Perhaps predictably, this only furthered his ardor. He took her wrist, bent it harshly back against the pillows. He's glad, in a distant, hungry way, to see she kept the blade. Gladder still to see her make her wishes known. He feels like he's unleashed something in her, luring a creature out from the demure excuses she'd used before. He wants to nurture that, nearly as much as he wants her mewling beneath him.
He can have both. Nothing inspires patience like a blade to the throat.
Daemon moves his hips back, releasing her from that predicament. At least the sheets are blooded. He means to have them displayed-- a cruel practice, but crueler, he believes, to the father.
Still, he moves closer to her. His hand stays on her breast, the other, still on her wrist with the blade in hand, moves the point over his heart. "It's a puncturing blade," he says. "It does not slash. Far more deadly to cut deep."
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Date: 2022-08-26 04:07 pm (UTC)He can have both. Nothing inspires patience like a blade to the throat.
Daemon moves his hips back, releasing her from that predicament. At least the sheets are blooded. He means to have them displayed-- a cruel practice, but crueler, he believes, to the father.
Still, he moves closer to her. His hand stays on her breast, the other, still on her wrist with the blade in hand, moves the point over his heart. "It's a puncturing blade," he says. "It does not slash. Far more deadly to cut deep."