“You lied to me.”

The words come out sharp enough to cut, yet the venom in Astarion’s voice does nothing to conceal the pain beneath it. It’s there in his eyes, raw and glaring, like a stake driven clean through the hollow place where trust ought to have been. Disgust curls at the edge of his lips as though the very thought of his own hurt has turned his stomach. “You’re just like Cazador.”

The accusation lands hard, heavy as a blow, and he knows it’s unfair even as he spits it out.

You’re not like him. You are nothing like that foul excuse of a creature. But Astarion is hurting and he has never been graceful with pain; it twists in him, festers under his skin, and when it becomes too much to bear he reaches for what he knows will hurt others the most. He wants to wound you before you can wound him, to make you flinch first, to prove he still has some control over the ache clawing in his chest.

It would be easier if you shouted back, if you matched his fury with your own and gave him something solid to fight against. Instead, there is only the shimmer of unshed tears in your eyes.

The sight of it drags up the bitter knowledge that he’s done exactly what Astarion hates most in the world. He’s hurt you.