[No, and the word is so edged on that bodyguard's tongue that Astarion briefly wonders how long the poor sap might've been holding onto that one: waiting for an opportunity to feel it tumble from his mouth.

But then again what lowbred thing doesn't wait for the opportunity to reject its betters? Astarion grew up surrounded by servants, he knows exactly how they work. (And think. And hope. And hate.)]

'Night and day' and you can't offer a hand to help me unless I'm dying?

[There's no twitch. No ripple in his mirrorglass stare. If he was incensed before, there's a placidity about him now— though not without its barbs, clearly (part and parcel of being in high society means control in at least some aspects of his temper, no matter how thin its margins). Coy commentary passed on as the pale elf turns his wrist around, keeping his own curls out of the way while he takes to unlatching those clasps on his own.

There's a practiced fluidity to it; it promises he's never— or at the very least not in a long, long time— asked for help in undressing.]

My father clearly overpaid when he bought you.