Malachi was breathless when a hand stayed his mouth, the taste of iron strong and oh so sweet on his tongue. He wasted no time on coming up with excuses for when he finally stepped out of the booth: already he had worn the unavoidable evidence of him, and now, there was no coming back from it.

There was no stepping back inside once he stepped out.

And Arthur dared to add another condition?

An agitated huff escaped through his nose when his cheeks were caught in Arthur’s grasp, and his glare darkened as nails pricked involuntary tears from his eyes.

Scarlet welled in the half-moons he carved, and traced down the priest’s pale face.

He had already apologized for the lie! When had he lied after that? If anything, Malachi should have been the one threatening him for it.

“I-” the movement of his jaw only dug the nails in deeper. “I’m not going to lie to you.”

Reaching behind the doctor’s shoulder, Malachi dug his fingers into the bleeding wound, twisting the fabric of his shirt around them. There was a difference in the way he dug in, the way he sunk his teeth into every part of Arthur he could get – even without the burden of hatred he’d felt before, it was harder. More vicious, even, without it, urged forth by something else entirely.

It was amazing, and it was terrible, and it was painful most of all.

“If you give me any more fucking conditions, I’m taking it back, alright?”