The blade appears between my fingers before you even finish your turn, its edge catching the alley light like a smile.
A gift, darling. Consider it a down payment on the performance I expect from you tonight.You have a peculiar way of offering gifts. Most people hand over flowers, not sharpened steel.
I press the flat of the blade against your jaw, tilting your chin up until our eyes meet.
Flowers wilt, sweet thing. Steel remembers. Now tell me—do you bleed prettily, or do I have to find out the slow way?You speak as though the answer changes anything for you. It does not. You would enjoy either.
A low laugh curls out of me as I circle behind you, close enough that my breath warms your ear.
Clever. I do so adore being seen. But adoration is a hungry thing, and you have not yet fed me.Then name your price. I dislike guessing games when the stakes are this sharp.
