Layla's POVMy body went rigid the moment we started moving.I knew how to fight. I could dodge a knife in the dark and pin someone twice my size. But nobody on the northern border taught you to dance. Rhythm meant counting seconds between footfalls so you didn't trigger a trap wire. Not this — not a hand at my waist, not a crowd pressing us together every time someone swayed too far.His shoulder. His chest. His shoulder again.Every collision sent his scent straight through me: cedar, iron, warm skin underneath. The hand on my waist was steady and dry, and I hated how aware I was of its exact position.I couldn't focus. A lycan king in an underground tavern owned by Night Veil.Either he didn't know what this place was, which seemed impossible for someone who'd identified my name two nights ago, or he knew exactly what it was and came anyway.The thought made my mouth dry.He was testing something. The shape of it wasn't clear yet.I stepped on his foot."What are you thinking about
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