A pressure at my waist makes me jump. Like a reflex, my hand twitches toward the knife now sheathed under the folds of my dress, but a calloused hand catches my wrist. “Knives are also not necessary for dancing,” Kai says with a low laugh. Holding my gaze, his rough fingers slide slowly from my wrist to my palm before he folds his hand into mine, raising it into the air. But it’s his other hand that holds my attention, the one that has settled comfortably against the small of my back. The one that is pulling me toward him.
