He brought his hand up to the knife hand and pulled down firmly, rotating it smoothly, rolling his back into his attacker’s chest. He rolled under the arm, extracting himself from the lock. It took an override of his training to check himself from slamming the blade between the assailant’s ribs when a shock of platinum hair pooled across his vision. He pulled the forearm, plucking the knife out of the hand as he did so, up behind the prince’s back, pushing him into the row of lockers with a clatter. He pushed his body up against the prince’s back, the knife now at the man’s throat.
“Wanna tell me why you’re tryin’na kill me this early in the mornin’?” Fane hissed, his eyes flashing.
“Wanted to see what you could do with a real person,” the prince replied between gasps.
Fane might be a slight man in stature, but he was solid muscle, and heavy. A tinge of cold anger ran across his subconscious, but he allowed it to seep out of him, aware that those kinds of emotions could blind him to reality. “You know something, Prince? You have a very bad concept of testing me,” he seethed.
“Was I supposed to believe some tiny ass recruit could actually be the split shot rumored to be tucked away in this hell hole of a broke back military complex?” the prince retaliated.
Fane bristled under the deluge of insults. “You look down on me and my team, from your ivory tower, you entitled bastard. You don’t even try to get to know who the fuck I am,” Fane pushed the prince’s arm up farther until he heard the man suck in his breath, forcing him to his tip-toes.
“Why should I?” bit back Orlov.
“’Cause it’d save you from being put in this kinda position, your highness,” Fane allowed the sharp little knife in his hand to ever so gently caress the skin on the prince’s neck, not enough to draw blood, but a slight pucker of skin raised in response.
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