Your Words Cut Deeper Than Any Blade Novels & Stories

Pathetic. I raise my arms, blade poised high, cold steel gleaming beneath the flickering light. I scream as I drive the blade deep into his chest, feeling it slice through flesh, muscle, and bone. I feel the brittle snap of our withered bond breaking inside me like a dry twig, echoing in my ribs. I press the blade in harder, snarling into his wild, panicked eyes, forcing him to relive every pathetic moment of his pitiful life as it bleeds out of him.

The blade sliced. Slow. Skin opened. Blood oozed. He gasped, trembled. But he laughed. Laughed. Even as the blade dug into his skin. Even as I split the muscle of his palm. I cut deeper. The blade sang on bone. He shuddered. His breath hitched. And still he smiled. “You’ll burn, old man,” he croaked. “You think this will save you? You think you can stop what’s coming?” I twisted the knife.

Don't forget—I still have that video of you coming on to me the night you got drunk! I stared at him in disbelief. My voice was hoarse as I shot back, "Clinton Whitfield, are you seriously using that to threaten me? And you call yourself a man?" But he scoffed in response. Whatever trace of guilt he had shown before was already gone. "Don't forget today is the anniversary of your mother's death," Clinton hissed. "She spent her life teaching you to have self-respect. You wouldn't want her to know how shameless you've become since she died, would you?"

BLADE 3. Pain. It was all I felt when I shot my eyes opened. I felt so sore and tired. The memories of how Lorenzo plunged deeper into me last night filled my mind. He was so cruel to me. I didn't find any enjoyment in it at all. I tried lifting my hands and I was happy It was back to functioning. My tit hurts too as a result of the sucking he did last night.

I reached for the table behind me, picking up a glinting knife that rested among other tools. I turned the knife in my hand around, allowing the light catch the blade. “Let’s do this again, shall we?” “You see, people think men like me don't feel anything. That we are made of stone.”I laughed again, almost bitterly as I knelt back down. The man’s eyes widened as I raised the knife, pressing the cold steel against his cheek. “But what they don't realize is. We. Feel. Every. Damn. Thing.” “I feel the weight of every decision I make” I murmured. My voice almost a whisper. “Every life I take. And you—you made me choose to be here today”

u are nothing but a little girl. ------------------------------------ I didn't speak cause it's said "action speaks louder than words". I just took one of the knives placed at the sides and slashed it on his chest. I was satisfied when I saw his shorts having a cut line with blood soaking them wet... I was even more satisfied on hearing him scream..... extreme music to my ears. ------------------------------------ GUARD Aghhh...agh Neet Not so strong now....huh where is all the shit calling u spoke about earlier? ------------------------------------

He had more hours in this yard; I had a wolf who had not forgiven me for thinking about running. I let her hum at the edges of my eyes. Not a shift. A tilt. The world sharpened into the exactness that makes choices hurt more. Jason’s weight sat too long in his left heel when he cut to my outside. The knife did an unnecessary flourish because it liked being admired. He blinked more than he wanted to. Sleep had not been his friend. “Come on then,” he said, a little louder, for the ones at the back. “Show us the miracle.”

Xavier observed, his voice slicing through the lingering silence like a knife through butter. With a cold glare, I responded, "One more word from you, Xavier, and I will bury this knife deep into your chest," I growled, my fingers tensely slicing through another piece of meat I had no intention of eating. Xavier scoffed dismissively, "You can't—"

I don't understand the words people say in anger. When I was seven, my foster mother complained that I ate too much and told me that if I didn't work, I wouldn't get to eat. I washed dishes for three days with a high fever. Only after I collapsed did I dare take half a moldy dinner roll. When I was twelve, my teacher told me I couldn't go home until I'd memorized the entire passage. The next morning, when the security guard forced open the classroom door, I was still standing in front of the empty desks, reciting the final paragraph. When I was sixteen, a doctor got angry when I refused treatment and snapped that if I didn't want to live, I should never take medicine again. From then on,

The words cut deeper than any blade. Lucien froze. Slowly, she faced him again. Her eyes were shattered glass. “Do it,” she said. “If I’m only a weapon, if I’m only a monster, then end it. I won’t fight you.” His wolf roared in agony. He took a step forward then stopped. Because if he touched her, he would never let her go. “You’re not worth my blade,” he said instead. The cruelty of the words nearly destroyed him. Her face collapsed.