Where else? Malachi took a moment to respond, delayed by the distracting drag of Arthur’s hands over his skin. The lingering pain from both being cut and subsequently stitched up left him dizzy enough, but being shown so much attention – it was intoxicating.

How many parishioners had come by the church already, searching for a priest that was absent again? It had been getting harder and harder to care with the more time he spent away.

Maybe it was just getting harder to pretend to care. If there had ever been any difference.

“Here,” he whispered, drawing his arms to his chest. He wasn’t sure what the doctor meant, if he wanted to ruin or repair; if he was looking to destroy the signs of someone else or simply devour.

Malachi lifted his arms, baring his scraped-up wrists between them. His injured hands, the marks of his own teeth set into his inner arm.

“There’s- nothing else of him,” he said, quieter, without bothering with an explanation he didn’t suppose was needed. “Only you.”