“Turn around,” Frye commanded.
Markle shifted so his back was to Frye. No mark here, either.
“Now your pants.”
“Frye,” Markle began, but silenced himself. He put his fingers under the hem and slid them over his hips. They formed a pool of fabric around his feet.
Frye leaned down to inspect the skin of Markle’s lower thighs and calves—the parts not covered by the underclothes he still wore. Frye placed a hand on Markle’s shoulder and gave him a gentle nudge.
Understanding, Markle turned around again. Nothing on this side, either.
“Sit on the edge of the bed and we can check your feet.”
Markle seemed more hesitant as this continued, but he complied. He lifted his feet and peered at the bottoms.
“Tricky customer,” Frye said when they spied unmarked, pale skin.
“Maybe you’re wrong and I haven’t been called.”
Frye ignored the words. He knew it was here, somewhere. “Do you mind if I touch your hair?”
“My hair?”
Frye nodded.
“Go ahead.”