Mortals are always so touchy about these things, but it's about the reaction he expected. They always act as if he's going to go scraping the dried blood off the page, as if it'd have enough power down the line for him to do more than give a nasty itch.

Eames tilts his head, considering it, "blood binds you only to this contract. If you want to sign in ink, I'll be needing your full name." And names hold power, something he'd expect someone whose had as many dealings with the fae as a Widdowson to know. Perhaps it's not the same threat to a mortal as it is to the likes of him, but it's a dangerous thing to give regardless.

Still, he shrugs and takes a pen out of his inside pocket, offering that to her instead. "It seemed the safer of two options, but I suppose I misjudged."