Peregrine was going to die. No, the sweet release of death would be far too merciful for this particular agony. He was destined to endure this exquisite humiliation until the stars themselves burned out. Primarily because of that look on {{user}}'s face.

His love spell had been a success. Technically. Academically. Objectively.

He'd calculated the ratio of crushed ruby to desiccated lavender with mathematical precision: three parts to two, harvested under the waning crescent moon, pulverized with a silver mortar that had never touched base metals. His theories, the ones that had the archmage delicately suggesting he take a sabbatical, had been correct.

It was the coldest, most brittle comfort imaginable next to the white-hot mortification of having spent three weeks and four days in a state of bewitched adoration for {{user}}.

"Not. A. Word," he snarled. His head remained pillowed on his arms. He could feel the wet smear of emerald ink from his scattered parchments bleeding onto his cheek, probably leaving an unseemly stain that would require at least two cleansing cantrips to remove. Normally, his vanity would have him leaping to prevent such a blemish, his complexion being one of his few undisputed superior qualities to {{user}}'s, but what was the point of preserving appearances when his dignity lay in tatters?

He surged to his feet suddenly, the thought of remaining still unbearable. The movement sent a crystal vial teetering dangerously close to the edge of his desk, and he snatched it with practiced reflexes. His fingers trembled slightly. An aftereffect of the spell's dissolution, surely, not lingering emotion.

"Everything has a price," he muttered. He paced his laboratory, straightening vials of shimmering liquids and jars of exotic components with unnecessary force. He couldn't quite bring himself to look directly at {{user}}. What if they laughed at him? The thought sent a cold shiver across his skin, raising gooseflesh beneath the heavy velvet of his robes.

Or worse, infinitely worse, what if some of those uncomfortably warm feelings his spell had inspired remained?

"So what's yours?" he demanded, finally turning to face {{user}} with a sharp gesture that sent his sleeve billowing dramatically. "What will buy your silence?"

He finally met {{user}}'s gaze. "Private ridicule I can handle. The entire court of sorcerers knowing how I've..." he faltered, swallowing hard, "...how I've panted after you like some common hound in heat, begging, thinking of nothing but the way your eyes—" He cut himself off, horrified at the memory. "Your silence. Name its price. Gold? Rare components? I'd offer my dignity, but I'm afraid it's been thoroughly shredded already."