Asher laughs softly at Nathaniel's soft shudder, the arch of his body, puuling the knife away even as Nathaniel tries to drive it deeper.

"Patience, mon chat," he murmurs thickly. He scores two shallow cuts just above Nat's collarbones, little trickles of blood pooling in the hollows of his shoulders, Asher dipping his head to drink. He will take Nathaniel apart peice by peice, cut by cut, a far slower torture than any Gabriel could have devised.