The frown that subtly twisted Malachi’s features could not convey even half of the unease he suddenly felt. What did he mean, he was being taken to Miriam’s room?

He was right then. All along, that had been her plan, likely from the very first moment she laid eyes on him. Part of him knew that it did not even matter who Arthur was; she would have done the same with any man that showed up on her doorstep with Malachi in tow, but thinking of them together – of Arthur, his Arthur, with anyone else – brought a bitterness to his tongue that could have made him gag.

“…Alright,” he answered in spite of it. If Arthur wished for him to follow, then that was what he would do.

Malachi trusted him. He had to.

A hand lifted to push back through black hair. He took a step back to lean against the wall, watching the shadows move under the door. Arthur’s question, when it came, forced his dark eyes wide.

“No,” he insisted. “No, I- I’m not drunk. I was… worried.”

Among other things. Had he consumed more alcohol than solid food in the last several days? Yes, he had. But that did not mean he was drunk.

Malachi reached out, grabbing onto Arthur’s vest to pull him closer.

“What are you going to do?”