Hidden Wrist Blade Novels & Stories

Instead of calling him, she crossed her arms and continued to watch from the side. Wonwoo gripped a double-edge blade with his dominant hand. With the handle pointing away from his body, he grasped the tip of the knife so the tip of his thumb is one side of the blade while the tips of his fingers, except the pinky, are on the side; thereby pinching it without pressing against the sharpened edge.

Before long, he felt the handle of the blade and grasped it firmly. Notwithstanding, when he was going to take the blade out, he understood that there was something on his wrist that held him back from taking out his right hand. Bowen then, at that point, understood that there were four cutting edges around the kickoff of the iron box. The sharp edges of the cutting edges were pointed inwards. It was not difficult to dive into the container in light of the fact that the sharp edges were looking down, however as he attempted to take out his hand, he felt the four edges slitting his wrist.

But it's a feint and we both know it, calculated to draw a reaction from me. Testing me... My speed... My reactions... Younger than me... How much by? Ten years? His knife... Blade maybe eight inches. Well cared for. Well used... Left-handed... ... Thinks that gives him an advantage. Most practice against right-handers. I've done both. He stabs out. Hard. Fast. Teeth bared. Pupils pricked. I jerk back and he follows through, but I grab him by the arm. We grapple. His blade to my throat. My hand locked to his wrist.

When I walk up to him, he hands it to me. It’s a bit heavier the the one I’ve been using. It’s got a blade on each end of the hilt, but overall it’s only about six inches longer. I take a moment to get a feel for it, stepping back and swinging it in my hand. It’s oddly well balanced for a twin blade. I don’t feel like I’m going to slice myself on one end, while pushing the other out. That’s probably a good thing since Rion doesn’t actually give me much instruction.

I push off the floor and go low, aiming for the space under his ribs where armor would slow a reaction. My hand closes on the blade hidden in my sleeve. The motion is clean. Familiar. I strike upward. He moves at the same time. His hand snaps around my wrist with precise timing. The blade stops inches from his body. There’s no struggle. Just sudden stillness, like hitting an invisible wall. I try to twist free. He doesn’t let me. His grip is firm, but careful. He adjusts his hold instead of tightening it, shifting my wrist so the angle won’t break anything. That detail registers even as I fight it.

I tried to pull back, but his grip was firm. He didn’t answer. Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small blade. My eyes widened. “Wait—” Slice. I barely had time to process what was happening before he cut my wrist. I gasped, not from pain, but from sheer shock. What the actual hell? “DUDE, WHAT THE FUCK?!” I yanked my hand away from his grip, but he just stood there, staring at my bleeding wrist with an unreadable expression. But before he could get a closer look…

Swish, swish, swish! The women in plain clothes pounced right at Harvey at the same time. Their eyes were sharpened into an intense gaze, as if they wanted Harvey dead. Right as they got close, a shadow could be seen flying from the back of the hall. A hidden blade shot out from the shadow with a single wave. The women in plain clothes trembled as a silver glare flashed in front of everyone’s eyes. Bright red wounds could be seen on every single one of their wrists.

He knelt beside the altar, drew a ceremonial claw from his sash—an old blade honed from moon-granite, passed down through our line—and pressed his hand to the stone. He sliced his palm with a smooth, practiced motion. Blood welled immediately, dark and thick.

Marco nodded and stepped back into the hallway, closing the door behind him. I stripped out of my training clothes and pulled on black jeans, a dark long-sleeved shirt, and boots with reinforced toes. Then I opened the hidden panel in the back of my closet and surveyed my collection. Blades. Always blades. I strapped a knife to my right thigh, another to my left ankle. Two more went into sheaths at the small of my back, hidden beneath my shirt. A small dagger slipped into my boot, and finally, I secured my favorite blade—a seven-inch Italian stiletto with a bone handle—to my forearm beneath a leather cuff.

I said, keeping my expression schooled, even though my heart hurt at the sight of her. Clarissa stirred at the sound of my voice but didn't lift her head. Her body trembled slightly under Zoey's touch. “She hasn’t spoken a word since I got here,” Zoey mouthed, and my heart sank. Clearly, Clarissa wasn’t processing this situation well. If I were her, I would struggle too. "I brought something," I said, reaching inside my jacket. I pulled out a small blade. It had an obsidian handle and a silver-dipped tip. Plus, it was compact enough to hide.