips curving in the faintest smirk. “Did you think I would let you wilt before my little performance? What kind of date would that make me?”

The tray rests between us now, covered in crisp linen, the scent of butter and herbs already curling into the air. I glance down at it, then back up at him, still baffled.

“I—” My laugh slips out, small and nervous. “I don’t know whether to be impressed or terrified.”

His smile deepens, fangs flashing briefly in the dim carriage light. “Why not both?”

I peel back the linen with careful fingers. Steam curls up, fragrant and rich, and my stomach betrays me with a sharp twist of hunger. A roasted quail, glazed until its skin gleams like amber, rests on a bed of spiced root vegetables. A delicate sauce glistens at the edge of the plate, red as wine, fragrant with cloves and citrus.

The first bite all but melts on my tongue. Sweet, savory, faintly spiced—it is decadent in a way I’ve never tasted before, every flavor balanced, every note purposeful. It feels crafted to seduce the palate the way a song seduces the ear. Each bite sings, resonant and deep, until I find myself pausing, savoring, eyes closed as though listening to music only I can hear.

When I open them, he is watching me. His chin rests on his hand, crimson eyes fixed on me not with hunger, but with a kind of dark amusement.

“Delicious?” he asks, voice smooth.

“Too much so,” I admit, setting the fork down for a breath, because something in me doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction of finishing too quickly. I huff out a nervous laugh. “It’s unfair, really. You could conquer half the city just by feeding them like this.”

His smile curves, sharp and secretive. “And what would be the fun in that, my dove, when I much prefer the taste of conquest drawn out?”

I roll my eyes, going back to my food.

The last bite lingers, sweetness giving way to spice on my tongue. I dab my lips with the linen, willing my pulse to steady. For a moment, I almost forget where we are going—almost forget the weight of velvet roses in my hair, the bargain. His, in the public eye.

Cazador has not looked away. His gaze follows every small motion, every lift of the fork, every swallow. It is unnerving, the way he studies me as though this, too, is part of some elaborate rehearsal.

When I finally set the empty plate aside, he exhales softly, satisfied. “Good,” he murmurs. “A dove must have her strength before she sings.”

The words twist in me, sharp enough to cut through the lingering warmth of the meal. I glance out the window—the city blurs past, streets darkening. My reflection peers back at me, pale and painted, eyes wide in the glass.

I whisper, mostly to myself: “And if the song falters?”

Cazador leans closer, his voice a blade wrapped in silk. “Then you will remember who conducts the orchestra.”

The carriage wheels jolt over cobblestone, the sound loud as a drumbeat. My hand curls tight in my lap, nails pressing crescents into my palm.

Outside, the looming silhouette of the Hawkyn estate rises against the night.

And inside, I know: the performance is about to begin.

Chapter Text

Chapter 11

The Hawkyn state sprawls before us. My father had called the Hawkyns moneyed filth, and already I see what he meant—new wealth flaunted like armor, banners and brassy gold trim screaming for legitimacy. There are no personal guards, only city watch hired to stand at the gates, one already half-asleep.

Cazador helps me down from the carriage with flawless grace: a steady hand, patient smile, crimson eyes glittering with what might seem like refinement alone. But the subtle press of his thumb at my pulse reminds me what this really is. 

Inside, the air is heavy with perfume—cloying jasmine, tuberose, patchouli—layered too heavily and curdling in the heat. I wrinkle my nose and lean toward him. “I understand you want to parade me, but why here? It reeks of desperation and cheap ambition.”

Cazador’s chuckle is low, indulgent. “Ah, one might say you fit right in, given how you’ve behaved toward my spawn.” 

I stifle the urge to roll my eyes. Instead, my gaze snags on a chair with the largest crystal buttons I’ve ever seen. The animal print and grotesquely oversized rolled arms almost dare me to laugh.

Following my glance, Cazador huffs. “Though the Hawkyn’s possess a certain lack of taste even I find entertaining, they are, unfortunately, the only ties to Athkatla worth exploiting.” 

I nod—he means to use them. Straightening into the role he’s written for me, I slide my hand through his arm.

His palm smooths along my side, pausing at my waist. “Relax, Altheira,” he murmurs near my ear. “If that chair is of any consolation, it seems they’re easily impressed.”

A reluctant breath of amusement escapes me, loosening my grip by a hair.

The ballroom doors stand open, ready to welcome us into the fray. Music rises to meet us, strings and brass tumbling together with laughter too loud, the sound teetering just shy of chaos.

Servants drift like wraiths through the crush, some so newly hired their trays shake with nerves, silver catching the light.

Cazador guides me through as though he already owns every inch of it. Heads turn without knowing why. Voices hush mid-sentence. I can’t help but admire, even now, how effortlessly the room offers itself to him.

The Hawkyns glide forward in practiced welcome. Lord Hawkyn’s grin gleams, all polish and rot; Lady Hawkyn’s jewels clatter with every false curtsy.

“Lord Szarr!” the man booms, his voice better suited for a tavern than a ballroom. “At last, you honor us, and with such a vision on your arm!”

His gaze skims me, curious, appraising, before darting away, swallowing as he returns his attention to Lord Szarr.

“Lord Hawkyn,” Cazador replies smoothly, inclining his head. “Your hospitality is…generous.” I note as the faint curl of his lips makes both hosts straighten. He clears his throat, deliberately drawing every nearby gaze. “Allow me to present Lady Altheira Blackmere.”

A ripple moves through the crowd. My family’s name carries its own weight here, and suddenly a dozen gazes fix on me. Lord Hawkyn’s widen; his hands twitch, unsure what deference is expected. I take pity and offer my hand.

“It’s a pleasure.”

He catches it quickly, pressing a clumsy kiss to my knuckles. “Yes! Yes, a pleasure indeed. I had no idea you and Lord Szarr were…” He falters, stranded mid-sentence.

Cazador rescues him. Or rather, claims the moment.

“Aligned. In interest and in company.”

The words fall like stones into water, ripples spreading fast. Nobles murmur—aligned, protected, promised—their whispers already weaving futures I have not chosen.

I smile through the flicker of disgust tightening my throat. “It is an honor to be here, Lord and Lady Hawkyn. I’ve heard your parties are… unforgettable.”

A ripple of laughter follows, some delighted, some mocking, all eager to see how far I’ll play along.

Lady Hawkyn takes my hand, her bangles clinking. “Oh, they are, my dear. And tonight, with you here, I imagine the memory will linger for years.”

Cazador’s hand settles at the small of my back, his thumb tracing once over my spine in silent approval. His dove has taken her cue. The music swells, and the performance begins.

I turn my head toward him, smiling sweetly, just enough for the crowd to catch the gleam of invitation in my gaze. “Shall we start with drinks, my lord? I’m quite parched.”

Cazador’s answering smile is sin in silk. “Parched, are we? Mm. I was under the impression you always left my estate fully…sated. Don’t tell me your appetites are growing already.”

His fingers trail down my arm, languid, deliberate. The heat in his gaze turns the moment obscene, but still I don’t flinch. I only brighten my smile and tighten my hold on his arm.

“What can I say?” I murmur, voice honeyed and easy. “You’ve been a terrible influence.”

Lady Hawkyn trills her delight, the sound so high the chandelier quivers. “Yes! Go and drink! We have only the finest.”

I move first. A graceful glide forward that reads as poise to the nobles, defiance to him.

He doesn’t stop me. Of course he doesn’t. He lets me feel the illusion of leading.

When we reach the table of crystal decanters, he selects a goblet of dark red wine and presses it into my hand with a flourish.
“Drink,” he murmurs, guiding the glass toward my lips.

I look up at him, all gratitude and polish, my tone a melody for our audience. “You’re too kind, my lord. One might almost believe you’re trying to get me drunk.”

His thumb drifts along the stem of the glass, eyes glinting. “Perhaps I am.”

I drain it, every drop, never breaking eye contact.

He wanted me drunk? Fine. I wasn’t planning on doing this sober anyway.

I smile with sweet venom and hand him the empty glass. “Another.”

A flicker of surprise and amusement crosses his face before settling into something far darker. 

“Indulgence becomes you.”

“Good.” I meet his gaze as he hands me another, drinking until red stains my lips. “Because I intend to indulge.”

He studies me for a moment, then extends his hand, his tone a purr threaded with danger. “Then come, my jewel. Let them all see how indulgence shines.”

He leads me back into the warm glow of the crowd, where I spot the familiar circle of nobles. Lady Verya fans herself with feigned languor; Lord Mason lounges with one hand on his hip, the other cradling a drink. Our hosts hover close, eager, anxious to reclaim attention.

And there, Lord Kelter.

He stands near the edge of the circle, face flushed, pretending to study the wallpaper. I catch the glance he pointedly avoids returning, and a flicker of respect stirs despite myself. Showing his face after last time takes either courage… or stupidity.

I settle again at Cazador’s arm, daring the foolish hope that for once I might be left to simply stand, smile, and sparkle in silence.

Of course, that illusion doesn’t last.

Lady Hawkyn’s painted smile sharpens as she turns toward me, eyes gleaming.

“My lady,” she begins, her voice all syrup and knives, “forgive me, but I simply must ask about the rumors circulating this evening—concerning you and Lord Szarr’s… servant. I’ve heard you’ve slipped away with him not once, but twice—at his own gatherings.”

A ripple moves through the circle—sharp, eager, hungry. The air thickens with the scent of scandal.

Cazador doesn’t flinch. His smirk curves, indulgent, almost fond. “Rumors,” he drawls, “are the currency of cowards. But if you are so bold as to spend yours aloud…” He turns his head toward me, crimson eyes alight. “…then let us see what my darling Altheira makes of it.”

I know what he wants—denial, deference, a silk-wrapped submission to gild his reputation.

Instead, I let the grin bloom slow and dangerous, pressing a hand to my chest in mock shock. “My, only one? I heard I’d seduced all but one of Lord Szarr’s servants, and that he only claimed me himself to stop me from soiling the entire household.”

The circle erupts.

Gasps, laughter, the flutter of Lady Verya’s fan, Mason sputtering into his wine—all of it swirls around me like smoke.

“Rumors are such a delight,” I continue, letting my gaze catch each of them in turn, my smile sharpening enough to cause a hush. “But I think we all know Cazador Szarr does not share.”

For a moment, the music alone fills the silence. Then Lady Hawkyn dares a laugh—a high, brittle sound that borders on admiration. “Oh, Altheira, you are wicked! How could we ever hope to keep up with you?” Her eyes glitter, half envy, half awe.

Mason recovers next, grinning wide as he lifts his glass toward Cazador. “By the gods, Szarr, you’ve found yourself a woman who can out-scorch even the vilest of tongues. Tell us—when’s the wedding?”

I brace for the next wave of scandal, expecting him to deflect with one of his usual games—to tease them with talk of rituals, perhaps, or smirk and remind the crowd that marriage bores him.

But instead, he looks down at me.

That false warmth curls over his features, one I’m learning to recognize. It’s the look he wears when he’s about to draw blood with words.

“Two weeks,” he answers.

I blink.

What in the hells was he doing?

The circle stills. 

“Two weeks?” Lord Mason sputters, half choking on a laugh. “Surely you jest—”

Cazador doesn’t so much as glance his way. His hand tightens at my waist—polite enough for the onlookers, firm enough that I feel the threat in it.

“My bride-to-be is quite eager,” he purrs, smile spreading like spilled wine. “And I would be a poor husband indeed not to grant her every wish.”

Laughter ripples through the circle, scandal thickening the air like perfume. Fans flutter. Jewels catch the candlelight. The nobles dissolve into delighted disbelief, drunk on the spectacle.

But I can’t move.

I can’t even breathe.

He’s still watching me, the picture of a man basking in his fiance’s adoration. But I felt the measuring in his gaze. His thumb draws a slow circle at my waist in silent command: smile for me, little dove.

I force a laugh, brittle but bright. “What can I say?” My voice sounds too light, too sharp. “Patience was never one of my virtues.”

The room erupts again. The lie takes its first breath and becomes truth.

The wine hums in my veins, heavy and warm, dulling everything but the pulse in my throat.

The questions come in a flurry, each more invasive than the last.

“Where is it happening?”

“At my estate,” Cazador answers smoothly, never missing a beat.

“Have you chosen a theme? A masquerade perhaps!”

“It is a wedding, Lady Hawkyn, not a play.” He murmurs, smiling down at me. “Though perhaps the masks will find their way there all the same.”

The crowd titters. I barely hear them.

“And invitations?” someone presses. “Surely we’ll be among the first?”

“We plan to keep it intimate,” he replies, tone so gracious it feels like a caress. “But of course, you’ll be informed within the week.”

Each answer lands like a drop of fine wine in an open mouth. The nobles drink it down—his charm, his authority, the effortless way he says we.

It should sound absurd. It should sound like fantasy.

But with every silken word, the lie hardens into truth, and the trap closes its teeth. The room tilts faintly, laughter swelling too loud, the garnet at my throat suddenly hot against my skin like a warning I can’t voice.

Someone presses another drink into my hand. I take it without thinking.

Laughter swells around us, gilded and hollow. I join in, half a beat too late, a note too loud.

My goblet empties again.

He looks down just as I lift my gaze to him. “My dear fiancé,” I purr, sweet enough to rot teeth. “I find myself in need of fresh air.”

A murmur ripples through the gathered nobles. Some chuckle knowingly; others avert their eyes, pretending to grant privacy while drinking in every movement.

“Oh, of course!” Lady Hawkyn trills, all delight and false concern, gesturing toward the tall glass doors at the back of the ballroom. “The courtyard is just through there.”

Cazador inclines his head, the very image of poise. “If you’ll excuse us.”

His hand finds the small of my back again—light, guiding, unyielding. The crowd parts as we move, as though the air itself makes way for him.

Before we reach the doors, he plucks another goblet from a passing tray and presses it into my hand.

I take it. Of course I take it.

The taste blooms—dark fruit, spice, smoke—and the world shimmers at the edges. My balance tilts, the ground soft beneath my feet. Every step feels like a dance I don’t remember agreeing to.

The night air hits, intoxicating in its coolness, fragrant with roses and spilled wine. Lanterns sway in the courtyard breeze, their light casting moving shadows my drunk mind can’t seem to keep up with.

Marriage. I was getting married. The thought bubbles up as a giggle, spilling from my lips as I stumble into the grass, kicking off my heels. “Ridiculous.” I wave my hand lazily in the direction I think Cazador stands. “You must think yourself clever,” I drawl, the words slurring more than I intended. “But it is Astarion’s bed I will return to. And it is his cock that sates me.”

Cazador’s laugh rolls out, low and rich, curling around me like smoke. He doesn’t lunge. He doesn’t even raise his voice. He simply walks until his shadow falls over me. “Oh, Altheira…” he murmurs, and the sound of my name from his mouth is almost soft. “You’re even more dangerous when your tongue is loosed.”

I tip my head back, looking at the stars, the goblet trembling as I take another long sip. “Does it bother you?” I hear myself ask. “To smell our evidence all about your manor, knowing I’ll never let you take me the same way?”

The next thing I know he’s crouching too close, his hand sliding under my jaw with a deliberate tilt, thumb brushing the corner of my mouth where laughter still trembles. His crimson eyes catch the lanternlight, impossible and unblinking. “Bother me?” he echoes softly. “No, little love. It thrills me.”

His smirk widens, his fangs glinting cruel and indulgent. “You think you mock me by keeping yourself from my bed. But in truth…” He leans closer, voice sliding over me like a knife over a wound. “...you make me feel more alive than I have in decades.”

The goblet slides from my fingers, spilling crimson into the grass.

“Every drop your body has spilt,” he murmurs, his hand now sliding into my hair. “Spills in a bed I provide. Every shadowed corner you’ve christened with your heat, has been in my house, with my spawn.” His breath ghosts over my face, filling my nostrils with the scent of rotted blood. “Those lips that taste you? That cock that sates you? They belong to me more than they ever will to you.” He stands, drawing me up with him, his fingers still laced in my hair. His lips brush my ear, voice almost tender. “You’d do well to remember that the next time you imagine he actually loses himself in you.”

For a moment, I just stand there, the night spinning slow and cruel around me.
The smell of him—old blood, smoke, something ancient—lingers in my hair. My scalp throbs where his fingers were.

He steps back, smoothing his gloves as though wiping me off him. “You see, little love,” he says, his voice almost fond, “there is no rebellion in a cage I’ve built.”

The world tilts. I laugh—high, broken, wrong. “You really believe that, don’t you?”

His smile doesn’t falter. “I know it.”

Something in me wants to claw at him, to scream until the whole estate comes running. But I only sway, the wine and fear tangling until I can’t tell which is which. I lift my chin instead, the way I am learning to with him when I’ve lost. “Then I suppose I’ll make myself comfortable.”

Cazador’s gaze flickers, something like delight sparking at the edge of it. “That’s my girl,” he murmurs.

He picks up my shoes, and turns, moving toward the gate. And I follow—barefoot, blood-warm, the night closing in behind us.

The ride back is quiet.

Cazador doesn’t speak; he doesn’t have to. His silence fills the carriage without effort. The wheels on the cobblestones make a steady, mechanical rhythm—a heartbeat that isn’t mine.

I sit opposite him, bare feet tucked under my gown, fingers stained red from the wine spilled in the grass. The scent of roses clings to me like an accusation, too alive for the velvet hush.

My gaze drops to his hands—my shoes hooked loosely in his fingers, his gloves immaculate despite everything.

“You did beautifully tonight,” he says at last. His voice is soft, almost gentle. “They’ll be talking about you for weeks.”

I manage a thin smile. “Was that the point?”

He tilts his head, and for the first time tonight his eyes do not merely catch the light—they generate it. Crimson glows from within, a faint, hungry luminescence that pulses like something alive.

“Everything has a point, little love,” he murmurs, voice silk over steel. “You’ll learn that in time.”

His gaze slides to my throat.

I follow it, suddenly hyper-aware of the garnet resting against my collarbone. The necklace feels heavier than it did an hour ago, as though it knows it’s been seen.

“I see you’re enjoying his little trinket,” Cazador says softly. Not a question. A verdict.

My fingers brush the gem before I can stop myself. “It was a gift,” I whisper.

“A gift,” he echoes, leaning forward until the glow of his eyes is all I can see. “A piece of armor, wasn’t it? That’s what he told you?”

I don’t answer. My breath catches and holds, the air suddenly too thick; my fingers curl tight in my skirts as if that small pressure could anchor me.

“I wonder…” he murmurs, his free hand drifting up, sliding beneath the garnet until his knuckles graze my skin. He lifts it just slightly, the chain tightening against my throat as if he’s testing it. “…if it will still feel like armor when you are my wife.”

I swallow hard, the metal biting faintly into my skin under his touch. For a breath, I do nothing. Then, very slowly, I straighten, forcing my chin up until the chain cuts sharper. His eyes flick to the motion, curious, almost pleased.

Just enough for him to think it’s surrender.
Just enough for me to know it isn’t.

“Sleep, Altheira,” he says at last, reclining back with slow patience. “You’ve had a long night.”

Outside, the city slips past in streaks of gold and black. In the window’s reflection, a stranger stares back at me—hair undone, mouth stained with wine, the gem at my throat glowing like a brand instead of a shield.

Chapter Text

Chapter 12

Moments after he slips from Altheira’s room, Astarion almost feels relieved when Cazador finally gives him an order outside her door.

“Make yourself useful, boy. Fetch me something fresh, and have it waiting in my office when I return.”

It’s the first time in weeks Cazador’s spoken to him like property again.

Using his body—he’s learned to tolerate that. The random torture—he’s learning to endure. Gods, he should be used to it by now, shouldn’t he? Decades of torment, sometimes only because his master wants to hear his “sweet symphony of screams.”

No, he’ll never grow used to it. But he’s learned to expect it, and he finds a perverse comfort in knowing that if Cazador is torturing him, there’s nothing worse left to come.

He’s wrong.

Cazador doing nothing is far, far worse.

He tells himself to enjoy the reprieve, but there’s no peace in waiting for what will surely be the next cruelty.

Well—some peace. 

Her.

He strides down the hall toward the main doors, warmth and guilt flickering together in his chest.

Oh, Altheira.
The thought is almost a prayer, or a curse.

He should have told her what Cazador truly is, the same morning he confessed what he is. He should have told her to run.

Cazador would’ve found her, of course—drained her dry in front of him, as he’s done before—but still. He should have warned her. He should warn her now.

He hears their footsteps behind him and slips through the front door, flattening himself into the alcove beside the statue. The shadows swallow him whole.

He watches until she climbs into the carriage, all poise and privilege, and he can’t help the grin that steals across his face.

Gods, she’s magnificent.

The way she bites back. The way she plays the game.

The way she chose him.

How long has it been since anyone chose him for anything but survival? Maybe never.

He watches the carriage roll away before heading down to the alley.

What good would warning her even do now? Would it frighten her into obedience, or drive her to something reckless?

Speaking of reckless, he shouldn’t have given her that necklace.

Cazador will twist it into a leash. He always does.

The next thought follows, too grim to linger on but impossible to ignore.

Why hasn’t he killed her yet?

In the past, anyone Astarion cared for ended up dead before he could even beg.

Maybe his master understands that waiting is the sharper torture.

Or maybe Altheira has made herself useful. And worse—entertaining.

His fists curl until his nails pierce his palms as he stalks through the night toward the flophouse.

He can’t let Cazador turn her. Whatever it costs, she will not become this.

Tortured. Broken. Bitter.

And yet…some part of him almost believes she’d survive it. Thrive in it, even.

Maybe they could—

He stops the thought cold. If Cazador turns her, he’d make them enemies before dawn.

He’d delight in it.

No.

He’ll burn the manor down before letting that happen.

He’ll take whatever Cazador dreams up before he lets those fangs touch her.

Crossing the gate into Wyrm’s Crossing, he draws his hood low. The stench of the Chionthar clings to everything here—fish, smoke, cheap perfume. The press of voices, the clash of dice cups, the wet laughter spilling from doorways: all of it too alive.

Fraygo’s stands out like a bruise amid the taverns, lanterns dyed red to promise what its name won’t. He’s been here before, of course. Cazador prefers his offerings willing, or at least eager enough to follow a smile into the dark.

Inside, the air is thick with sweat and spicewine. Music tumbles from a cracked lute. He moves through it the way a blade moves through water—seen, admired, forgotten until it’s too late.

A woman at the bar catches his eye. Her pulse flutters when his gaze lands on her, that soft mortal rhythm he can feel even without tasting it. She’s pretty, in a way that suggests no one’s told her so lately. He hates that it will be her.

He slips into the empty stool beside her, ordering a bottle he won’t touch. “Forgive me,” he says, voice smooth as velvet and twice as false. “But you seem in need of better company.”

Her laugh is small, surprised. “And you seem too handsome to be drinking alone.”

He smiles, just enough to show the promise she wants to see. “Then perhaps we should fix both our problems.”

It’s easy after that. It always is. Compliments, a shared joke, the illusion of safety. He keeps her glass full, every pour deliberate, every glance a quiet tether. She leans closer without realizing it.

By the time he leads her out into the alley, she’s giggling, unsteady, murmuring something about how he has such strange eyes. He keeps his hand firm at her elbow, guiding, never taking more than that.

In the shadow of the flophouse, he sits her down gently against the wall. Her head lolls. She sighs his name—or someone’s name—and he swallows hard.

He doesn’t bite. He can’t.
That privilege belongs to his master.

Instead, he brushes her hair from her face, memorizing the pulse that won’t be hers for much longer. “You’ll be safe soon,” he lies softly, the words tasting like ashes.

Then he gathers her into his arms. She stirs, murmuring something half-dreamed, then goes still again. Her scent clings to him—wine, sweat, a faint trace of lavender soap—as he steps into the night.

He keeps to the alleys on the walk back to the Szarr estate, the weight of her body light against him, the weight of what he’s done anything but.

The manor is silent when he returns.

He slips through the servant’s door, careful not to disturb the hush. Even the torches burn low here, like the house itself is holding its breath, waiting for its master’s return.

Cazador’s office is as it always is: immaculate, cold, patient. The scent of old parchment and iron dust.

He sets the girl down in the chair near the hearth. Her head lolls forward, breath shallow but steady.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, though she’s far beyond hearing. He takes a length of silk cord from the drawer, because of course Cazador keeps such things close, and ties her wrists gently to the armrests. His fingers are steady, practiced. They shouldn’t be.

When he’s done, he steps back, surveying his work like a craftsman judging a finished piece.

A perfect offering. Warm. Helpless. Waiting.

He turns to leave, meaning to vanish before the Master returns, but stops when he reaches the corridor.

There, at the far end—Cazador.

The vampire lord moves with unhurried grace, a dark silhouette against the candlelight. In his arms lies Altheira—her head resting against his chest, hair mussed, lips stained the same red as the wine that marks Astarion’s own hands.

The sight steals the breath from his lungs.

Cazador’s gaze flicks up, just once, and for the briefest instant their eyes meet. Astarion can’t read what lives in that crimson glow—possession, triumph, or maybe just amusement.

Then the Master turns the corner and disappears, her body still limp in his arms.

Astarion stands alone in the hall, his palms sticky with another woman’s spilled drink, the echo of footsteps fading into silence.

It’s only then he realizes—he’s delivered one life to die, and watching another carried toward the same fate.

He closes his eyes for a moment, then forces himself forward down the hall, swallowing fear.

Cazador steps out of Altheira’s chambers just as he rounds the corner.

Astarion stops short, eyes lowering. “The mortal has been placed in your office as requested, mast—”

Fingers like steel sink into his hair, wrenching his head back. Astarion’s breath catches, a cry torn from him before he can stop it. The pain is sharp, precise—familiar.

He squeezes his eyes shut, waiting for the blow, for the punishment of fire or fangs or nails. But nothing comes.

Only laughter.

That terrible, lilting sound he knows too well.

When he dares to look up, Cazador’s face is alight with satisfaction, crimson eyes gleaming bright as coals. “Such obedience,” he purrs, releasing him with a mockingly gentle pat to the cheek. “You do remember how to serve.”

Astarion swallows hard, jaw tight. “Yes, master.”

Cazador’s grin widens, too pleased, too calm. “Good. Then go to her, pet.”

The words freeze him.

Cazador leans in, voice dropping to something intimate and cruel. “See what your beloved becomes beneath my hand. Learn what the beginnings of devotion truly looks like.”

He sweeps past, his cloak brushing against Astarion’s shoulder as he disappears down the corridor. The scent of roses follows him.

Astarion stays frozen long after the footsteps fade. The air feels colder now, as if the house itself had just laughed.

Finally, he turns on unsteady legs and pushes open her door.

The room is dim, lit only by a few guttering candles. The scent of roses lingers here too, but softer now, clinging to her hair, her gown, the sheets.

She’s sprawled half across the bed, still in her dress, one arm draped carelessly over the edge. A faint smear of red stains her mouth, the ghost of the wine she’d been fed. Her hair has begun to fall from its pins, strands curling against her throat like spilled silk.

For a moment, he can’t move.

She looks too much like every other victim he’s carried through this house—too pale, too still, too easily mistaken for gone.

But then she stirs, murmurs something incoherent, and the fragile sound of her breath breaks him open.

He crosses to her quietly, sinking to one knee beside the bed. His hands hover above her for a moment before he dares to touch—brushing a curl from her cheek, fingertips trembling.

“There you are,” he whispers, as though she might answer.

One by one, he pulls the remaining pins from her hair, setting each on the nightstand. He takes a clean handkerchief from his pocket, the one he uses to polish his blade, and wipes the wine from her lips with a tenderness that almost frightens him.

“I should stay,” he murmurs, the words barely a breath. “But I don’t think I could bear to watch if you dream of him.”

He bends, pressing a kiss to her forehead—the lightest touch, a vow he has no right to make.

When he straightens, the candles flicker, and for a heartbeat he sees them as Cazador must: two of his creatures caught in a web, one awake, one not.

He forces himself to turn away.

At the door, he glances back once more—at the rise and fall of her chest, the garnet glinting faintly at her throat—and whispers, almost to himself,

“Not forever, my love. I’ll find a way out.”

Then he slips into the hall, closing the door with a care that feels like prayer.