Jac Lightning gasped!
There wasn’t anything of woman-born that got the Lightning Marshal to do more than raise an eyebrow or narrow a stare – being that the Lightning clan were possessed of a confidence that meant any surprise could, at worst, be shot dead – but for Hans Octavius Wilhem and Wendell Caine, the prospect of racing to their partner’s aid was outdone by the fact that she’d be fixing to shoot somebody and what had caused her to gasp was, in part, their fault.
There were even fewer things got Jac Lightning into petticoats, dresses and corsetry.
One knee braced against her back, two hands pulling back on string that would make any beast of burden, no matter how mistreated, thank its rider for their kindness; the Lightning Marshal swore things to Annie, one of the girls of Etheric Delighs, that would turn the most vicious desperado into a whipped cur.
Annie kept tugging, Jac’s epithet lost as air bolted out of her lungs like a stallion near a wasp nest. The girl had something on her side that trumped a Lightning’s curse:
A Lightning’s pride; and Jac Lightning was going to be a lady, dammit!
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