Wolverson's Queen
Gunner doesn’t.
He turns it into some sort of party, so it is like a dance while he is dicing, stabbing, and cutting. Finally, he stops ahead of me, two objects in each hand.
“Now choose one, which would you like me to use?” He smiles at me as his eyes darken with desire. I look at them: one is a pocketknife, another a scalpel, then a dagger, and then, well, of course, he has a sword, a big fucking sword. But, as much as I want to say the sword, I also want to survive this.
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