Rather than asking what wasn't going to take long, Mabelle silently allowed herself to be pulled over toward the table again despite all warning signs that she should be trying to get away instead, knowing she was about to find out soon enough. She didn't like the endings of stories spoiled, anyway.
Ignoring the invitation to take a seat, Mabelle was more unnerved by her sudden awareness of how close he was than by the knife hovering over her finger as it became clear what he intended. Fully understanding what the loss of even a partial part of her finger would mean for her ability to play harp or properly hold a paintbrush, she was uncertain just how far he intended to carry this through. Would he just stop at one? Would he stop at just her fingers? Heart pounding with an unidentifiable feeling that wasn't fear, Mabelle's fingers twitched slightly, spreading them out more evenly against the surface of the table, invitingly.
There were plenty of retorts, arguments or insults, or attempts to beg him to stop, but none of them came naturally to Mabelle. None of them seemed appropriate for the situation. She breathed in slowly, glancing up at Michel with wide eyes of anticipation. "This is going to hurt, isn't it," she whispered quite simply, biting the corner of her lip. "Do you want me to struggle?"