Malachi did not want to stay here a moment longer.

No amount of vague threats could change that fact, and the dissatisfied look on his face suggested as much. His hand slipped from the knob, but not out of any desire to stay, as Arthur continued to demand of him.

No. Bruised, pale fingers raised to Arthur’s neck like the sharp, pointed legs of a spider. Malachi traced a finger along the line he’d carved into the skin, pressing harder only when it danced over his adam’s apple.

“I don’t want to,” he countered. I don’t want to love you, even if he did.

He hoped that Arthur was capable of love. He hoped that he fell in love with a man as vile and worthless as Malachi, and that he felt nothing for Arthur by then. He hoped that Arthur hurt the way he hurt, and that no one cared he did.

But that was a lot of faith, even for a priest.

“Come with me instead,” said Malachi, dropping his hand again. “I have things to do. There’s a woman in my house that needs evicting. I’ll be back when I’m done – it’s your choice, Arthur, if you want me to make an enemy of you or not.”