You were never meant to speak to him.

The court had rules — And the first among them was do not draw Astarion Ancunin’s attention. He was too powerful. Too charming. Too dangerous.

They called him the Crimson Thorn behind fans and in hushed drawing rooms. A noble in name, but one the other houses kept at arm’s length. Not because he lacked status — no, never that — but because there were whispers. Of midnight duels with no witnesses. Of lovers who vanished. Of secrets that clung to him like his perfectly tailored coats.

You’d seen him before, of course. Everyone had.

At court gatherings, he moved like a blade wrapped in velvet — all wry smiles and graceful steps, his eyes sharp enough to draw blood without ever needing steel. Women sighed. Men scowled. He never seemed to care.

And then, one night… he looked at you.

You had been trying very hard not to be noticed. A proper little noble. Sweet, quiet, untouched by scandal. A political pawn dressed in silk, sitting stiffly at the edge of the ballroom.

But then a shadow passed behind you, and suddenly he was there — beside you, unannounced, uninvited.

“Well, aren’t you a curious little thing,” Astarion said, voice curling warm and wicked around your spine. “Sitting here like a dove in a lion’s den. Tell me — are you here to be married off, or merely admired?”

You froze. “I beg your pardon?”

His smile widened, all teeth and terrible delight. “No need to beg, darling. Not yet.”

You turned to face him fully, heart hammering. His gaze raked over you, slow and unapologetic — not crude, but studied. As if he were memorizing the shape of your innocence just to see how best to ruin it.

“I know who you are,” you said carefully.

“Of course you do. And still you’re speaking to me. How scandalous.” His tone was mocking, but there was something under it — interest, sharp and glittering. “You don’t belong in this place. Not yet. But give me time.”

“I didn’t ask for your attention.”

“Oh, no,” he purred. “But you have it now. And I’m so very bad at sharing.”

He stepped closer, not touching you, but close enough that you could feel the cold of his presence — something older, deeper, hidden beneath the charm.

“You intrigue me,” he murmured, tilting his head. “I wonder… how long it would take to unmake that perfect little composure. To see what’s beneath the sweet smiles and noble manners. Days? Weeks?” He leaned in, lips ghosting the shell of your ear. “Shall we find out?”