It would not be the first nor last time that Byron heard that said of him. Most in his human family line had such things spoken about them for as long as he could remember until they died out or bred out too far to hold the curse of the name any longer. Byron, himself, knew better but it did not function as others' did.
A glance of the eyes meant little when the smell of fear lightly drifted on the air and the Fae's pulse jumped up under his fingers. Taking the knife, Byron wrapped it back into Conor's hand; this time with his own controlling the movements. Byron leant down to Conor, taking a deep breath beside his head. Dragging the bloodied blade over to his own lower abdomen, Byron pushed the knife down into his skin with another groan.
"More like there, love." He then let go of control.