In what world do you think I ever did anything less? [ She dips her fingers into the wine, a slow draw. Red, stained dark on her skin, presses forefinger to thumb. Looking direct at him, as she feels smears on her callouses. Poets like compared wine to blood, but they had never shed it to know the difference.
Blood painted richer tapestry. She flicks her fingers, spray at his cheek of the excess. ] I know what colour my life has been written in.
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Blood painted richer tapestry. She flicks her fingers, spray at his cheek of the excess. ] I know what colour my life has been written in.