The Glass Blade. Ryan Wieser
Her breasts shook between her strong arms and the curve of her bare thighs tensed, more pronounced as she got a knee onto the ledge. Every inch of her skin glistened as the glass flecks clung to her, making her shimmer iridescently in one hundred reflections of surrounding glass. What was a body, even one that was naked and glistening, compared to all they had seen? Whether they eyed the curve of her form or the white lash scars on her back, or the Hunter’s sigil on her neck, or the bizarre scar between her breasts, it did not compare to the wounds they had already witnessed in her mind. The scars were not what she tried to hide, the histories behind them were.
She kept her eyes down, ignoring their speculative, haunting gazes. She was in pain, and she was weak, and their torture had nearly broken her—she was exactly how she needed them to see her. She fell forward, finally entirely out of the pool, and collapsed on the glass floor.
Suddenly, strong arms curled around her. Her muscles froze under his tight grip and her breath caught as he lifted her, curling her body into his embrace. Her own strong form finally felt a forgiving sensation of relief—no longer needing to fight. The Council had been resilient—but they had seen nothing of Jeco. That was what mattered most.
She turned her gaze up into the hazel eyes of the young Hunter. He looked her over with his golden eyes and shook his head apologetically. He readjusted her in his arms and she heard the clinking of metal as he picked up her sheathed blade. He laid it over her shivering chest and Jessop wrapped her hand around the hilt.
He stood with her in his arms, holding her tightly against his chest. Her dripping mane of dark hair clung between them, soaking his tunic. She could feel their eyes on her still. She may have been weakened by their tortures and to their eyes was beautifully female in her shapely design, but Jessop had constructed her body into armor; she was a moving muscle, as deadly as any man who dared ever try more than stare.
And they all stared but him. Not the young Hunter, whom she had saved in the tavern. His eyes stayed unwaveringly concentrated on her face. He held her tightly against him and she realized he was attempting to shield as much of her body with his large arms as possible.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
Slowly, with a heavy breath, Jessop relaxed in his arms, trusting his strong body to hold her weakened one safely. The thick muscles of her back and thighs ached, having been wildly overexerted. She felt her neck tighten up and she had to rest her head, cautiously letting it ease against his large shoulder. She closed her eyes and she could feel wisps of his pale blond hair dancing across her face.
“She saved us, Hanson,” the young Hunter hissed, his quiet voice filled with disappointment as it traveled, breathy, over her cheek.
“Kohl, we had to verify her claims.”
Jessop kept her sore eyes shut, but she listened keenly.
“And? Did you?”
The young Hunter’s anger surprised her. She fought off a yawn, tucking her face deeper into the curves of his broad chest.
“What the girl says is true, she was tortured and held captive for some thirteen years… she escaped and found us.” Hydo Jesuin answered, his voice sounding almost embarrassed. They had hoped she was lying. She almost smiled.
She could feel the young Hunter shaking his head slowly. “Then you’ll excuse me if I liberate her from this torture chamber.”
“Kohl, remember your place,” Hanson warned.
Jessop could feel the young Hunter shaking. “My place is far away from men who would torture a hero for information.”
“KOHL!” Hanson erupted.
“You’re Hunters—you should know better!”
Jessop was astounded. His intrepid criticisms of his mentors, his unbridled tone—he seemed fearless. He held her firmly against his body, his grip on her tightening with each angry word. She had expected him to be subservient—the Hunters ruled with might—and yet Kohl O’Hanlon did not fear castigation. He was outspoken and temperamental and simply not whom she had expected him to be.
“Kohl—” Hanson growled, but the young Hunter had already pivoted tightly on his heel, turning his back on the Assembly Council. He tucked his chin over the crown of Jessop’s head, and she could feel his thumb gently running back and forth on her arm as he carried her from the room—he was trying to soothe her.
Let him go, Hanson, let him calm down, Jessop heard Hydo Jesuin push the thought to his comrade.
The young Hunter readjusted his grip on Jessop and carried her weak body out of the room—saving her as she had saved him.
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