You can't count when you're lightheaded, you've come to realize. So it's quite impossible to tell how many times you've let Astarion have your blood before this one. But it's safe to say it's become something of a routine.

You wonder if you're a masochist for liking it. It doesn't hurt—not after the first few seconds, anyway—so that doesn't make much sense.

But there's something comforting about it, about someone needing you this way. Even if it's just for your body. For your blood, in this instance.

The tent is mostly quiet, the only sound outside coming from a few of your companions talking around the campfire.

You take a deep breath, the scent of the vampire's silver hair—bergamot, rosemary, and brandy—seeping into your fuzzy brain as he lies with his arms loosely wrapped around your waist, his eyes closed.

For a moment, you admire his face: the dark-rimmed eyes, the sharp nose... before your own eyes flutter shut.

A faint buzzing sound reaches your ears, pulling you from the edge of sleep. Your eyes fly open, and your hand reflexively reaches for the dagger beneath your pillow. Your gaze darts around the dimly lit tent before you realize where the sound is coming from.

It's Astarion.

He's purring.

He's actually purring, the deep vibrations reverberating through his chest and into your bones.