His palm is suddenly extended toward me expectantly, and I stare at the calluses blankly. When I make no move, he slowly drops his hand to the one at my side, his rough fingers closing around my wrist. My heartbeat quickens and I curse the stupid organ. He pulls my arm, my hand, toward him—the one still clutching the throwing knife. Then his other hand brushes against my palm, gently prying the handle from my fingers. “You have enough of these to bury in my back, don’t you think?” he says softly, his hand still wrapped around my wrist where he can likely feel my stupid, stammering pulse
...more
