“Dermatographic urticaria. Well, if I was a horribly sadistic bastard…” Fane trailed off.
The prince stiffened, his skin prickling in response to that threat. “What are you going to do to me?” the prince whispered, a tinge of terror lacing his voice. His possessive amber eyes had melted into a washed out yellow, color draining from his face. Fane involuntarily quirked an eyebrow as a thought raced across his mind so fast it caught his breath. Pain shot down his left side in a white hot flash. He released the man, pushing him into the lockers as he lept over the bench to the other row of lockers. He retained possession of the knife, palming it gently, finding its balance.
“I should be asking you the same.” Fane kept his eyes focused on the prince. Orlov slowly turned around, keeping his hands up where Fane could seem them. His eyes watched the knife in Fane’s hand. When Fane didn’t make a move toward him, he straightened his jacket and brushed back his hair.
“You haven’t had a lot of self-defense training, have you?” Fane tilted his head in observation. He had noted the tense muscles of the man, pressed against him as he was, but there had been no muscle memory for being put in a dangerous situation.
“Fourteen years of tennis and polo are not going to count,” grumbled the prince, unable to meet Fane’s slashing eyes. He hoped the comment would break the tension, but the man’s expression remained stolid. Fane was completely different when he had a weapon in his hand. It wasn’t the weapon that was terrifying at that point. It was the malicious, freezing aura of absolute death that hung over the man like an icy shroud.
“My command wants me to come with you. I cannot easily turn it down. You might not realize this, but those types of ‘privileges’ are commands, not offers. I’ve already been written off to follow you,” Fane grimaced.
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