Enver won't look at the Cultist aiding his captor. Certain there would be too much fear for anger or reproach to reign in his expression. He almost doesn't feel the blade at first, and the sound, even the push of air past his teeth, is as contained as he can manage. Waiting for it to become worse, a wide and long sting like the worst paper cut across the center of his palm. Like somehow it being so shallow made it infinitely worse.

His eyes open when it stops, seeing his own blood pool in his palm, with only the lightest of spilling, and for an instant, he closes them again when he feels light-headed.

The sight of blood does not unsettle so much (though in a place like this, there was enough of it to put that to the test), but his own? That panic spikes, and before he can close his fingers, his hand is covered, engulfed. He sees the Dark urge's massive palm turned down on his own, similarly marked, and the weight of him consumes his senses.

That voice, low and rumbling, so near to his ear he is certain he can feel his lips forming the words, and that fear is still there? But it intermingles with something else that quakes through him. You are mine and in this closeness, the feel of his massive body against him and his mind eager to supply all the terrible things it could mean in this place, even without death a certainty, and some still small voice in his core whispering back in agreement, and no.

No, this is why it was always dangerous.

He can breathe again but it's coming in short, stocattoed bursts.