“You're welcome,” I said with a soft smile, as I continued to search the man for weapons. “See? It's not so hard to take a compliment from a woman every once in awh- oh my gods!” I started, yanking my hand back away from him for a moment, then returning it to his waist just as quickly. He went ramrod straight when my paw settled back over what I'd found, and then he tried to pull away.

“You slick son-of-a-bitch!” I said, aghast, caught between laughing and honestly being offended. “You thought you could hide this from me?!”

The man opened his muzzle as if to say something, then just shut it and looked aside, guiltily. At length, he muttered, “Please at least take your hand off of it.”

“Like hell!” I snorted, and grabbed at the offending protrusion beneath his britches. He resisted only a moment longer, then sighed.

“I'm guessing by the length of the sheath,” I said, sliding my thumb up the ridge of it, “. . . throwing knife? Like your others?”

“. . . aye,” he muttered, with another sigh, but this one he cut off, and looked at me accusingly. “Can you really blame me? I'd be a fool to entirely disarm myself at any time, let alone around a would-be assassin.”

“You're the assassin!” I insisted, still vainly trying to keep myself from smiling.

“Knight Templar.”

“Whatever!” I rolled my eyes. “But, really? A knife beneath the hem of your pants? That. . . that seems like it would take too long to pull out to really be useful-”

Before I'd so much as finished the statement, he tucked two fingers beneath the hem of his britches, came up with the entirely metal blade, and was holding it in front of my face. The movement was so quick, and so fluid, I had trouble following it. I blinked at the small blade for a few seconds, before he flipped it around in his paw and dangled it by one finger. There wasn't really much of a handle to it, nor any sort of guard, so it wouldn't really work for much other than throwing, or shallow stabbing. Where the handle would have been was just a metal loop through which he presumably tugged it out with one finger.

“. . . that's pretty ingenious,” I had to admit. “Most people check the sleeves. But still. Cheat. I took you for an honest man, and you lied to me.”

“I can when the occasion suits,” the wolfhound shrugged. “I don't enjoy it, but don't underestimate me.”

“You underestimated me, too,” I countered.

“I most certainly did not,” the wolfhound insisted.

“Oh yes you did,” I crowed victoriously, and dug a hand into my chest fur, beneath the dress to where my breasts were bound.

When I produced the long, thin needle I always kept hidden there, (a porcupine needle I'd whittled down on one end to fit neatly in that exact spot. . . no good for much other than stabbing someone's eyes if I was cornered, but still a weapon) the wolfhound's muzzle twitched, and he muttered something I didn't catch, looking angry at himself.

“What was that?” I asked with a smirk, leaning in.

“. . . I said 'I didn't take you for the type',” the canine groused. “They warned us about that. . . particular hiding spot, on females, when I was in training. I didn't think checking you there was necessary. And it's so indecent-”

“Wait, why didn't you think it was necessary?” I asked, tipping an eyebrow. When the man didn't answer right away, I huffed out a laugh. “Is it because-”

“I just didn't think you'd be hiding any weapons. . . there.”

“It's because I'm small-breasted, isn't it!” I declared, stabbing a finger at my, admittedly, fairly flat chest. The wolfhound's sudden stammer and his inability to look me in the eyes afterward was all the confirmation I needed.

“It's not as though I take issue with that,” the man said defensively, putting his paws up. “I'm not some crass. . . bar hound. . . ogling women's. . . and my wife was petite as well-”

“Ah, so it's your preference.”

“I didn't say that, either!”

I smirked, “I caught you considering my breasts, and I out-assassined you. Take that.”

“I was considering your breasts. . . only as they related to my survival,” he insisted.

I couldn't stop the giggle that bubbled up at that, and the awkward way the man reached up to scratch the back of his neck afterward didn't help. Soon I was outright laughing. . . at the situation, at his comment, at my life. . . and I felt no need to hold back. It felt good.

It felt so good.