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It took Prasad a week and a half to come back to her.

Angelo spent it well, in her opinion. Without distraction. She caught up on commission work, swept her shop free of dust and wood shavings, she eloped to pubs and to the docks—she’d eaten, taken blood from a young, black haired man near Bedford Park. She’d even balanced her cheque book, and sustained the scolding Emilia gave her afterwards. Of course, she had dropped by Beatrix’s home, not looking for Prasad, just checking for him, of course. And she was not frantic that he hadn’t been there, no. Just confused.

However, it would be a lie to say she didn’t need some comfort. Beatrix offered, and Angelo was happy to oblige. More than happy. Beatrix’s eyes, her mouth, the smell of her perfume, they all had a way of disappearing troubles.

Afterwards they’d idled, hush on a chaise lounge, and Angelo had felt warm and content throughout her body. Surrounded by baby pink wallpaper and glittering silverware, they listened to the susurrus of willow leaves from the open window.

6 days prior she’d stayed at Prasad’s flat. Angelo told Beatrix this in a murmur. They’d slept together on his expensive spartan mattress, with his spartan sheets and spartan pillows. Angleo was underneath him and Prasad grazed her neck with his teeth and excited her. She’d tipped her head back and Prasad broke skin, and it had all been an accident.

Prasad had fled his own home like a startled deer afterwards. And wasn’t that strange? ‘I need to be alone,’ he’d said, and he pulled on his shirt and walked out the door. He forgot his coat entirely. Angelo had to lock the building behind her as she left.

Hearing this, Beatrix smiled, said sweetly, “a bond, and unexpected too. He’s embarrassed, darling, dreadfully so.” Her amusement was unmistakable.

A blood bond. The whole scenario left Angelo sombre and sour in the mouth. She felt insulted—couldn’t help it. She nearly wanted an apology; wanted to track Prasad down herself. Sniff him out like a bloodhound, drag him home by the scruff. Embarrassed. Ridiculous.

Angelo decided then, that she was content to wait, no matter how restlessly she did it. Perhaps they both needed space. After another round with Beatrix, she caught her breath and returned home.

For the remainder of the week, she finished a lute. She spent too long smoothing spruce with her finger planes. Still, it was beautiful, and Angelo was exceedingly proud, and when Prasad knocked on her door she dropped the lute in her nervousness and broke its neck.

Outside in the frigid air, Prasad stood, immobile and wide eyed. He wore an old pressed purple-black suit. He smelled like chlorine water and fresh cologne, like wormwood and sweet musk. His hair was uncombed. He was unshaven.

Maybe he was surprised to see Angelo so quickly. Maybe he thought the door wouldn’t open at all, and he’d have to return another night. Regardless, he seemed disoriented.

In honesty, Angelo had expected more anger from herself. She had a tirade prepared and forgot it as soon as she saw him. In the cold Prasad looked so lost that she couldn’t bring herself to yell, or shut the door in his face.

“Yes?” she said.

Prasad blinked, slowly, like a cat, opened his mouth, shut it again. The silence hung over, thick enough to bite through. He cleared his throat to cut it, and said, “let me in.”

Angelo pursed her lips, flushed. “Why would I do that?”

Prasad seemed, to her startled satisfaction, irritated. The expression came in the minute tilt of his brow, the disquieted quirk of his mouth. It was open emotion on his otherwise still face. “I can't stay away any longer.”

His words sent an electric thrill through Angelo's spine, like she'd been kissed by live wire. “You can't stay away,” she replied, her mouth a little dry, a little clumsy. “Why did you go in the first place?”

Prasad rolled his shoulders, sighed. “It was all very sudden. I needed you—very suddenly.” And then, because he knew how much his words would disarm her, he said again, softer. “Let me in.”

Angelo stepped aside, following Prasad with her eyes, closing the door behind him. “I told Beatrix,” she said. And she was pleased to have done it, now. They both knew his wife would tease him relentlessly. He deserved it.

“Did you?” Prasad said blithely. He meandered through her shop, his eyes like a sentinel. He paused over her bench, piled with digest books and counterforms, a half open glue tub, the broken lute. Angelo felt bared open in a way she didn’t think she wanted to be.

“If you left because you needed me, why did you come back?” Angelo said too loudly. And then, carefully, “do you really need something from me?”

Prasad turned to her and said nothing. His eyes were lidded and eyebrows raised, he looked at Angelo, in her old white dress shirt and trousers, and his gaze made her stomach flip.

He stepped back, one half stride that seemed more symbolic than anything, and delivered his response. “What I’d like from you is unreasonable. You don't want me to bite you again.”

Of course not. Of course not. Angelo gave a quiet, unconvincing, “no.” Then, quickly, blundering, she said, “you look nice—good.”

“I haven't shaved.”

“I know.”

“I was in my autopsies thinking about you.” At this, Prasad's expression narrowed. He became heated, enough to forgo his earlier warning and step towards Angelo again. They were nearly chest to chest now. His voice was low and clipped. “Doing paperwork—organising wakes—thinking about you.”

“And that's my fault?” Angelo snapped. Then, she winced. “You go to work to avoid me?”

“I'm not avoiding you now, am I?” Prasad bared his teeth like a nervous dog. It might’ve been his attempt at a smile. “I'm here, aren’t I? And well prepared to let you do anything to me.”

Angelo’s face grew warm.

Seeing this, Prasad’s tense smile melted into something far more smug. He had a way of speaking without saying anything, he did it with his eyes, with his mouth. Beatrix did it too, but on Prasad it was far more irritating.

Angelo would’ve liked to shut him up. Experimentally, she laid her hand on the back of Prasad's neck, felt his cool skin beneath her palm. She watched with raised eyebrows, watched him become still and silent and very focused. She squeezed, and in turn, he shivered. For a moment, Prasad’s breath turned heavy. He grumbled a low, frustrated sound in the back of his throat.

“You’d let me do anything to you?” Angelo asked.

He said nothing.

Without realising, they had come to a dark corner of the shop, away from the windows, leaning against each other. Prasad gave Angelo a defeated look, pupils blown wide and green eyes hazy. Then he surrendered, shoulders slumped, he tucked his face into the crook of Angelo’s neck.

“Yes,” he ground out, quite miserable. “Don’t send me away.”