He was going to smash his sick, perverted skull in, right here in the confessional. Let his poisonous blood curse the spot where he’d defiled someone so pure, and sweet, and innocent; let all of Saint fucking Hilda’s be a testament to the fate deserved by Arthur Adams, a new Sodom, new Gomorrah.

He was going to ruin him for even daring to look upon her face.

He was going to–

“Wh-”

When had all of the air been sucked out of the tiny space?

Malachi glared, wide-eyed, down at the bruised and beaten face of the doctor. The one he’d already broken for far less than a twisted lie about his perfect, darling Mable. Arthur’s hand burned his skin, and the priest shoved him harshly back.

“You are – sick. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Too many things, his mind supplied, but the question tumbled out all the same. Thank God they were alone in the church.