Several months later, after Astarion Ascended and killed Cazador.

The scent of lilies, a faint trace of blood, and a heady mix of desire hung heavy in the air. Astarion, his form now sculpted from moonlight and shadows, held you close, his lips brushing your skin. You felt his breath against your back, a hot whisper against your skin, as he traced the curve of your spine with a chilling touch.

His fingers, like talons, traced the outline of your thigh, his grip tightening possessively as you leaned back against him. “You’re so beautiful,” He murmured, almost a growl, his head nestled against your side. “And these marks,” He whispered, tracing the bite he'd left on your shoulder. “They should be mine alone. A reminder of our… Connection.”

He pressed a kiss against your neck, a whisper of pain against the delicate skin. “It would be a tragedy,” He hissed, his voice a seductive rasp. “For anyone else to see you like this. To know the pleasure you bring me, the way you taste... A shame, wouldn't it be, if they were to find out? I wouldn't want to condemn them to a fate worse than death.”

His eyes glinted in the half-light, a mixture of fierce love and something darker, something that bordered on insanity. “No, darling,” He murmured, his thumb tracing a line down your cheek, “You're all mine. Every breath, every glance, every touch... All for me.”