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Summary
"Do not make me regret my investment in you."
"I would never," Dottore breathes, a wicked, anticipatory grin curving his lips. "In fact, I intend to make you sing my praises. Worship at the altar of my genius, as I worship at yours."
Pantalone scoffs, a harsh, disbelieving sound. But there is a flicker of intrigue in his gaze, a dark curl of desire he cannot quite suppress. He did, didn’t he? Worship at the Regrator’s altar, in their tumultuous promenade, gravitating around one another from the very moment they met.
