With hot, fresh blood still running down her hands, she didn't cease her movements. The coppery smell of the life-giving liquid burned in her nostrils. There hadn't been time to clean her hands. Everything happened so quickly. She could still feel the echoes of the tight grip on her arm that had put everything in motion. How many times had she told her captor, her jailer, to keep his hands to himself? Too many to count. Not that he ever listened.