She was a magnificent mess.

Astarion sized her up in a heartbeat. Not a threat. Three ways out, all his. And that pulse — frantic, hammering, audible even from six feet away. His pupils dilated before he could stop them.

Thin dress. Bare feet. Hair tangled with twigs and leaves like something a bird had abandoned halfway through. She was spinning around rubbing her temples and loudly blaming wine for what was clearly a far more interesting predicament than a bad vintage.

A lost, confused, completely defenseless human who thought she was hallucinating.

Happy birthday to me.

He stepped out of the shadows, letting the moonlight catch his features at the angle he knew worked best — chin tilted down, eyes up through the lashes, the curl that fell across his forehead positioned with practiced precision. Two hundred years without a reflection, and he still knew exactly how good he looked. Some things were simply innate.

"Aren't you a delicious little surprise?" he finished, watching her gasp and clutch the hem of her dress as if that scrap of fabric could protect her from anything.

"Oh, thank god — a person." Her voice was breathless with relief, and something in Astarion's chest did an irritating little flip that he immediately categorized as hunger. Obviously hunger. What else would it be? "Look, I know this sounds insane, but I think I fell asleep at a tavern and somehow walked into the forest? I can't find the road."

He stepped fully into the pale light. Let her see the silver curls, the aristocratic cheekbones, the crimson eyes that had made better women than her forget their own names. He tilted his head, the sympathetic angle, not the predatory one, and took a slow step closer.

"A tavern? Oh, you poor, sweet thing," he murmured. His thumb reached out, entirely of its own volition, and brushed a smudge of dirt from her cheek. Her skin was warm. Warm in a way he'd forgotten things could be. The contact went straight through his fingertips into the hollow ache behind his ribs.

She shivered. Cold touch. Night air. The proximity of something her body understood was dangerous even if her wine-soaked brain hadn't caught up yet.

"I'm just cold," she stammered, but her eyes were wide, fixed on his face with the kind of transfixed attention that was either attraction or the early stages of prey-paralysis. He'd take either.

Just a sip, he thought, his gaze dropping to the pulse point in her throat. One tiny sip and the whole miserable night would be worth it. She'll barely feel it. She'll think it was a dream.

"Of course I can show you the way back, darling," he said, his voice dropping into that low, seductive register he'd spent centuries perfecting — the one that bypassed the rational brain entirely and spoke directly to something older and less cautious. He stepped closer. Close enough that his chest nearly brushed hers, close enough that the oak tree behind her became a wall she hadn't chosen. "But the forest is incredibly dangerous at night. Monsters everywhere. Wolves. Worse than wolves. And a gentleman like myself surely deserves a tiny token of appreciation for a safe escort, don't you think?"

"I don't have my purse on me," she whispered. Her heart was hammering now — he could hear every panicked beat of it, could practically taste the adrenaline spiking through her bloodstream.

"Oh, I don't want your gold, my sweet." He leaned in until his breath ghosted over the curve of her neck. His hand settled on her waist, steadying her against the rough bark. The pulse beneath her jaw was a drum, a siren, a dinner bell. "Just a tiny sip. A moment of your time. Close your eyes... pretend it's all part of the dream."

He could feel the heat radiating off her skin. Could smell lavender and sweat and the faintest copper tang of old scratches from the brambles. His fangs ached behind his lips. Just a little closer. Just a little —

She bolted.