“He looks like a Picasso,” she continues as she nods toward Francis’s destroyed face. Her hand flows in his direction with birdlike grace. “Eyes over here, nose over there. Very artsy, Butcher. Embracing your cubism era. Cool.”
“Just … hold … still …” Sloane says, gritting out every word over the man’s garbled cries. “I’d say it would hurt less if you stop struggling, but that’s a total lie.”