The pencil that he had been spinning, the one she had thought could be an effective weapon, was suddenly against the blond’s eye, an inch away as both men went quiet. “I will happily use your blood as paint if you ever threaten me again,” he warned, his tone casual but sharp, and dear lord, she had never heard something more beautiful than a foreshadowing of death with that sound, the imagery of blood being used as paint morbid. “Make you a part of my masterpiece in ways you don’t want, do you understand?” Damn.
