He reached out to catch her wrist, preventing her from landing a hit on his chest, although the blow aimed at his legs landed, slashing open his thigh. This time, however, his reaction was less severe; he was prepared for it now. He took a moment to slip his knife back into its sheath, and grabbed her other wrist, considering twisting her arms until she was forced to drop the knives. Confiscating weaponry from her seemed to be turning into a habit for him. "I don't call that playin' nice, love," he told her, tightening his grip on her wrists. "An' I wouldn't do that again if I were you."