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Summary
Though his heart beats no longer, he knows what it would betray if it could: Astarion is his favorite. He would never speak it, never admit it aloud, but he feels it simmering, undeniable, within his veins. Perhaps it is the boy's weakness, his craven hunger for approval. Perhaps it is his cleverness, the quick wit he cannot always suppress. Or perhaps it is simply that he is lovely, fragile and radiant. Whatever the reason, Cazador knows: none of the others look so perfect here, naked in his bed.
None of his spawn please Cazador like Astarion does: pale and trembling, starving for the smallest scrap of favor. Tonight he permits the boy to earn it with his devoted mouth, flowing tears, and perfect surrender.