“Or maybe,” said the assassin, tracing his finger from her throat to her chest, between her breasts, and resting it on her stomach, “I ought to gut you like a pig. Wouldn’t that be fun? We could share facts and stories about ourselves until you eventually bleed out. I’d enjoy watching the life fade from you, minute by minute. I could make it painful, if I wanted to. I could twist the blade. Reach in, play with your…”
