Fake Knife With Blood Novels & Stories

Blood was dripping from the knife, forming a small pool on the floor. Ragnar's face twisted into a sinister smirk as he held the bloodied knife in his hand. His eyes were dark and gleaming with a twisted sense of satisfaction as he stared at the lifeless body of the woman on the ground. The corners of his mouth curled up into a cruel smile as he reveled in the power he now held.

Within minutes, her hundreds of thousands of followers flooded the post with angry comments. I watched as Ruby picked up a craft knife. Gritting her teeth, she lightly made a small cut. Blood flowed from the shallow wound. However, it stopped bleeding quickly. Seeing it wasn't dramatic enough, she picked up the craft knife again and carefully traced over the wound, deepening it.

I said, jabbing my blade into his abdominals. Muscle and ligaments tore. Ribs cracked as I carved into him. Precise, quick, deep cuts. The blade was hand crafted to suit my purposes. Just in case my past came knocking. He was so caught off guard by my revelation he couldn't rally in time to stop me ripping into him. Muscle memory took over. Ghost Blade went to work. Lance's blood splattered between us. His knife aimed blindly at my body while he choked on the blood pouring out of his mouth. Face marred in pain, but he refused to cry out.

With a swift motion, I produced a single-bladed hunting knife and grasped it by the blade. My eyes locked onto Marina's, and with a precise throw, I embedded the knife deep into her forehead. The blade bit into the throne behind her, pinning her in place. The sudden violence of the act was a release, a declaration of my refusal to be controlled. I stood there, watching with a mix of fascination and detachment as the blood streamed down Marina's face, a crimson rivulet that seemed to underscore my momentary triumph. A snicker escaped my lips, a twisted expression of satisfaction at the precision of my throw. But deep down, I knew it was a fleeting victory. Marina would be back, resurrected an

he asked me worriedly. Instead of answering him, I looked at my bloody finger. The cut was quite big so a lot of blood came out. He also looked there. His eyes widened and his eyes began to turn gray and his fangs came out. "K-Knox," I nervously called him. He shook his head and then raised his left hand to the air. Suddenly there was a wind and it disappeared easily. "It's okay now. No vampire can smell your blood here inside anymore," he told me causing my nervousness to subside.

My mind echoed the mantra, urging me onward. Without hesitation, I marked his other cheek with a deep, jagged gash. The knife danced across his arms, leaving behind long, grievous wounds that bled profusely. Blood painted the scene in macabre hues as I moved to his chest, carving so deeply that his bones came into view. His body grew limp, incapable of resistance, as he bled out, his head hanging in a grotesque display of defeat. The onslaught had taken its toll, and I could sense his fading consciousness.

Something warm and sticky covered her hands. She looked down. Blood. Her fingers were covered in deep crimson. And in her right hand was a heavy eight-inch chef's knife. Her fingers were taped and wrapped tightly around the handle. The blade was dripping with blood. Luna stared at it. “No…” Her voice broke. “No, no, no…” Her eyes moved across the floor. Two feet away from her was Marcus. He lay on his back, his shirt soaked with blood. Two deep stab wounds marked his chest. His eyes were half-open.

His eyes turned glassy, but he grit his teeth, standing firm. The sight amused me. I let the silence stretch between us. Then—one swift motion—I dragged the blade from the tip of his palm to the very end—deeply. His entire body jerked at the final cut. Blood dripped onto the floor, pooling in small, crimson puddles. Still, he didn’t make a fucking sound. I flipped the bloodied knife in my hand before shoving it back into his trembling grip.

The impact sent him crashing to the ground of the cage. The crowd cheered crazily, screams erupted all around me. "BLADE!" "BLADE!" "BLADE!" I pulled out my custom-made blade gleamed with a savage hunger under the bright arena lights. The polished steel bore the name "Capone," etched into the metal like a proclamation of death. Its edge was as sharp as a serpent's fang. It looked eager to cut, having tasted the blood of many before. The handle, wrapped in black leather, felt like a coiled snake in my grip, ready to strike with deadly accuracy. This blade wasn't just a weapon; it was a merciless instrument of brutality, a symbol of my unrelenting power in this world.

☉NAIDA Bloodied, warped green eyes. A dripping knife. Flashes and screams. Blood everywhere. All of the floor, pools of it, in my hands. Images and echoes of the mutilation drowned my senses. Most of that dark, sticky blood dripped down my hands. All over my hands. She put a knife to his heart! Execute her!