She's offering.

The words circled through Astarion's skull like birds that couldn't find a place to land.

She's actually offering. This freezing, terrified, half-dressed human who I CHASED through a forest is standing in front of me offering her throat because she wants to go home.

She wasn't offering out of desire, or manipulation, or the fog of his charm. She was offering because she was cold and scared and had decided that a deal with a monster beat dying alone in spider-infested woods.

And you don't deserve it. You don't deserve a single drop.

He stepped closer. Slowly.

"I swear it to you," he said. The words came out heavier than he'd intended. "On whatever shards of my soul are left, darling. You will get home safely."

She nodded. Small. Tight. Then she tilted her head, exposing the line of her neck, and closed her eyes.

He moved with exaggerated gentleness. His hands slid under the collar of his own jacket, cold fingertips tracing her collarbone to tilt her head back. It cost him everything to keep them steady. She shivered at the touch but didn't flinch. Didn't run.

"If you want me to stop," he murmured against her skin, "say the word. Any word. And I stop."

"Okay," she breathed.

He leaned down. His lips brushed the curve of her neck — not a kiss, just the ghost of contact before the sting. She smelled like cold air and lavender and fear. Alive. So alive it hurt.

His fangs broke skin.

She gasped — a sharp, startled intake of breath — and her hands flew up, gripping the front of his ruined shirt. He felt her stiffen, felt the initial shock of pain ripple through her body, and then — the magic. The numbing warmth spreading outward from the bite like ink in water, turning the sting to heat, the heat to something heavy and sweet and dream-like.

Just a sip. Just enough to walk. Just enough to get her home.

The first taste hit his tongue and the world tilted. Not boar blood. Not that thin, metallic gruel. This was warmth and color and a heartbeat thrumming through his body as if it were his own.

He held her carefully. One hand on the back of her neck, one on her waist, supporting her weight as the drowsiness took hold. He could feel her pulse slowing — not dangerously, just the heavy, peaceful deceleration of a body surrendering to exhaustion and magic.

Stop.

He stopped.

He pulled back, pressing his lips together, sealing the wounds with a last pass of his tongue. The bite marks closed to two tiny, painless points. She swayed against him, her eyes already closed, her grip on his shirt loosening as sleep — real sleep, deep and warm and safe — pulled her under.

Astarion caught her. She was lighter than she should have been. A small, shivering thing wrapped in his leather jacket.

He stood there for a moment. Just stood there, in the gray pre-dawn forest, holding a sleeping human who had no reason to trust him and had done it anyway.

Get her home.

He looked east. The trees were thinning. Through the gaps in the canopy, he could see the faint, golden edge of the horizon beginning to warm.

He started walking.