“Have some confidence,” Orlov glared.
What was this guy’s problem? Fane couldn’t understand why Orlov was so put off with him. “Take me or leave me, we’ve got some other good shots in here,” Fane responded, losing his bluster. Orlov stared at his plate mutely. Fane couldn’t tell if he had lost his steam too or was angry enough to not want to warrant a reply.
They suffered quietly under the deluge of the General’s monologue. The food, though beautiful, was bland. The evening wore on gratingly. They couldn’t even muster small talk together. By the time the last plate had been collected by the wait staff and the guests started mingling once again, Fane had made up his mind to leave. When Orlov was caught in a conversation that had him thoroughly distracted, Fane slipped away. He snuck out of the hall and made his way for the fire exit. Sometimes there wasn’t an alarm set. Sadly, this one was set with an alarm, which meant he had to use the lift. He sighed. All he wanted was for this evening to be over already.
It was only after a lull in the conversation Orlov was trapped in that he noticed a lack of a short redhead near his personage. He glanced around, but didn’t spot the red blazer. His face paled, suddenly aware he had lost his partner. He excused himself from the people that only wanted his attention for his heritage and hunted down Zephyr.
Orlov cornered him near the open bar. “Where is he?” Orlov hissed, a thin rage leaking out of his quaffed persona.
“Who?” Zephyr blinked, then glanced around. “Where’s Fane?” Zephyr asked the prince.
“That’s who I came to ask you for,” Orlov bit out.
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