Archive of Our Own

There were too many pillows on the bed again.

Mayrina sat stiffly on the edge of the mattress, bare feet sunk into an extravagant bearskin rug that probably cost more than her old farmhouse had been worth. One hand rested protectively on her rounded belly. The other clutched the hem of her nightdress, as though that might anchor her to something familiar.

A servant had brushed her hair for her that evening. Another had brought her milk warm with cinnamon. One had even asked if she preferred silks or linens for her sleepwear, as if she’d known what the difference was.

She still said “thank you” to all of them, even when they gave her strange looks. Even when she heard them whisper behind velvet-curtained hallways— the mortal human with the Vampire Lord’s favor.

Mayrina remembered when she was in this very room for the first time, heart pounding, expecting pain, expecting death. She had expected another cage. Another horrifying voice in her head, sharp and sugar-slick, telling her what to eat, what to be, what she’d ruin just by breathing.

Auntie Ethel had done that—smiled, her voice dripping venom, while breaking her down. She promised protection, then set fire to the cage where Mayrina was confined, flames licking the bars. Sneered that she’d be a terrible mother—too fragile, too soft—calling her useless, whiny, ungrateful, words that stung deeper than the smoke.

But Astarion had been… different from the hag. Not gentle, no, but deliberate, intoxicating, even generous. He gave her a chamber of her own, with servants who knocked and healers to ensure her unborn child was healthy and safe. She wore silk robes she hadn’t requested, their weight unfamiliar. And his silence where judgment should have been.

In exchange for her aid, the vampire lord demanded her blood. Desperate and goldless, Mayrina agreed, so long as he spared the child growing within her. She still recalled the terror of those early nights, when the door would creak open and he would glide into her bed, his fangs grazing her neck. Yet, as promised, he took care not to harm her. Then he would vanish, leaving Mayrina alone in a bed too vast for one. But as weeks passed, their bond—or rather, what he sought from her—began to shift, his visits lingering, his gaze holding hers in the flickering candlelight, and then…

The door creaked open, interrupting her thoughts.

She didn’t have to look to know it was him.

His footsteps didn’t echo like a normal man’s. They moved like wind through candlelight—silent, and somehow still heavy with intent.

“Still awake, darling?” Astarion’s voice slid across the room, low and amused.

The human girl turned, heart thudding. He always said that, darling, like it was sweet. Like it wasn’t the same word monsters used before they tore something open.

“I tried sleeping,” she said. “The pillows are… odd.”

He laughed, already walking toward her. “Yes, well. I’ve never known someone to complain about too much luxury before.”

She bristled, just a little. “I didn’t complain.”

Astarion stopped in front of her, tilting his head, gaze drifting to the gentle swell of her belly. His hand lifted—cool and elegant—and hovered there. “Your child stirs tonight.”

Mayrina nodded, unable to meet his eyes. “It seems to happen particularly when it’s quiet.”

“It’s always quiet here,” he replied. “Except when you’re moaning.”

Her cheeks flamed, and she bashfully looked away.

“You’ve done very well,” he said softly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Keeping me pleased.”

“I’m not your whore,” she said, though her voice trembled.

“No,” he agreed, eyes gleaming. “You’re not paid for it. You just spread your thighs because I gave you silk sheets and a name no one dares touch.”

The young woman flinched, and that — that — made him grin.

“Would you like to sleep in your farm stables again, darling?” His tone was teasing, but the glint in his eyes wasn’t.

Mayrina looked up at the Vampire Lord then. Defiant. “You said you’d keep my baby safe.”

“And I am.” He crouched in front of her, eye-level with her belly now. “You came to me desperate. You begged. Do you remember that night, hm? How you cried? How you offered anything?”

Her hands clenched the fabric tighter. “I remember.”

“And now you live in a palace,” he said, hands sliding up her thighs, parting them with practiced ease. “Fed. Warm. Adored. You think I ask so much in return?”

Astarion’s mouth was already on her inner thigh before Mayrina could speak. She gasped, heart racing with fear and a flicker of forbidden warmth, her legs twitching as he nipped her gently—not biting this time. His lips lingered, more drawn to her flesh than her vein.

And he took it like a god claiming his tribute.

“You should be resting,” the vampire murmured against her skin, his cool fingers lifting the hem of her nightdress higher. “Not waiting like a trembling doe, wondering if I’ll slip into your chamber to claim you.”

Her breath caught, torn between fear and a dangerous curiosity. Then she whimpered as his tongue found the slick heat between her legs.

“Good girl,” he murmured.

And Mayrina — sweet, grieving Mayrina from the swamps — let the monster worship her like she was something sacred.

His mouth felt like sin incarnate. Astarion dragged his tongue slowly along her folds, savoring the taste—not of blood, but something sweeter. Mortal heat. Desire. She was wet for him already, and he hadn’t even touched her properly yet.

Mayrina gripped the edge of the sheets, gasping as he buried his face between her thighs. He groaned, the sound almost reverent, and licked into her like she was his only sustenance.

“Still so shy,” he murmured against her. “But you open so easily for me.”

“Y-You said I should be resting,” she choked out, even as her hips rolled against his mouth.

“You’ll sleep when I’m done with you,” he said, pulling back just enough to speak before diving in again. His tongue flicked against her clit, then sucked, and she cried out—a thin, broken sound that echoed through the velvet-draped room.

Every time he touched her, it felt like blasphemy. Her body wasn’t made for this — not now, not carrying another man’s child — but he knew exactly how to touch her. As if her softness was a puzzle he’d solved long ago.

His fingers slipped inside her, two at once, slow and deep. She moaned louder, legs spreading wider, welcoming the pressure. The stretch. The indulgence.

“Such a lovely cunt,” he whispered, watching her face as he worked her open. “Even now, with someone else’s spawn inside you. It’s mine when I want it, isn’t it?”

Her eyes fluttered open. She should have hated him for saying that. But the words hit something inside her—a raw, aching need to belong. To feel desired, even if it was twisted.

“You could’ve kicked me out,” she whispered. “But you didn’t.”

His eyes darkened. “I don’t take in strays out of kindness.”

“You’re a liar.”

He snarled softly, rising to his feet, hand still inside her. His thumb pressed tight against her clit as he leaned over her.

“You forget your place,” he said, but his voice was quiet now. Less cruel. His lips brushed her cheek. “You tempt me to linger, Mayrina.”

Her heart slammed against her ribs, yet she found the courage to held his gaze. “And you let me. Every night.”

He kissed her then—hard and deep, fingers still moving inside her, slick with her arousal. When he pulled back, she was panting, and he was breathless in a way that had nothing to do with lungs.

“I want to take you,” he growled. “Slow. Deep. While that little heartbeat thumps inside you.”

Mayrina nodded, her cheeks reddened, a tiny sound escaping her throat. “As you wish.”

He shed his robe and climbed onto the bed, guiding her back against the pillows she’d mocked earlier. His cock pressed against her thigh—thick, flushed, already leaking. He looked down at her body, spread for him, full and vulnerable, and something in his gaze flickered.

“You’re not as afraid of me as you used to be,” Astarion said, not a question, his crimson eyes glinting in the candlelight.

“I just… you’re not what they say,” Mayrina murmured, nervously looking away, trying to hide her face behind her curly hair. “Not as cruel as the tavern gossips in Baldur’s Gate whisper.”

He laughed, a low, mocking sound that sent a shiver through her. “You believe I’m this generous with anyone, granting chambers and silks as I do for you?”

“But why me?” she ventured, her cheeks flushing as she met his gaze. “Why did you—”

He cut her off, his lips curling into a sharp smile, and pushed into her slowly, the head of his cock parting her folds. Her body tightened around him, gasping from the fullness. Even now, he was careful. Intent. He watched every inch disappear into her, bottoming out with a shudder.

“Gods,” he hissed. “You’re perfect. Ruined and perfect.”

She gripped his arms, digging her nails into his pale skin. “Then ruin me more.”

And he did. He fucked her slowly, dragging every inch of himself out before slamming back in. He made her feel it— all of it. The weight of him. The heat. The way he owned her body like it was a kingdom he’d conquered.

But beneath the roughness was something else. His hands cradled her belly when he rocked into her. His mouth brushed her throat—not biting, just feeling. When she cried out his name as she came, trembling around him, he held her through it, burying his face in her shoulder like he could hide from what it meant.

He followed with a growl, hips jerking as he came inside her, spilling warmth into a body that was already carrying life. He didn’t pull away. Just stayed there, panting against her skin, still buried deep inside her.

After a long silence, she whispered, “You could’ve let me die. Like everyone else did.”

Astarion didn’t speak. He just wrapped his arms around her, their bodies still joined, and whispered into her neck.

“I didn’t save you, Mayrina.”

“Yes,” she said softly. “You did.”

•••

The morning sun didn’t touch Mayrina’s chambers. Heavy curtains choked out the light and the room lingered in a velvet twilight. Candles had long since guttered out, leaving the air heavy with last night’s encounter—sweat, arousal, blood, and faint florals.

Mayrina woke with a dull ache between her legs and Astarion’s arm draped heavily over her waist.

She lay still for a long time, staring at the embroidered canopy above the bed. The sheets were twisted around their legs, her nightdress long since discarded, his robe hanging forgotten on the chaise. His body pressed against her back—cool, solid, undeniably real.

Her belly, already beginning to swell more each week, rose and fell with slow, even breaths. The baby was quiet. For now.

She turned carefully, not wanting to wake him, but of course she wasn’t that lucky.

His eyes were already open.

Crimson, half-lidded, the way a cat watches a bird from across the room—curious, unhurried, and deceptively indifferent.

“You twitch when you dream,” he murmured, voice raw with sleep.

She blinked, startled. “You were watching me?”

“I’m always watching you,” he said, with a lazy grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

She rolled onto her back, pulling the sheets up to cover her chest. Modesty, instinctive and pointless. He’d already had all of her. Taken her apart with fangs and fingers and velvet words.

“I dreamt of the farm,” she said softly. “Of Connor. Of the baby being born, and he was there.”

Astarion’s smile faded.

“Do you still love him?” he asked, too casually.

“Yes,” she answered without hesitation. “He’s my one true love.”

Silence stretched between them. He stared up at the canopy now, chest rising and falling with unnatural stillness.

“I could’ve made you forget him,” he said finally. “It would’ve been easy. A glamour. A charm. Just a touch of magic and his name would vanish from your tongue.”

She looked at him sharply. “But you didn’t.”

“No,” he admitted, glancing at her. “I wanted you to remember. So you’d know how different I am.”

She studied him—his face etched with beauty and power and something more dangerous beneath. Not cruelty, exactly. Need. The way the starving might look at someone offering bread but refusing to stay.

“I do know the difference,” she whispered. “Connor loved me because I was his. You want me because I’m not.”

His jaw twitched.

Mayrina’s fingers trembled, brushing his hesitantly.

“You don’t need to scare me to stay,” she murmured, her voice barely audible, eyes fixed on the floor.

“Don’t I?” Astarion’s voice was a silken blade, his eyes raking over her belly. He leaned closer, his grip tightening on her hand. “You’re not mine. That child isn’t mine. Yet you linger in my palace, sleep in my bed, surrender to my touch.”

“I… I stay to keep my child safe,” she stammered, shrinking back, her hands trembling, her voice barely a whisper. “You’ve given me shelter… a haven from the Outer City’s hunger.”

His eyes narrowed, his silence a weight upon her, as if measuring her words.

Then, slowly, he reached out—fingertips trailing the curve of her stomach. His hand was cool, careful, almost reverent.

“They will be born soon,” she whispered. “What then?”

“I could keep you both,” he drawled, his voice a velvet threat, his hand grazing her cheek too firmly. Too quickly, he added, “You’d be safe here. Fed. Pampered. I could give that brat a life no wretch from the blighted countryside deserves.”

“This child will be mine,” Mayrina whispered, not liking his tone. She shrank back, her voice trembling, eyes fixed on the floor. “And Connor’s. Not yours.”

He smirked, though something in him recoiled. “And what about you?”

Her breath hitched.

“I’ll just do what I have to.”

In the shadowed expanse of his palace, Astarion moved swiftly, his hand seizing the back of her neck, dragging her close. He kissed her—slow, possessive, ravenous. When he pulled back, his forehead pressed to hers, his eyes boring into her soul.

“Just— Please, don’t cast me out,” Mayrina begged him, eyes fixed on the floor, hands slightly shaking at her sides.

“I won’t,” he promised. He seized her again, kissing her roughly, a bruising claim that left her breathless.

•••

The grand bath was a cathedral of decadence, its vast marble basin etched with writhing serpents, brimming with scalding water heavy with jasmine and blood-red rose petals. Candlelight flickered, casting shadows that slithered across the stone walls, hungering in the dark. Steam curled like a lover’s whisper, thick and intoxicating.

Mayrina perched on the basin’s edge, her trembling fingers grazing the searing water. The heat was alien, a luxury that burned her calloused skin, but the silence gnawed at her, sharpening her unease. Her breath hitched, eyes darting to the shadows, as if the Outer City’s horrors might follow her here.

Astarion entered with predatory grace, his silk robe falling open to bare pale, chiseled flesh that gleamed like moonlit marble in the candlelight. His crimson eyes locked onto her, unyielding, a lord surveying his prey.

“You always look like you’re about to bolt,” he mocked, voice a velvet blade, extending a hand with commanding ease.

Mayrina bit her lip, her gaze dropping, but her trembling hand reached for his, yielding to his pull. He drew her into the bath, the water swallowing her like molten fire—scorching, overwhelming—flushing her skin crimson. His body pressed against her back, a searing contrast to the chill etched into her bones from months of want.

His hands, unyielding and deliberate, clamped onto her shoulders, fingers digging into her flesh as he dragged them down her arms, scouring away the weight of her fears. The touch was a claim, not a caress, each stroke asserting his dominion.

“I’ve never felt anything like this,” she whispered, voice faltering, eyes fluttering shut as his cheek pressed against her hair, his breath cold and sharp.

His lips curled against her scalp, a cruel smirk. “This is nothing,” he rasped, voice dripping with promise. “The true ecstasy awaits.”

A shudder wracked her as his hands seized her waist, yanking her flush against him, his arousal evident, pressing hard against her. His breath grazed her neck, a predator’s tease, fangs glinting in the dim light.

“Beg for me,” he commanded, voice low and merciless, lips hovering over her pulse.

“I—” Her voice broke, fear tangling with desire. She swallowed, trembling. “I… I’m not staying in your palace just for your protection and for my child.”

A growl rumbled in his throat, feral and possessive, as his fangs scraped her neck, drawing a bead of blood that mingled with the steam. “Good,” he snarled, licking the crimson drop. “Because mercy is beneath me.”

His hands plunged beneath the water, claws grazing her hips, dragging her so close their bodies fused. Mayrina’s breath stuttered as his mouth descended, teeth nipping her throat, igniting a wildfire beneath her skin. She arched helplessly, her defenses crumbling under his relentless assault.

“Admit that you’re mine,” he whispered, voice a forbidden incantation against her burning flesh.

Her hands clutched the marble edge, trembling, too meek to initiate, her body yielding to his command. The kiss he demanded was brutal, his tongue claiming her mouth with savage hunger, drowning her in his dominance.

The water surged around them, thick with jasmine and the sharp, metallic tang of Astarion’s skin—a scent that consumed her senses. His hands, ruthless beneath the surface, clawed down her thighs, sparking trails of fire.

Mayrina gasped, a desperate sound, as his fingers slipped between her legs, finding her slick and quivering. The heat was no longer just the water—it was his hunger, raw, insatiable, devouring her restraint.

“You’ve resisted too long,” Astarion growled, lips brushing her ear, his voice a dark seduction. “Denying the fire I ignite in you.”

Her fingers tightened on the marble, knuckles white, as his touch pressed deeper, unrelenting. The electric surge of his fingers unraveled her, each stroke a chain binding her to him. The child within stirred, its faint pulse a counterpoint to the frantic rhythm of her heart.

“I can’t fight you,” she whimpered, voice breaking, her body trembling under his command.

“Then don’t,” he snarled, his finger plunging deeper, curling with ruthless precision. “I want you broken, needing me.”

Her back arched, pressing against him, surrendering to the relentless pleasure coiling tight within her. His teeth grazed her neck, a promise of pain and ecstasy, as the child’s heartbeat echoed her own desperate pulse.

“Confess it,” he demanded, his voice a low roar, fingers driving her to the precipice. “Tell me you crave my claim.”

Her breath hitched, eyes squeezing shut, the last of her will shattering.

“I… I crave it,” she gasped, voice raw and fevered. “I want your touch, to be yours completely.”

The confession tore from her, a weak surrender, her body quaking with the intensity of her words. Astarion’s eyes gleamed, triumphant, his hunger surging at her admission.

“Again,” he commanded, his voice thick with possession, fingers relentless, pushing her toward oblivion.

“I want you,” she cried, her voice a desperate hymn. “Use me, take me—I’m yours, utterly yours!”

Her words ignited him, a dark pulse of victory coursing through his veins. He kissed her fiercely, tongue plundering her mouth, his cock throbbing against her thigh, demanding release.

With a savage sweep, he pinned her against the marble edge, water crashing around them, and entered her with a single, brutal thrust. Mayrina cried out—pain and pleasure entwined—as he filled her, claiming every inch of her trembling form.

His movements were merciless, each thrust a declaration of ownership, each groan a vow of possession. Her body surrendered, melting into him, the heat of the water and his touch consuming her.

“I’m yours,” she gasped, lost in the rhythm of his claim, her voice a broken prayer. “Utterly yours.”

His fangs sank into her neck, not piercing but pressing hard, a mark of his dominion. “Forever,” he vowed.

In that scalding bath, wreathed in shadows and steam, Mayrina gave herself wholly—body, soul, and the desperate, trembling fire of her heart. She felt irrevocably claimed.

•••

The palace grew quieter after that night—not in sound, but in tension.

Gone was the wary hush of a house hosting someone who didn’t belong. The servants stopped whispering. Doors no longer closed when she passed. The stares softened from suspicion into something like awe—or fear.

Mayrina no longer avoided the long mirrors lining the hallways. She no longer tiptoed around the silken opulence. She walked barefoot across marble floors like they belonged to her, because they did. Not through name, not through marriage—but through submission, and the power that came with it.

She wore sheer nightgowns now. He liked her that way—soft, glowing, visibly his. Sometimes she’d catch her reflection: the swell of her belly, the faint marks of his mouth on her neck, her skin flushed from the night before. She looked… fed. Worshipped.

And Astarion?

He no longer teased her with detachment. No longer pretended she was just a curiosity.

Now, he hovered.

Every time she stood from a chair too quickly, he was at her side. When she winced from the weight of her growing child, he guided her to sit, knelt, kissed her stomach like a holy thing.

“My sweetest darling,” he’d murmur against her skin, low and territorial.

She was barely alone now.

They bathed one another with ritualistic care, hands caressing over skin that burned under touch. They dressed one another in silks that whispered of decadence, each gesture a silent vow. They brushed each other’s hair with near-sacred reverence, Astarion’s fingers clamping down her spine, a possessive brand that made her shiver. Mornings melted in the sunless library, its shelves heavy with tomes of Szarr’s bloodied legacy, while afternoons draped them across velvet chaises, Mayrina’s head in his lap, her breath hitching as he read from ancient, blood-stained grimoires, his voice a dark incantation.

And when desire surged again—as it always did—he made her plead. Not for his need, but because her trembling soul craved the submission he demanded.

She asked for him now. Whispered his name with reverence. Spread her legs when he growled low in her ear. She’d kneel on silk cushions without command, her hands stroking his thighs, her mouth soft and willing. She wanted to serve. To please. To keep him close.

•••

His bedchamber was a cavern of shadows, its high vaulted ceiling swallowed by darkness, the only light a sliver of moonlight spilling through heavy velvet curtains. The air was thick with the scent of aged wood and wax, the remnants of extinguished candles. Mayrina stirred beneath silk sheets, her breath catching as the chill of the night pricked her skin. Her hand drifted to her belly, where the child’s faint pulse thrummed, a quiet anchor in the opulence of Astarion’s palace—a world so far from the blighted countryside’s hunger.

Her eyes fluttered open, drawn to a figure across the room. Astarion stood motionless, his silhouette sharp against the moonlit wall, his crimson gaze fixed on a silver goblet resting on a mahogany table. Its surface was etched with writhing serpents, their eyes glinting with inlaid rubies—a relic of cruel elegance, unmistakably tied to Cazador Szarr’s decadent court. His fingers hovered near it, not touching, as if the metal might burn.

Mayrina’s heart stuttered. She knew little of Astarion’s past, only whispers from Baldur’s Gate taverns: he’d been Cazador’s spawn, a thrall bound by blood and torment, until he slew his master and claimed his power. The details were shrouded, but the goblet’s presence seemed to unravel him, his usual poise fractured by something raw, unguarded.

She slipped from the bed, her nightgown whispering against the cold stone floor, her bare feet trembling with each step.

“Astarion?” she whispered, voice quivering, barely daring to disturb the silence. “Are… are you alright?”

His head tilted slightly, but he didn’t turn. For a moment, she hoped—foolishly, desperately—that he might let her see the man beneath the lord, the one who’d suffered under Cazador’s yoke. Her fingers twitched, wanting to reach for him, to offer comfort she wasn’t sure he’d accept.

Then, as if a mask slid into place, Astarion straightened, his shoulders squaring, the vulnerability gone like mist. He turned, his crimson eyes raking over her with predatory intensity, lips curling into a faint, calculated smirk.

“Awake, are we?” he drawled, voice a velvet blade, smooth but cutting. “And here I thought you’d sleep through the night, sated from our… diversions.”

Mayrina shrank back, her hands clasping nervously before her belly, eyes dropping to the floor.

“I saw you staring,” she admitted. “At the goblet. I thought that maybe it reminded you of… him.”

Astarion’s smirk faltered, a flicker of something—anger, perhaps, or pain—crossing his features before vanishing. He stepped closer, his presence overwhelming, the air around him charged with dark allure. “Tavern gossip reaches even you, does it?” he murmured, his tone deceptively soft, laced with menace. “Cazador is dead, darling. His shadows don’t linger here.”

She nodded quickly, her throat tight, but her heart ached for the glimpse of his pain, fleeting as it was.

“I just wanted to know if you were… if you needed—” Her words faltered under his gaze, her meekness swallowing her courage.

Astarion closed the distance, his hand seizing her chin, tilting her face to meet his eyes. His touch was firm, not cruel, but unyielding, a reminder of his control.

“What I need,” he said, voice low and deliberate, “is your flesh, Mayrina. Your warmth, your surrender. Not your pity, nor your prying heart.”

Her breath hitched, a flush creeping up her neck, desire and fear tangling in her chest. His thumb brushed her lower lip, a possessive caress that sent a shiver down her spine.

His words echoed in her mind, a cold chain around her heart, yet she yearned, though fear choked her, to tell him he was wrong. She didn’t mean to pity him or pry into his guarded soul. She longed to confess she understood his terror, her own heart scarred from the days she cowered, captive to Auntie Ethel’s cruel whims in that fetid swamp. In the oppressive grandeur of his palace, she ached to cradle him, her trembling form pressed against his cold strength, to show he could bare his wounds to her. But her courage faltered, her breath shallow, knowing his crimson gaze would only scorn her hope.

“I’m sorry,” she said instead, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. She wanted to be more to him, but his words carved a boundary she couldn’t cross.

“I’m sure you are,” he smiled without his eyes, his hand sliding to her waist, pulling her flush against him. His lips descended, claiming hers in a kiss that was rough, hungry, a bruising assertion of dominance. Her hands fluttered uselessly at his chest, yielding to his demand, her body softening despite her heart’s quiet ache.

He pulled back, his lips grazing her ear, breath cold and sharp. “Your company is surprisingly lovely,” he whispered, fangs glinting as they teased her skin, not piercing but pressing hard enough to spark heat beneath her flesh. “But you’re not my equal, not my confidante. Never forget that.”

Mayrina nodded, her voice lost, her body trembling under his touch. The goblet gleamed in the corner, a silent specter of Cazador’s cruelty, but Astarion’s gaze was fixed on her now, crimson and unyielding. He guided her back to the bed, his hands already tugging at her nightgown, the moonlight casting their shadows as one—a lord and his possession, bound by desire, not trust.

•••

The grand chandelier in Astarion’s opulent palace cast a warm, golden glow across the velvet-draped chamber, its light dancing on the polished marble floors. Mayrina sat perched on the edge of a plush chaise, her hands resting lightly on the swell of her belly. Her hair spilled over her shoulders, and her eyes, wide and wary, followed Astarion as he prowled closer, his crimson gaze gleaming with hunger and something darker—something possessive.

“You’re trembling, darling,” Astarion purred, his voice like silk laced with venom. He stood before her, pale and regal in his tailored black doublet, the fabric clinging to his lithe frame. “You should know better by now. Stay still, or it might hurt.”

Mayrina’s breath hitched, her fingers tightening on the chaise. She remembered the first time he’d fed from her, now months ago, when she’d come to him desperate, her world shattered by loss and uncertainty. The tales her brother used to tell—gruesome stories of vampires lurking in the shadows, draining their victims dry—had left her paralyzed with fear that night.

He knelt before her now, his cold hands sliding up her calves, parting her legs with a gentle but unyielding pressure. The silk of her dress bunched at her hips as he exposed the soft, pale flesh of her inner thigh. “Here,” he murmured, his lips brushing the sensitive skin, “this will do nicely.”

Mayrina’s pulse quickened, her body caught between instinctual fear and the strange, forbidden thrill she’d come to crave. “Astarion…” she whispered, her voice trembling but not resisting. She knew better than to resist.

“Shh,” he commanded, his tone sharp but laced with warmth. “Be still. You’ve done this before. You know how this works.” His fingers traced the curve of her thigh, lingering near the pulse point where her blood thrummed beneath the surface. “And you know how much I enjoy it.”

His lips parted, and she felt the sharp prick of his fangs, a fleeting sting that melted into a strange, warm pull. Mayrina gasped, her hands gripping the chaise as Astarion fed, his mouth sealed against her thigh. There was no pain, not if she didn’t move. Instead, a languid heat spread through her, her body growing lighter, her head spinning as her strength ebbed. She’d feared this weakness once, this slow draining of her vitality, but now… now she craved the dizzying euphoria that followed, the way her thoughts blurred into a haze of sensation.

Astarion’s hand slid higher, his fingers deftly finding the heat between her legs. Mayrina’s breath caught, a soft moan escaping her lips as he teased her, his touch precise and unrelenting. “That’s it,” he murmured against her skin, his voice vibrating through her. “Give in, darling. Let me take care of you.”

Her body responded despite herself, hips shifting toward his hand, chasing the pleasure that coiled tighter with every stroke. The contrast of his cold touch and the warmth of her own body was maddening, and the lightheadedness from his feeding only heightened it. Her memories of fear—of her brother’s tales, of the monster she’d once imagined Astarion to be—faded into the background, drowned out by the pulse of her own desire.

“Astarion,” she gasped again, her voice breaking as her body tensed, teetering on the edge. His fangs pressed deeper for a moment, a silent warning to stay still, and she obeyed, her thighs trembling under his grip.

He pulled back just enough to meet her gaze, his lips stained with her blood, his eyes gleaming with a mix of triumph and lust. “Good girl,” he whispered, and then his fingers moved faster, pushing her over the edge. Mayrina’s vision blurred, her body arching as waves of pleasure crashed through her, her cries echoing softly in the vast chamber. The weakness from his feeding mingled with the intensity of her climax, leaving her breathless, weightless, utterly his.

Astarion licked the last drops of blood from her thigh, his touch lingering as he rose to his feet, towering over her with a satisfied smirk. “You’re exquisite when you surrender,” he said, brushing a lock of hair from her flushed face.

Mayrina slumped back against the chaise, her heart still racing, her body humming with the aftershocks of pleasure and the faint chill of his bite.

•••

The fire had burned low in her chambers, casting flickers of gold across the silk curtains and velvet upholstery. Mayrina lay nestled into a mountain of pillows, her hands resting over the swell of her belly. She was heavy with the child now—so close that even breathing felt like effort.

Servants had spent the day pampering her with quiet reverence. Warm cloths, gentle hands on her ankles, careful brushing of her hair. They called her lady now. They said she glowed.

But the glow didn’t reach her eyes.

Astarion had left hours ago. Not with ceremony, not with a kiss—she hadn’t even known until later. She had asked the palace servants, their hollow eyes averted, who murmured that the vampire lord would be gone “for a few nights.” She dared not ask where — his blood-soaked revels, whispered to be depraved feasts in Baldur’s Gate’s underbelly, were infamous.

She imagined them: velvet masks and wine-dark blood, laughter like knives in the air. Beautiful people licking gold from each other’s throats. Magic and madness and temptation dressed in silk.

Astarion had never invited her to his feasts.

He doesn’t want me to see what he really is. Or maybe — just maybe — he’s afraid I’ll run if I do.

She reached to smooth the fabric stretched over her belly. The baby kicked—soft, persistent. A small comfort.

“I’m not leaving you,” she whispered aloud. “I just… I don’t know where I belong.”

The room was quiet again.

She dismissed the servants gently when they returned with warm tea and honeyed fruit. Told them she was tired. Thanked them like a dutiful consort would. Then she lay back.

And let her thoughts wander.

Was he touching someone else right now? Whispering into a beautiful woman’s ear the same things he had once whispered to her? Letting a handsome man’s mouth please him with skills she could never match? Was he feeding? Biting? Kissing someone’s throat in that same way that made her tremble?

They were probably dancing by now—draped in silks, powdered with crushed pearls, laughing like their voices had never needed to earn their place. Beautiful, every one of them. Men and women alike—successful, painted, practiced. More graceful than she could ever be, even in dreams.

And all of them, every single one, wanted him. Not his coin. Not his favor. Him.

Mayrina curled tighter in her bed, bare feet tucked beneath the heavy covers. One of the servants had lit candles before leaving. Their flames danced like ghosts across the ceiling.

She imagined them now—those party guests—smiling too widely, tilting their necks just so, each one hoping to be the one he noticed tonight. Hoping, desperately, for a glimpse of something Mayrina already had.

One of the best chambers. His protection. His strange, careful attention.

They all envied the invisible crown she wasn’t even sure she wanted.

Why her?

Mayrina was clumsy. Whiny. Naive. She’d cried the first time he looked at her for too long. She was pretty, but nowhere near a match for his ethereal beauty. He could have had someone divine—godlike—someone who matched his power and ambition.

But Astarion had chosen her. And she still didn’t know if it was a blessing or a trap.

She tried to convince herself that none of it mattered, anyway. That he wasn’t hers. That he had never promised her love. But her body betrayed her.

She remembered Connor — the awkward kisses, the good-hearted fumbling in the hay. He had loved her, truly. But even in her most secret moments now, when her body ached with need, his memory could no longer satisfy her.

Because every time, without fail, Astarion’s voice stole into her head instead. His hands. His bite. His terrible, beautiful eyes watching her fall apart.

She hated that she missed him.

Hated the warmth that bloomed between her thighs at the thought of him growling her name.

She closed her eyes, let her hand drift slowly over her belly and lower, ashamed even in the dark. She tried to think of Connor. Of his contagious smile. But the image dissolved too fast, overtaken by silk sheets and sharp teeth and Astarion’s hands gripping her hips, claiming her.

She turned her face into the pillow and let it happen — shameful, slow, and aching.

And when she finally came, stifling the sound into her sleeve, it wasn’t Connor’s name that broke in her breathless sob.

It was his.

•••

It had been weeks since he’d touched her.

Astarion had kept his distance with a kind of self-imposed discipline that startled even himself. He hadn’t fed from her. Hadn’t even kissed her lips. He let her recover—body and soul. And the waiting… ate at him.

Tonight, he didn’t wait.

The baby was asleep in the cradle near the hearth, swaddled in velvet and blessed silence. Mayrina had just finished nursing, the loose linen of her nightgown clinging damply to one breast. Her body was still healing, still softer, fuller—but to Astarion, she’d never looked more ravishing.

He stepped into the chamber, silent as fog.

Mayrina looked up from the cradle, brushing a wisp of hair behind her ear. Her eyes widened when she saw him.

“You should be sleeping,” she said gently.

He said nothing. Just closed the door behind him with a click.

She felt him before he touched her, his vampiric presence blooming like a storm in her bones.

“I’ve given you time to rest,” he said. “But now I want what’s mine.”

Her breath hitched.

“You just fed. You don’t need—”

“Darling. I’m not here for blood.”

She swallowed hard.

He reached her in two slow steps, cupping her face in his hand. His thumb traced her lips, then slid down, parting the neckline of her gown to expose the curve of her breast.

“I want you.”

She melted into the kiss when it came, helpless against the hunger behind it. His mouth claimed hers—possessive, deep, starved. She whimpered against him, body arching even as her mind tried to resist.

“I missed this,” he murmured, voice ragged. “I missed you.”

He lowered her onto the bed with careful strength, pulling her nightgown up until her thighs were bare. She trembled beneath him—nervous, aching, already wet.

“Does it still hurt?” he asked, surprisingly gentle, fingers brushing between her legs.

She shook her head. “Not anymore.”

“Good,” he said, kissing down her throat. “Because I need to hear you moan for me again.”

And she did.

He entered her slowly, torturously, his cock gliding into her slick heat with maddening precision, stretching her until she whimpered. But once fully sheathed, his control shattered like glass. His thrusts grew feral, each one a punishing claim, wrenching raw, breathy cries from her lips that echoed in the shadowed chamber.

Her hands clawed at his back, nails digging into unyielding flesh, desperate for anchor. Her thighs quivered, splayed wide around his hips, trembling with each brutal thrust. Her breasts, heavy and aching, swayed with his rhythm—one slick with milk that leaked in pearly rivulets down her chest, the other scarred with the faint crescent of his bite, a mark from weeks ago that still throbbed under his gaze. The milk glistened in the dim light, a primal offering, and Astarion’s eyes fixed on it, his fangs glinting as he licked his lips.

He leaned down, his breath cold against her ear, his silver hair brushing her flushed cheek. “Did he ever make you feel like this?” he rasped, voice a venomous caress, his cock driving deeper, relentless.

Mayrina gasped, her body arching involuntarily, the question piercing her heart. “Astarion—” she choked, face flushing, guilt coiling like a snake in her chest.

“Tell me,” he growled, his thrusts slamming harder, the bed groaning under his force. His hand seized her breast, fingers squeezing until milk dripped onto his palm, warm and slick. “Did Connor ever take you like this? Ever make you beg for release?” His thumb smeared the milk across her nipple, teasing it to a hardened peak, sending a jolt of shameful pleasure through her.

She turned her face away, tears prickling her eyes, Connor’s gentle memory a fragile shield against Astarion’s maddening thrusts.

“Please…” she whimpered, voice breaking, her body betraying her with every shuddering clench around him.

His free hand holding her chin, making her tear-streaked face to meet his crimson gaze. His eyes burned with possessive sweetness, his cock throbbing inside her, unyielding. “I’m buried in you. You’re mine. And I demand the truth.” His voice dropped to a vicious whisper, lips brushing her milk-slick breast, tongue flicking out to taste the sweetness. “Connor was gentle, wasn’t he? Kind. But did he ever make you scream?”

Her body betrayed her fully now, her core tightening around him, milking him as a sob tore from her throat. The shame of her arousal, sparked by his callousness, drowned her.

“No,” she whispered, voice barely audible, guilt clawing at her soul for defiling Connor’s memory.

“Louder, darling,” he commanded, his tongue lapped at her leaking breast, sucking the milk with a low, predatory groan, the sensation sending her spiraling.

“No!” she cried, shaking, tears streaming down her cheeks, her voice raw with anguish. “He never made me feel like this!”

Astarion slowed, grinding his hips with torturous depth, his cock pulsing inside her, savoring her surrender. His lips left her breast, milk glistening on his mouth, and he loomed over her, a dark god claiming his offering. “Say it,” he hissed, his hand sliding between them, fingers finding her swollen clit, circling with ruthless precision.

She broke completely, a sobbing mess, her body wracked with pleasure and guilt. The memory of Connor—his soft touches, his quiet love—shattered under Astarion’s relentless dominance. “You make me feel more than he ever did!” she wailed, her voice a desperate, anguished hymn. “It was never like this with him— never, never, never!” Each word was a betrayal, tearing her apart, her tears soaking the velvet beneath her.

Astarion’s eyes gleamed with triumph, his fangs bared in a savage smile. He kissed her tears, salty and warm, then her throat, his tongue tracing the pulse that raced for him. “Good,” he whispered, his voice a dark vow, his lips grazing her skin as he thrust deeper, harder, claiming her fully. “I won’t share you with a ghost.”

“You already have all of me,” she gasped, her voice breaking, her body shuddering as his fingers drove her toward release. “So please— don’t stop!” Her hands clutched the sheets, nails tearing the silk, her lactating breast leaking freely now, milk pooling on her skin, a symbol of her surrender.

In that moment, surrounded by crimson silks and suffocating shadows, Mayrina gave him her past. The guilt of betraying Connor’s memory consumed her, leaving her nothing but a sobbing, trembling wreck, her heart laid bare for Astarion’s unapologetic claim. He surged into her one final time, his own release a primal roar, marking her once more as his irrevocably.

•••

Soft gray light filtered through the enchanted curtains—sunlight without bite, conjured only for her comfort. The fire had burned low. Candle stubs flickered lazily on their final inches of wax.

The baby, full and content, slept curled against Mayrina’s chest, his tiny breath warming the linen of her mother’s nightgown.

Mayrina stared at nothing. Her body ached in that soft, echoing way only new mothers understood. Her legs still trembled faintly from what Astarion had taken from her the night before—not just her breath, but her truth, her confession.

Connor had never made her feel the way Astarion did. She hadn’t planned to say it, hadn’t even wanted to think it. But it had come loose from her like a cry during labor—raw, involuntary, honest in the worst and best way.

She’d cried in his arms afterward, even as his mouth pressed reverent kisses to her damp cheeks and his voice purred assurances she couldn’t bring herself to believe just yet. Now, in the gentle silence of morning, the shame returned. The guilt.

What kind of a horrible widow am I?

“I thought you’d left already,” she said quietly. Astarion’s voice came from the shadows.

“And miss the part where you avoid eye contact for hours and pretend to forget last night?” He stepped into the light—shirt loose, collar open, his hair slightly ruffled.

Mayrina didn’t answer. She just kept her arms around the baby, holding him tighter than necessary.

He came closer, looking down at the bundle of softness and silk nestled in her arms. The baby let out a small sigh, one hand twitching in sleep.

“He looks like you,” he murmured. “Pity. I was hoping for fangs.”

Mayrina gave a breathless huff, almost a laugh.

He sat on the edge of the bed, close enough to touch, but didn’t. His eyes were thoughtful, distant.

“You’ll be a good mother,” he said softly. “He’s lucky.”

Her throat tightened. “You don’t know that.”

“I’ve seen you with him.”

“He’s still new. They’re easy when they’re new.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You say that like you’re waiting to fail.”

She looked down again. “That’s because I’m afraid I will.”

A long pause.

“Why?” he asked raising an eyebrow.

She hesitated, eyes fixed on her son’s tiny, perfect fingers.

“It was Auntie Ethel,” she whispered. “She told me I wasn’t fit to raise anything. That I was too soft. Too stupid. She said I’d ruin everything I touched, just like my mother. That the child would die in my arms unless someone better took them.” She swallowed. “And for a time, I believed her.”

Silence sat between them for a beat, heavy and full of unsaid things.

“I’m not good at this part,” Astarion said after a while. “The comforting. The truth. The future.”

He reached forward and touched the baby’s foot, gentle and featherlight. “I can’t promise I’ll be a father to him,” he said. “I don’t know how to be. And I’m not going to pretend that I’ll change into something I’m not.”

Mayrina stared at him—waiting, wary. “But I can promise this,” he continued, voice like velvet over a blade.

“He will never want for anything. He will have the best tutors. The finest clothes. A room in this house that no one else is allowed to enter but him. And if anyone tries to harm him, manipulate him, hurt him the way you were hurt…” He met Mayrina’s eyes. “I will end them. Slowly.”

Tears stung her eyes. She blinked them away.

“And you,” he added, softer now. “You will never be alone again.” Mayrina looked down at the tiny weight in her arms. Then up at the vampire who had claimed her body, her truths, her shame—and offered something terrifying in return: protection.

Not love. Not softness. But safety. Power. A shield of fangs and silk and promise.

“I believe you,” she whispered.

And this time, when he leaned in to kiss her forehead, she didn’t flinch.

She leaned into it.

•••

The fire crackled low in the hearth, casting long amber shadows across the stone walls of Astarion’s private study. Books lay in half-ordered piles, a forgotten goblet of bloodwine stained the rim of his desk — and in the center of it all sat Mayrina, perched gingerly on his lap like she wasn’t sure she had the right to be there.

Her body was pressed against his silk shirt, her thighs straddling his hips. The robe she wore—gifted by him, of course—had slipped off her shoulders, pooling around her waist, leaving her bare to his touch. Astarion’s crimson eyes gleamed with predatory delight as he gazed at her, one pale hand resting possessively on her hip, the other tracing slow, deliberate circles along her collarbone.

“You’re so pliant tonight, darling,” his voice was a low, velvet caress that sent shivers down her spine. “So eager to please.” His fingers dipped lower, grazing the curve of her breast, teasing the sensitive skin until her breath hitched. “You hate how much you love this, don’t you?”

Mayrina’s cheeks flushed, her heart pounding with a mix of shame and undeniable desire. She did hate herself for it—for the way her body arched into his touch, for the heat pooling between her legs at his every word. She was no longer the frightened girl who’d stumbled into his palace, desperate and pregnant, bargaining for security. Connor’s child was safe now, cared for in the nursery down the hall, but Mayrina was still here, bound to Astarion by a deal she couldn’t escape. Bound by the way he made her feel—alive, wanted, consumed.

His hand slid lower, cupping her breast, his thumb brushing over the peak with maddening precision. Mayrina bit her lip, stifling a moan, but Astarion’s sharp eyes caught the movement. “Don’t hold back,” he commanded, his tone sharp but laced with dark amusement. “I wish to hear you, darling. I want to feel you unravel.”

She shook her head, a weak protest, but her body betrayed her, hips shifting against him as his touch sent sparks through her. Astarion chuckled, low and wicked, and in one fluid motion, he adjusted her position, guiding her to straddle him more fully. His fingers worked at the laces of his breeches, freeing himself, and Mayrina’s breath caught at the sight of him—hard, ready, and utterly in control.

“Look at you,” he murmured, his hand sliding between her thighs, teasing her slick heat with a touch that was both cruel and exquisite. “So wet for me already. You can’t help yourself, can you?”

“Please…” Her voice was a broken whisper, not even knowing what she was begging for. She hated the truth in his words, hated how her body craved him despite the part of her that screamed she should resist temptation.

He didn’t give her time to dwell on it. With a firm grip on her hips, he guided her down, entering her in one slow, deliberate thrust. Mayrina gasped, her hands clutching his shoulders as her body adjusted to the fullness, the coldness of him contrasting with her own heat. Astarion’s lips curled into a satisfied smirk, his hands steadying her as he began to move her, setting a rhythm that made her breath come in short, desperate pants.

“Bounce for me, darling,” he commanded, his voice dripping with authority. “Show me how much you want this.”

Her body obeyed before her mind could protest, her hips rising and falling in time with his guidance. Each movement sent waves of pleasure through her, building with every thrust, every brush of his hands against her skin. Astarion’s fingers roamed, one hand fondling her breast, pinching and teasing until she whimpered, the other gripping her hip to control her pace. His touch was relentless, possessive, claiming every inch of her as his own.

“My sweet,” he mused, his fangs glinting in the firelight as he leaned forward, his lips brushing her throat. “No matter how much you fight it, you always come back to me.”

Mayrina’s head tipped back, her dark blonde hair spilling over her shoulders as she rode him, her body trembling with the intensity of it all. She hated herself for the moans spilling from her lips, for the way her thighs tightened around him, chasing the release that only he could give her. The shame burned, but it was drowned out by the fire he ignited in her, the way he filled her, commanded her, made her feel like she was both nothing and everything.

“Astarion—please,” she gasped, her nails digging into his shoulders as the pleasure coiled tighter, threatening to snap.

“That’s it,” he grinned, his hand slipping between her thighs, his fingers teasing her as he thrust harder, pushing her closer to the edge. “Let go. Give me everything.”

Her body obeyed, shattering under his touch, a cry tearing from her throat as waves of ecstasy crashed through her. Astarion groaned softly, his grip tightening as he followed her over the edge, his own release spilling into her.

Mayrina collapsed against him, her breath ragged, her body trembling with aftershocks. Astarion’s arms wrapped around her, holding her close. “Such a good girl,” he murmured, his voice laced with satisfaction. “This is where you belong, isn’t it?”

She didn’t answer, her heart twisting with the weight of his words. She hated herself for how much she wanted to say yes.

•••

Twilight laid itself softly across the garden. The high hedges were trimmed to unnatural perfection, and the roses — blood-deep and lush — climbed trellises taller than any farmhouse wall Mayrina had ever seen.

She stood at the edge of the gravel path, where the wrought-iron gates stretched wide and cold before her. Beyond them: the woods. The road. A life once lived.

A simpler one.

She could still picture it. The rickety fence around the old farm. The sound of Connor’s laugh through the kitchen window. Her brothers arguing in the barn. Even the mud — especially the mud — felt like home now, when she remembered it.

All of it was gone.

Burned. Buried. Lost to the hands of fate and a hag’s twisted games.

She didn’t cry anymore. Not really. The palace taught her how to be quiet about it — how to press grief between silk bedsheets and let it disappear between moans and moonlight.

Still, the gates haunted her.

She never touched them. Just stared.

“You know,” came a voice behind her, smooth and intimate, “you always look so tragic out here. Like some lost princess dreaming of chickens and mud.”

She didn’t flinch. He was always quiet when he wanted to be.

Astarion slid his arms around her waist from behind, cool lips brushing her neck. “Should I have the gates opened, my sweet little prisoner? Shall I tell the servants to unbolt the locks and let you wander off into the woods, barefoot and wide-eyed, with your babe on your hip like a painted pastoral fantasy?”

She said nothing. His fingers slipped beneath the sash of her gown. Not to provoke, but to anchor.

“You could run, you know,” he whispered. “Even now. I wouldn’t stop you.”

Mayrina closed her eyes.

“But you won’t,” he added, softer now. “Because you’ve learned what this place is. What I am. And most of all—” he nuzzled her cheek, voice almost reverent, “—you’ve learned what you are.”

She turned slowly. Her hand came to rest on his chest — not to push away. Just to feel that he was there. That he was real. That she had chosen this.

And he was right. The cage was gilded. Velvet-lined. Blood-slicked and fire-warmed. But it was a cage nonetheless. And she had come to crave its comfort. Its power. Its clarity.

She kissed him.

Not hungrily. Not as a thank you. Just… a surrender. Quiet. Unapologetic.

His arms held her tighter. Possessive. Content.

“Come,” he murmured, drawing back. “The roses are wilting without you. And I haven’t heard the baby cry in hours. I’m beginning to suspect she’s inherited your stubborn silence.”

Mayrina gave the faintest of smiles. And then she turned away from the gate.

She didn’t look back. Not even once.

Though somewhere in her — deep, and quiet — she mourned the young woman who might have.