Fresh tangy metallic blood trickled into Arthur's mouth as he teased it from Malachi's wound. He should rip away more of his skin with his teeth, turn the blasphemous mark into something that would scream Arthur's name to anyone who saw it. He resisted when Malachi tugged at his hair, but only enough that the pain rang through to his skull.

Did Malachi forget he was a doctor? Yes, of course he wanted to tear the man apart, but that was only half of the fun. The rest of it would be exploring every inch of him, inside and out, and stitching him back together before doing it all over again.

“Don’t pretend you want anything but to be torn apart.”  Arthur tilted his head back to bare his neck again to Malachi.  It was so easy to do so.  Too easy, maybe, but then again, so was Malachi.

His hands traced their way back up Malachi’s body, his nails less gentle and leaving red lines in their wake.

“Where’s that knife..?  Do you carry it on you in the church too?”

Arthur wondered if Malachi had been stabbed.  He imagined so, from their conversation at the masquerade ball, he figured so, but he was still curious; who had done it?  Was it for the same reasons he had stabbed Arthur, or less erotic in nature?  Where had it happened, and had it scarred?

Why hadn’t Arthur seen it yet if it had?

The urge to rip the rest of Malachi’s clothes from his body and search his skin for scars that didn’t depict flowers crashed into Arthur like a wave.  His hands stopped at Malachi’s shoulders, digging into the bruises his teeth had left days before.

“Give it to me, that knife.”