Hidden Wrist Blade Novels & Stories

“Then you take a weapon! Make sure you can defend yourself if needed!” “I’m going to,” revealing from my other pocket the tiny silver blade Declan had given me before leaving. It had been confiscated from Viktor, edged with silver and intricately carved; it was a small and lethal blade. Easily concealed, Declan had made me promise to keep it on me. Then I painstakingly twisted one small black key with six notches out of the metal loop.

Garrett told me, his massive hand spreading in my direction. The others all followed suit. Warriors who had adopted me into their family, soldiers who had sworn to protect me, all of them offering their trust without understanding what they were getting themselves into. I drew out a small blade from around my waist, one of the only bladed things werewolves used for practical rather than combat purposes. The metal glinted silver in the fading light, and I could have sworn I felt it vibrate with something in my blood. "This might hurt," I warned, then cut the blade across my palm quickly.

"When he does, we don't react. We let everyone in that room see exactly who he is." Varek looked at me for a moment. "You've been planning this since you heard the phone call," he said. "I've been planning this since I woke up," I said. He reached into his jacket. Not a ring. Not anything soft. A thin dark blade. Short and light, the grip wrapped in tape. He took my right hand and pressed it into my palm. "Flat against your arm," he said quietly. "Under the sleeve." I curled my fingers around it. It slid up inside the sleeve and disappeared.

But the handle had weight, and the blade—thin, cheap, with the faint tarnish of something that wanted to be silver when it grew up—flashed dull. He noticed the movement too late. He laughed, mouth red, dismissive, sure he knew the limits of butter knives and women who loved him once. When I touched the blade to the back of his hand by accident, he jerked like I’d put a cattle prod to his wrist. The skin bubbled in an instant welt. He hissed and jerked away so hard he cracked his shoulder on the milk crate. His eyes went wide with an animal’s surprise. “Don’t like that, do you?” I whispered through the tape, the words chewed and ugly and mine.

So, what are you going to do about him? Before I took off from the packhouse, I made sure to put the weapon I had in my pocket. It’s a blade that’s in its leather sheath. The leather is lined with metal at the bottom to protect me further. It’s a silver blade that’s been dipped in wolfsbane. I don’t want to talk about how I came across it; it’s just something I had in case I needed it. The funny thing is that I don’t think I was strong enough to use it then. Are you strong enough now?

The silver hair bloomed under the faint moonlight peeping through the leaves, reflecting pale light like threads of metal. I could not see his face clearly, but the sight of his broad back alone made my breathing hitch slightly. My heart started hammering inside my chest. "Don't fall in love," Moon warned. "I am not," I whispered quickly, though my pulse refused to calm down. My attention immediately shifted to his wound. A dagger had been driven deep into his back shoulder. The blade glinted faintly beneath the moonlight. Even from this distance, I could recognize the dull gray coating along the metal.

He moved into my space, his massive frame swallowing the light. He wasn’t wearing his executive armor anymore. His white shirt was unbuttoned, revealing the hard, corded muscle of his neck. His sleeves were rolled back to the elbows. He looked less like the CEO of Morton Global and more like the man who had personally overseen the erasure of my bloodline. I reached for the Phantom Blade hidden in my left sleeve, fingers brushing the cold titanium needle. He saw the movement. He didn't flinch. Instead, he reached out and gripped my left wrist. His hand was a manacle—cool, steady, and immovable.

he asked, his voice dropping into a quiet, raspy whisper that sounded entirely hollow. "It's just a tactical blade, Thorne," I replied, my voice modulator throwing back the mechanical rasp, though my hands were secretly trembling behind my back. I quickly slid the weapon into its sheath, hiding it from his sight. "A custom piece I had commissioned through an underground contact. It’s uniquely weighted for low-light execution." Malakai stopped three feet from me. He didn't try to grab me this time. He just stared at the space where the blade had been, his chest rising and falling heavily.

With the blade still in my hand, I chopped the man's wrist clean off and kicked him back to the ground with the blade to his throat. This one, I would question...

A fundamental, catastrophic miscalculation. The moment my hand closed around her wrist, her entire demeanor transformed. The cold, articulate strategist vanished, replaced by a cornered, feral creature fighting for its life. She didn't try to pull away. She turned into me, her body coiling, and her free hand came up from her pocket. I felt the cold, sharp, unmistakable point of a blade press against my stomach, right below my ribcage. A small, wicked-looking utility knife, the kind artists use to sharpen pencils or cut canvas. She had it pressed hard enough to promise penetration.