Three knives hid in his jacket, while others would have to involve searching further down his toned form. Blue eyes sparkled with delight, knowing where the next move would go. Sweet, sharp pain strummed through Byron's side. The tip of the blade cutting into the skin with little resistance besides the fabric of his shirt. A pleasurable groan vibrated in his throat.
Many shirts lay ruined because of Byron's antics. The costumers would likely complain at another new shirt or another mend- blood stains notoriously troubling to remove. Truly dangerous darkness filled Byron's gaze, his mask of some charming bloke no longer an issue as the Sawney began to play his game. "A Sawney thinks everything he does is passion, love. I might need several lessons to learn what you believe is different between the two."
Any in-depth observation of Byron, if he were not aware of an onlooker, it would be noted that he did not recognize a difference between passion and anger. He did not feel a difference between them, and to replicate them from watching others around him for centuries nothing stood out as a divergence.
Running his fingers over Duncan's sides, he started to untuck the man's shirt. His hand immediately moving underneath the torn fabric to the closing wound. Blood rubbed over the skin, Byron pushed his finger into the wound to keep it from closing up. "I must say that I truly, deeply want to see your anger, love."