The priest landed with an irritated groan, head knocking back against the wooden wall.

He didn’t know why he needed the knife that fucking badly anyway. Did he not have any of his own, or did he just want to disarm him too, on top of everything else?

Malachi curled up upper lip in a better display of his bared teeth.

“Fine,” he relented, with no small degree of dissatisfaction… and turned his head to catch Arthur’s thumb between his teeth. Not hard enough to draw blood, even – but pressure enough to remind him he could.

Straining slightly to reach down far enough around Arthur’s body, Malachi lifted the black fabric of his trousers and slipped the knife free from its bindings. It was as clean as could be, despite its age, and sharpened often.

Lips drawn into a pout, Malachi held the hilt of the blade out to Arthur.

“If you’re going to try to kill me with that, I’m going to be very upset.”