Page 13 of These Hallowed Bones (Bloody Desires #3)

Ezra

Micah's car pulled into my driveway. He walked to my door carrying a bottle of wine, pausing to check his reflection in the glass panel beside the entrance. He smoothed his hair, adjusted his collar, and rehearsed a smile.

I waited until his knuckles connected with the wood before opening the door.

"Micah," I said, allowing warmth to color my tone. "Right on time."

He blushed slightly, extending the bottle toward me. "I brought this. I hope it's acceptable."

The wine was inexpensive but thoughtfully selected. A Cabernet Sauvignon from a respectable vineyard. Not my choice, but it revealed his desire to please.

"You didn't need to bring anything," I said, accepting the bottle. "But thank you."

"I wanted to," he replied, stepping into the foyer when I moved aside. His eyes darted around, taking in the space. The light falling through the windows had changed since this morning.

So easy to read, his insecurities displayed like a canvas awaiting my brush. The vulnerability that had first drawn me to him was even more apparent now, his defenses crumbling after just a few carefully orchestrated encounters.

"Dinner is almost ready," I said, guiding him toward the kitchen. "But first, I have something for you."

On the kitchen island sat a neatly folded stack of dark blue silk pajamas, tied with a simple black bow. Micah's eyes widened, his lips parting slightly as he approached.

"I'd like you to change before dinner," I said.

He hesitated. "Pajamas? I don't understand."

"Tonight is about comfort, Micah. About enjoying ourselves." I placed my hand on his shoulder, allowing my thumb to brush against the skin of his neck. A shiver ran through him. "About having fun."

"Fun," he repeated, as if testing an unfamiliar word on his tongue.

"Yes, fun." I squeezed his shoulder gently. "The guest bathroom is down the hall. Change there and come back when you're ready."

He gathered the pajamas carefully, holding them against his chest. "These look expensive."

"They're a gift," I said simply. "Go change."

While he was gone, I removed the artisan pizza from the oven.

I’d prepared the dough this morning, then let it rise all day, before topping it with San Marzano tomatoes, buffalo mozzarella, basil, and prosciutto.

Simple foods elevated through attention to quality and technique.

The aroma filled the kitchen, rich and inviting.

Micah returned to the kitchen just as I finished slicing the pizza.

The silk pajamas fit him perfectly, as I'd known they would.

The dark blue complemented his pale skin, and the material clung to his form in ways his usual attire did not.

The silk outlined his slender but muscular frame, highlighting his waist, ass, and chest. He looked younger, more vulnerable, and acutely aware of both facts.

"These are... nice," he said, running his hands down the front of the shirt. "I've never worn anything like this."

"Silk retains body heat while allowing the skin to breathe," I explained, setting plates on the island. "It's one of nature's perfect materials. Come, sit. I hope you like pizza."

"Everyone likes pizza," he said, sliding onto a stool. Then, after a pause, "My grandmother rarely allowed it. Too much pleasure in one food, she said."

I placed a slice on his plate. "And what do you think? Is there such a thing as too much pleasure?"

He picked up the slice, watching cheese stretch and break. "I'm starting to think there might not be enough."

"A promising evolution in your thinking," I noted, pouring a glass of water. I'd open his wine later, allowing it to breathe. "Tell me more about your grandmother. She raised you after your mother's death?"

Micah nodded, taking a bite of pizza. His eyes closed briefly as he chewed.

"This is incredible," he murmured before answering my question.

"Yes, she took me in. Her only daughter had disgraced the family by getting pregnant out of wedlock, then compounded the sin with suicide. I was living proof of both failures."

"Yet she raised you as her own."

"Out of duty, not love," he said. "She saw me as a project. A soul to save. Every misstep was proof her sin lived on in me."

"And what transgressions merited correction?"

He took another bite, chewing slowly. "Crying too loudly.

Laughing too much. Drawing anything that wasn't explicitly religious.

Showing interest in other boys. Touching myself.

Speaking without permission." His voice had gone flat, reciting a litany of crimes from memory.

"Expressing anger. Questioning scripture. Sleeping too late on Sundays."

"A comprehensive list of normal childhood behaviors."

"She called it discipline," he said. "The pastor called it guidance. The therapist called it necessary intervention. No one called it what it was."

"Which was?"

"Cruelty," he said simply, meeting my eyes for the first time since sitting down. "Not that I understood that then. I thought I deserved it. That I really was possessed by something evil that needed to be controlled."

"And now?"

He took another bite of pizza, considering his answer. "Now I think whatever lives inside me isn't evil. Just... different. Hungry. Something that sees beauty where others see horror."

My own words in his mouth. Perfect. The transformation had begun.

"Eat," I encouraged, gesturing to his plate. "You need sustenance."

We continued our meal, Micah relaxing as time went on. By his third slice, his shoulders had dropped from their defensive hunch, and he'd begun to gesture when speaking.

"What about you?" he asked suddenly. "You know all about my childhood trauma, but I know almost nothing about yours."

"Mine was remarkable only in its absence," I replied, offering a simplified truth. "My parents valued intellect above emotion, achievement above connection. They provided everything but affection."

"That sounds lonely," Micah observed.

"It was educational," I corrected. "I learned early that reliance on others for emotional sustenance was both inefficient and ultimately disappointing."

"Then why am I here?" he asked, the question startlingly direct.

I smiled, allowing genuine appreciation to show. "Because you're different, Micah. You see. Most people move through life blind to anything beyond their immediate concerns. You perceive what exists beneath the surface. That makes you rare. Valuable."

A flush spread across his cheeks and neck. "I still don't understand what you want from me."

"I want you to be happy," I said, rising to clear our plates. "To learn and grow into what you were meant to be."

His eyes followed me as I moved around the kitchen. "You make it sound simple."

"The most profound things often are at their core." I opened a drawer and removed a small wrapped package. "I have something else for you."

His eyes widened. "Another gift? But you already gave me these pajamas."

"This is different," I said, placing the package in his hands. "Open it."

He unwrapped the gift carefully. Inside was a stuffed moth, approximately the size of a large teddy bear. Its wings were soft gray velvet with intricate patterns embroidered in silver thread. Its body was plush and inviting.

"Hug it," I instructed.

Micah looked uncertain but obeyed, wrapping his arms around the plush toy. As he did, the moth began to glow softly, illuminating his startled face.

"It lights up," he whispered, his voice suddenly childlike in its wonder.

He hugged it tighter, eyes glistening with unshed tears. "I wasn't allowed toys as a child," he said quietly. "Especially not stuffed animals. My grandmother said they promoted attachment to worldly things."

"You can have whatever toys you want now, Micah," I said, watching his reaction carefully. "Whatever comforts you desire."

A tear escaped, tracking down his cheek. He wiped it away. "Thank you. I don't know what to say."

"You don't need to say anything," I assured him. "Would you like to watch a movie? I thought we might enjoy something together in the living room."

He nodded, still clutching the moth. "That sounds nice."

I led him to the living room. The large sectional sofa was arranged with pillows and throws, the lighting dimmed to create an intimate atmosphere. I sat first, positioning myself in the corner of the sofa, and patted the space beside me.

"Come sit with me," I said, noting how Micah hesitated before approaching. "Bring your moth."

He sat beside me, still maintaining a careful distance. The moth glowed faintly in his arms, casting a soft light across his features, highlighting the sharp angles of his cheekbones, the lush curve of his lips.

"You can get comfortable," I encouraged, selecting a film to stream. Something visually engaging but that didn’t require much attention. "Lean against me if you like."

After a moment's consideration, Micah shifted, tentatively moving closer until he was positioned between my legs, his back against my chest, head resting just below my chin. The moth lay across his lap, its gentle glow illuminating his hands.

"Is this okay?" he asked, voice tight with uncertainty.

"Perfect," I assured him, allowing one arm to drape casually across his midsection. The heat of his body penetrated the thin silk, warming my palm. His abdomen tensed beneath my touch, then gradually relaxed. "Relax. We're just watching a movie."

As the film progressed, his hand moved to rest on my forearm where it crossed his stomach. A casual touch, yet his pulse quickened, visible at his throat, a rapid flutter beneath the thin skin.

His fingers soon began to trace patterns on my skin.

Light, exploratory touches that might have seemed absent-minded if not for the intentness of his focus, the careful way he monitored my reactions from the corner of his eye.

Each stroke of his fingertips left trails of heat on my skin, innocent caresses that nonetheless sent blood rushing to my cock.