This week's word is Curl (curled here). They aren't mine, damn you, Kripke!
He knelt in the dirt at her feet, battered and broken; too exhausted to fight any more or to resist her demands. He leaned shakily forward, his broken ribs drawing breathless gasps and curled his fingers reluctantly around the wire-bound handle of the ornate sacrificial dagger.
The warm blood running from the wound ripped in his shoulder made the grip slippery and he raised his exhausted head, terror-filled, pale-green eyes finding her merciless grey gaze.
She laughed at the horror written on his bruised face, delighting in his apparent defeat.
"I knew you were too weak to resist me, Winchester!"
Thanks for reading.
