He cursed, his voice low and breathy and ragged as she finished, as she dug her knives into his chest, and he followed shortly after, though not nearly as dramatically as her. Heart racing, his pulse thundering in his ears, he sank back against the floor, still tense from the pain, still unable to fully relax. He shuddered, fighting for breath, his head swimming, for the moment completely unable to move, completely and utterly at her mercy. This was the part he hated most, that drowsy feeling of contentment, but tempered with pain, it was bearable. The pain kept him alert, kept him awake. But he still couldn't move. His limbs felt heavy, and she could have driven a knife into his heart right then and there and he wouldn't have been able to stop her.