Without even flinching, Arthur pressed into the wound he’d made, and Malachi was transfixed.

Did he know that he’d stabbed himself with the same knife? That the newest scar on his thigh looked so much like the one on Arthur’s shoulder? That he’d drawn a line across his neck with the very same blade that had carved lavender into his skin?

Of course he didn’t. And he knew how much the blood meant anyway.

“You’re sick,” he repeated, but the words rang hollow and quiet. They meant little when he couldn’t take his eyes off of Arthur’s bloody hand.

Hurt. Blood. Control. Him?

Malachi’s next inhale was shaky. Long fingers slipped around Arthur’s wrist, holding the image in place. He couldn’t take his eyes off of the way it glistened in the dark.

“What kind of control?”