Melpomene darted backwards out of his way, but she was not built for speed in the way so many men in her life were, including, apparently, this one. When he grabbed her face she could feel the slip of blood between his palm and her face, she could smell it, and her jaw tingled with the pressure of his fingertips as they dug in. Her skin prickled with fear.
But a knife had been one of her symbols for more than a thousand years before his name was ever spoken, and her butterfly knife - while not traditional - was a gem to manipulate. She’d been using this particular one for party tricks for years, and with one deft motion of her wrist she flicked the knife and it danced around her fingers, till it ended up blade down, hilt in her fist, and she dropped her fist down into the arm holding her face.
She’d used it for tricks, yes, but not to stab anyone. Not for a long, long time, and his arm gave more resistance than she was expecting. She held tight - more a symptom of clenched muscles than intention - so she didn’t lose her grip on her knife when he jerked away. The feeling of knife into flesh, the reek of blood, these violent delights… she felt it all searing into her memory.