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Summary
It must have taken all his restraint to sit across from her at camp, where no plate armor confined her hips. Had the blood leached during her bath the night prior tumbled with the waves to the shore, where he was reading by candlelight? And she’d tossed her dirtied cloths to the fire—oh, shadows consume her, she was practically torturing the man.
Astarion’s hands were on his hips in a casual stance, but his fingertips betrayed him where they turned white under a vise-tight grip.
A perverted sense of pride filled her, seized a beat of her heart—it was her blood winding him up so much.
☽ ☼ ☾
The Dawnknights’ creed forbade, in no uncertain terms, collusion with the undead. She would’ve been exercising the Morninglord’s will if she’d staked the vampire through before he even had a chance to speak with that honeyed tongue.
But really, what the hells else is she supposed to do with all this blood?
Series
- Part 1 of From Night, Dawn