Like Hell she would. Though winded, he wasn't lost to the situation. And as the blade raised, so too did his hand. He caught the wood in his palm and tightened his grip -- risking splinters as he tried to wrench the thing away from her. The action itself was hardly gentle.

"Shite, Miss Trinket. A goddamned preened and painted sack of shite. Shite in a silk stocking."

But she wasn't painted. Not right now. And so the insult rang false as the sounds of laboured breathing still lingered.