Bloody Knife Drawing Novels & Stories

I sat on an overturned crate, opened my sketchbook, and started drawing. The lines came fast. Jagged edges of broken concrete. A single rusted fire escape clinging to the side of a warehouse like it was trying to escape. Shadows pooling in the corners like spilled ink. I didn’t think about Dmitri. Not consciously. But somewhere between the second and third page, I realized the figure I’d started sketching in the foreground—half-hidden behind a stack of rotting pallets—was tall. Broad-shouldered. Dark hair falling into his eyes. I hadn’t meant to draw him. My hand had just… remembered. I stared at the rough outline of his profile, charcoal smudged where my thumb had tried to soften the line o

The man stumbled, holding his face as blood poured through his fingers but Silvio barely noticed, his eyes locked on the knife shining on the floor Silvio crouched, picking up the knife.. the blade shinning under the dim light

With the sound, the sharp blade is drawn out of its sheath, and in the deep forest with the wind bursts, it is shining with the cold blaze. Then, Mary Kinson rolled up the cuff of her right hand completely, and then took a Swiss knife and ripped it down at the joint, without blinking her eyelashes, and her movements were neat. There was a stabbing pain in the concern, and then warm blood slipped down the wrist. She pointed her palm towards the grass, and the bright red blood glowed with light. When it dripped on the grass leaves, it was absorbed instantly like magic.

Xavier nodded at him and took those knives. Dylan started to run and kill with two knives in his two hands, he was running forward and killing wolves with both of his hands. Those knives were silver knives, Skylar gave those to his four officials if they could not fight long because of tiredness. But she didn't give one to Dylan because Dylan was the True Blood. Dylan never thought that one day he would need those too.

“On with it, then.” Mr. Cillian opened a drawer and pulled out a knife. “Do you like knives, Miss Blackwood? I do. I name mine after their first victims. It seems fitting to me to name a blade after the first blood it’s tasted. And wouldn’t you know it, I named this one Blackwood. Fittingly enough, the hilt is black, and wooden!” He giggled, raising his knife. “Now, you shot me in the shoulder . . . perhaps I should start by returning the favor?” “That’s enough,” came a voice from behind me.

They got off too easy. Even unharmed, it doesn’t relinquish the air of danger that clung to him. Niko stalks forward as though daring someone to make a wrong move. No one moves, I doubt anyone even breathes. I sure as hell didn’t. Crouching low before one of the dead men, he pulled out a knife stuck in the man’s throat hilt first, the blade of the darkest night it was almost black came out bloody, He flicks the knife once causing a drop of blood to fly. “Bring him”

With one fast swipe, Kalean pulled the knife right across the man's throat. Blood sprayed through the air, painting the wall red. The second man started screaming, but Kalean stepped over to him and did the exact same thing. One fast cut. Both men slumped forward in their chairs, the only sound left was the drip of blood hitting the floor. I stood frozen in the doorway, my body completely numb. Kalean dropped the bloody knife on the floor, he turned around, i watched as his chest rose and fall repeatedly, his skin now was covered in fresh blood, his black eyes locked directly onto Lucien.

To Pride. First Blood. Another one. Creek’s smile dies. “Four?” He looks at me. At Cove. At Ash. At Pride. “Mother’s greedy.” “Mother’s done,” I say. I pull the bone knife. No more talking. I throw it. Not at Creek. At the ground between us. It hits. Sticks. And the gold vines change. They go from the knife. Out. Like a web. They touch every Blackmire wolf. Every Redfang. Every Duskbane.

Blood has soaked the carpet and run along the cracks in the floorboards. Bloody handprints stain her naked body. Small hands. Ahead of me, the kitchen door was open, and Jekyll lay on his side on the black and white diamond kitchen linoleum, a large kitchen knife shoved into his eye, pinning his head to the floor.

My fingers settle on a sleek silver blade, its edge glinting under the dim light. With measured steps, I return to Luciano, standing close enough that he can see his reflection in the polished steel. His jaw tightens, his breathing turning uneven, but he still holds his ground. Good. I like when they put up a fight. It makes breaking them all the more satisfying. I press the tip of the blade against his lower abdomen, dragging it lightly across his skin, just enough to pierce the flesh and draw a thin line of crimson. The smell of fresh blood fills the air, mixing with the damp, musty scent of the dungeon.