He taps the end of the brush against his cheek, head tilted as if studying a puzzle only he can see. "Somewhere no one will find your hide after I am done flaying it off your bones." Then he smiles charmingly, fangs caressing his lower lip, pointing at the sketch. "This? This is for when I've carved you down so thoroughly I won't even remember the face you started with. When I've peeled the truth out of you, layer after stubborn layer, until I reach that pathetic little spark that makes you think you can fuck with me."
My blood runs cold. I try to find the bluff in his expression or hear the usual amusement or humor in his tone but all I'm met with is an icy rage that has festered and curdled. And I realize with horror as he hums, pleased with himself, that he is mad enough to actually kill me.
I suppose anyone would, when they find out that you've been fucking with their head.
