Gabriel was trembling on the floor on her knees, her wrists sliced open, propped over bowls, filling them up. Graeme was sick with the sight of it, but he had been instructed to keep his reckless mouth shut more than once during the course of their bargaining with the Warlock, and he knew better than to open it again.
He did not think Gabriel made threats to remove his tongue idly.
Still, he wanted nothing more than to slice open the throat of the Warlock who sat across from her, watching her bleed into his bowls with a satisfied smirk lurking at the corners of his mouth. Graeme wasn’t sure he’d ever been so furiously murderous in his entire life, and though he briefly flashed back to the moment he’d found Daisy fu*king someone else, he knew it was nothing compared to how he felt then.
She was bleeding for him, she was bleeding in an attempt to save him, and he was powerless to stop it. He was helpless to prevent it. He could do nothing to change it. There was nothing he had or would ever have that was as precious as the blood that flowed in her veins, and the Warlock was smart enough to know that.
So was Gabriel, and that was why she’d come all this way. That was why she hadn’t argued when Arroy had proposed the trade. Her blood for his spell, he’d made it seem reasonable.
He hadn’t mentioned he wanted so much of it. He hadn’t mentioned that she would have to be on her knees, her wrists bound and pulled as far from her torso as they could go, so she couldn’t move and her shoulders were pulled tightly together along her spine. Discomfort was clear, and it was obvious that it was part of the payment.
Though Graeme was unable to do a thing about the circumstances they were in, about the sacrifice she was making on his behalf, he resolved himself to return.
To take his own payment for her sacrifice from the Warlock.