Page 10 of These Hallowed Bones (Bloody Desires #3)

Micah

Light filtered through unfamiliar curtains. I blinked up at the pristine white ceiling, momentarily disoriented. This wasn't my apartment with its water stains and cracked plaster.

The Hollow. Confession. Car trouble. Ezra.

I sat up, taking in the guest room where I'd spent the night.

Like everything in Ezra's home, it was immaculate, almost sterile.

The bedding was crisp white, the furniture minimal and expensive.

A single painting hung on the wall opposite the bed—an abstract study in gray and crimson that seemed to shift if looked at directly.

The clock read 8:17 AM. Next to it sat neatly folded clothes with a handwritten note: "For your comfort. Coffee is in the kitchen when you're ready. E."

The thoughtfulness struck me as both considerate and presumptuous, as if he'd anticipated my needs before I recognized them myself.

I rubbed my face, trying to process the previous night's revelations.

Ezra was gay. Like me. The confirmation had hit me with the force of absolution, as if his self-acceptance somehow legitimized my own forbidden desires.

I changed into the clothes Ezra had provided. Wearing them felt oddly intimate, as if I were being marked in some subtle way as his. The shadow inside me stirred at this thought, pressing hungrily against the bars of its cage.

I followed the scent of coffee. Soft classical music played. Chopin again, the same nocturne from that first night in his studio.

The living area was more imposing in daylight.

Windows stretched from floor to ceiling, revealing the forest behind the property.

The abstract paintings that had caught my attention in the dim evening light were more disturbing now.

What I'd thought was textured paint was something else, something organic that created an unsettling glow.

"Good morning, Micah," Ezra's voice called from the kitchen. "Coffee?"

I turned to find him watching me. He was dressed casually in dark jeans and a fitted gray sweater, his silver-streaked hair still damp from a shower.

"Please." I moved toward the kitchen island where a place had been set.

"Did you sleep well?" he asked.

"Yes, thank you. And thank you for the clothes. I hope it's not too much trouble, my car breaking down like that."

"Not at all. I enjoy having company. It's rare that I find someone worth sharing my space with."

The compliment sent a flush of pleasure through me that I tried to disguise by taking a sip of the coffee. It was strong and bitter, challenging to an unprepared palate.

Ezra watched my reaction with that slight curve of his lips that wasn't quite a smile. "Too strong?"

"No," I lied, taking another sip. "It's good. Just different from what I'm used to."

"The first taste of anything worthwhile is often challenging," he observed. "We're conditioned to prefer what's familiar, even when what's unfamiliar might be superior. Cream?"

The offer came after I'd already committed to drinking it black. "Please," I admitted.

He added cream to my coffee, then slid the mug back toward me. "Better to be honest about your preferences, Micah. There's no virtue in pretending to enjoy what you don't."

The correction made me feel childish. I took another sip. "It's perfect, thank you."

Ezra began preparing breakfast. "I was admiring your paintings," I said. "The technique is fascinating. What medium do you use for that textural effect?"

His hands paused over the cutting board. "Various organic materials. I find conventional pigments limiting. Too manufactured. They lack the authenticity of elements derived directly from nature."

"What kind of organic materials?"

He looked up, meeting my eyes with an intensity that made my breath catch. "That's something I might show you later, if you're interested. It requires a certain openness to unconventional approaches."

"I'd like that," I said, unable to look away from his steady gaze.

"How is your drawing coming along? The one you showed me yesterday."

"Still unfinished," I admitted. "I keep reaching a point where I want to destroy it completely, but something holds me back."

"The fear of completion. It's common among artists with real vision. Completion means revealing, not just to others but to yourself." He placed a plate before me.

The frittata was simple, yet elegant. Not unlike him.

"And you?” I asked, sliding my fork into the frittata. Cutting into such a beautiful thing felt wrong. “Do you ever fear what lives inside you?"

Ezra seated himself beside me rather than across, close enough that I could detect his scent. "I made peace with my nature long ago. That's the difference between us, Micah. You're still fighting what you are."

"My grandmother would say what I am is an abomination," I said finally.

"And you? What would you say?"

"I don't know anymore. For so long, I believed them. That I was broken, possessed, something to be fixed or exorcised. But lately, I've started to wonder if maybe they were wrong. If what they called sin was just... me."

"They broke something in you," Ezra said, his voice gentle yet firm.

"Not your nature, but your relationship to it.

They taught you to hate what makes you extraordinary.

" His hand moved to rest lightly on my forearm, sending a current of awareness through my body.

"But what was broken can be restored, Micah. I can help you if you'll allow it."

I should have pulled away, remembered Pastor Morris's warnings about temptation. Instead, I remained still, craving his touch even as alarm bells sounded in my mind.

"How?" I whispered.

"By showing you who you truly are. Not through words, but through art, through expression." He withdrew his hand. "After we eat, perhaps we could spend some time in the studio before dealing with your car. I'd like to show you a technique I think you'll find... illuminating."

The suggestion was reasonable. Yet beneath it, I sensed something more.

The practical part of me knew I should decline.

But another part—the part that had watched my mother's transformation with fascination rather than horror, the part that destroyed my own best work to access something deeper—leaned toward his offer with hunger.

"I'd like that," I said, the words becoming a refrain between us, a surrender thinly disguised as choice.

As we finished breakfast, Ezra reached out to press gently on the knot of muscle at the base of my neck. "You tense your shoulders when discussing your own work, as if preparing to defend against attack. Try to be conscious of that tendency."

I straightened automatically under his hand, responding to the implicit command in his tone.

"Good boy," he murmured. "Much better."

The praise affected me more than it should have, warming something cold and lonely inside me. The shadow within me responded to it, unfurling with almost sensual pleasure at being seen and acknowledged.

After breakfast, Ezra led me toward the studio.

As we passed through a corridor, my attention was caught by a door unlike the others.

While the rest of the house featured sleek, modern design, this door was older, heavy wood with an unusual lock.

It seemed out of place, as if belonging to a different building entirely.

"What's through there?" I asked.

"Storage. This house is older than it appears from the renovation. That door leads to the original cellar. Nothing of interest." He placed a hand lightly on my lower back, guiding me forward. "The studio is this way."

The studio was as spotless as I remembered. But something had changed. The black cloth that had covered the canvas on the easel in the corner had been removed.

I stopped in the doorway, stunned. The painting depicted a human figure in transformation, skin peeling away to reveal something luminous beneath. The technique was unlike anything I'd seen before, areas of the canvas possessing a dimensional quality that seemed to shift as I moved.

"This is..." I struggled for words.

"A study for the final piece in my exhibition. Still incomplete."

Up close, the textural elements became more apparent. The strange glow I'd noticed in his living room paintings was even more pronounced here.

"How do you achieve this effect?" I asked. "It almost seems alive."

"Because it is, in a sense," Ezra replied, his voice dropping. "Or was. That's the technique I wanted to show you today." He moved to a cabinet, unlocking it with a key. "True art isn't created, Micah. It's transformed."

From the cabinet, he removed a small jar containing a fine, pearl-gray powder. "This is where conventional materials fail us. They're dead, inert. They can mimic life but never capture its essence."

"What is it?"

"Bone ash," he said simply. "But not commercial grade. This is prepared by hand through a specific process that preserves certain properties."

The powder caught the light strangely. I should have been repulsed. Instead, I found myself captivated. "Animal bone?"

"Human," he said, watching my reaction carefully. "Ethically sourced, of course."

I should have been horrified. Instead, I felt a terrible familiarity, an echo of the fascination I'd experienced watching my mother's body change over those three days.

"You incorporate human remains into your art," I said, confirming what I'd already sensed in the strange glow of his paintings.

"I transform what would otherwise be wasted," he corrected gently. "Each specimen provides something unique, a quality that can't be replicated artificially. Does this disturb you, Micah?"

It was a test of how far I’d follow him.

"No," I admitted. "It makes sense to me."

His smile sent a shiver through me. "I thought it might. You've been seeking this your whole life, haven't you? Since those three days with your mother. A way to capture transformation, to make permanent what's inherently temporary. Would you like to try?" he asked, indicating the jar.