Grayson felt the familiar rush of blood running just underneath his skin -- pushing up his throat to his cheeks. It was so exhilarating. He grinned brilliantly beneath the mask and leaned in against Dearborn for the moment, enjoying the way that the knife pushed into the other man's skin. He could feel the dampness through his gloves and although that almost spoiled the experience, the smell -- the coppery tang filling his nostrils and making him shudder -- wholly overcame any disgust he might've felt for the moment.
Oh yes.
He pushed with one hand as he pulled the knife out, unwilling to part with it for the moment. Like hell he was going to let someone find it in Dearborn, besides -- that had never really sat particularly well with him. He could feel his own eyes tearing from the smoke and he coughed beneath the mask, a dry sound (compared to the wetter one of Dearborn's, he imagined) that filled his lungs with fire. The sheer knowledge that he'd scored a winning hit was enough to motivate him to move forward again with the knife, circling Caradoc like a hungry jackal.
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