“Good lord, I can’t believe you actually showed up!” Zephyr tapped Fane on the arm.
“I told you I was coming. Thank you for dropping off my wallet and phone, by the way,” Fane nodded his head to his commander.
“Well, I knew you said the prince was bringing you, but I figured you’d scat before actually getting in here. You hate parties!” Zephyr laughed.
“I-” Fane shot a glance at the displeased look creasing Orlov’s face with a frown. “I thought I’d take a chance,” Fane replied, hoping that he sounded convincing. He didn’t want to blame Orlov for cajoling him along, but he also didn’t want to make it sound like he had pressured Orlov to bring him.
“Hospital? What shot test was the General talking about?” Orlov asked again, now that Zephyr had taken a breath.
“Wait, you came all the way here and didn’t realize that Anson was…” Zephyr’s eyes went round. Orlov stared at the man, contemplating. Then the name seemed to float up out of his subconscious. Fane had scooted out of their circle, trying to make himself small. Orlov’s amber eyes pinned him to the floor. He felt like a butterfly in a bell jar. The pain radiated up his side again. That look, possessive.
“You’re who I came here for?” Orlov hissed. Fane ducked under what sounded like an indignant accusation.
“Came here for?” Fane stammered. Zephyr smiled mischievously. Orlov grabbed him firmly by the chin, lifting his head to meet his gaze, turning him this way and that. He felt like he was repeating that fateful morning all over again.
“You’re split-shot Anson?” Orlov asked, disbelief coating his voice. Fane jerked out of Orlov’s grasp, indignant. He rubbed his chin.
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