The marks on Malachi's skin told Arthur more than his words could have.  Perhaps more than he wanted to know.  Yet, he couldn't stop staring at them, the bruises and bitemarks turned red and purple and black and blue.  The cut across his chest, the only thing marking it and not even made by Arthur's own hands.

Here was a doctor, jealous of a knife.

His hands touched the cut, playing the skin apart and running over the raised edges of it, cleaning his fingers of blood that beaded through.

"I am going to mark you darling, don't worry," he said, his voice far away.  "Your chest is so beautiful.  Your body, all of you really.  Oh, I can't wait taste you again."

But still, Arthur didn't move forward to do so.  His hands continued over Malachi's chest, past the cut and over the scars, tracing them with his fingers and eyes.  He seemed to be considering something.

"I won't defile you in the church, not at this time of day," he told Malachi, "but I will mark you, so you never forget who you really belong to."

With that, finally, Arthur dove forward and licked the length of that damn cut, the only imperfection on Malachi's chest, but it would not remain that for long.  Hands around his waist, Arthur pulled Malachi closer and dragged his tongue up his chest this time, biting back along his clavicle to his shoulder before doing the same on the other side.

"Who dressed your wounds?" he asked against hot skin, "they did a terrible job.  You should have come to me."