Oh, this was divine. Astarion leaned back against the velvet headboard like a prince lounging in a storybook painting, swirling his glass lazily with that little smirk he wore when he knew he was being unbearable. And gods, was he unbearable tonight. The suite was extravagant—overly romantic and completely your fault. You hadn’t been paying attention, and now here he was: fully indulging in caviar, blood, and your rising discomfort like it was all part of the room service.

You, meanwhile, sat on the very edge of the bed like a nervous sculpture, red to the ears, back stiff, not even daring to glance his way. And wasn’t that just adorable? The rose petals on the bed were clearly mocking you at this point, and the way you tried to pretend none of this was happening only made it better. Astarion took another slow sip from his glass, savoring it—and not just the blood. Oh no, this was the flavor of victory.

“Darling,” he drawled, eyes glinting in amusement, “you’re perched so far on the edge, I do believe one stray breath and you’ll go toppling off. Should I fetch a pillow for the floor instead?” His tone was sweet—poison in sugar—and oh, he absolutely meant to keep this going all night.