“You don’t need to use the pistol for that,” Andrew reproaches her.
He passes the cup to a servant and grabs her gun hand with his, holding her tightly enough that she can’t aim the gun at herself. Though the wound is superficial, the pain is serious, and he doesn’t want her to suffer. Andrea wants to push his hands away—the feel of his skin on hers makes her want to scream—but she knows he has the upper hand. With a single word, he could order his servant to spill the bloody water and ruin her test.
“If you want to know my blood type, why not just ask me?” Andrew asks, “Actually, I know why—you don’t trust me.”
Andrew sighs sadly. His finger is still dripping blood and the cobblestone below him is stained red.
“Mr. Clifford, I have the needle,” a servant shouts, running over to Andrew
