Page 17 of These Hallowed Bones (Bloody Desires #3)

My grandmother's face stared back at me from the canvas.

Stern eyes, cold as January skies. Thin lips pressed in perpetual disapproval.

The tight silver bun she wore until the day she died, not a single strand permitted to escape its rigid confines.

I hadn't meant to paint her. I hadn't consciously summoned her from memory.

Yet here she was, watching me with the same judgment that had followed me since childhood, haunting even this sacred space I'd found with Ezra.

Something broke inside me. The palette knife fit perfectly in my hand. I raised it toward the canvas.

For a moment, I simply stood there, knife poised, watching my distorted reflection in the metal surface.

The first cut into my grandmother's face felt like releasing a scream I'd been holding since childhood.

The canvas gave way beneath the blade with a sound like tearing flesh, a resistance and then surrender that sent a shudder of pleasure down my spine.

I dragged the knife downward, peeling away layers of paint to expose the raw canvas beneath.

I didn't stop with one cut. I worked with methodical violence, scraping away her face until nothing remained but a ragged void.

Each cut felt like liberation, like excising a cancer from my soul. Each slash of the blade released something poisonous from inside me, something that had festered for years in the darkness of shame.

Strong hands caught my wrists from behind. I was panting, chest heaving from exertion, sweat beading on my forehead. Ezra stood close, his chest against my back, his grip firm but not painful. I hadn't heard him approach, too lost in the catharsis of destruction.

"Who is she?" he asked, his voice soft against my ear.

Words escaped before I could filter them, raw and honest. "My grandmother."

"Tell me about her."

My breathing came fast and shallow, chest rising and falling rapidly against the constraint of his arms. "She was a God-fearing woman. Never missed church. The kind of Christian who believed suffering was holy."

"And she made you suffer in God's name." Not a question but a statement of fact, spoken with quiet certainty.

I nodded, throat tight with emotions I couldn't name. "She caught me sucking my sleeve when I was nine. Said it was a disgusting habit. Called me a baby."

"What did she do?"

My voice sounded distant, as if someone else were speaking through me. "Put me in the hall closet. No light. No sound. Just darkness until I learned my lesson."

"How long did she leave you there?"

"The first time? Hours. After that... sometimes overnight."

"And did you learn your lesson?" His breath was warm against my neck, raising goosebumps on my skin.

I shook my head. "I learned to hide it better."

Ezra released my wrists, and I sat heavily on a nearby stool, suddenly exhausted. Silence stretched between us as I stared at my hands, still speckled with paint. The ruined canvas blurred through unexpected tears.

Something stirred inside me. A need I didn’t have words for yet, something primal, but not mindless.

It wasn’t about lust, not exactly. It was about safety.

About being seen and still wanted. I thought of the night before: the weight of Ezra’s palm on the back of my head, the steady rhythm of his breathing, the way his chest had risen beneath my cheek like something holy.

My grandmother would have called it perverse, unclean.

But lying against him had felt closer to grace than any sermon I’d ever heard.

It wasn’t sin; it was sanctuary. And I wanted that again.

I wanted to return to that stillness and choose it on my own terms.

Ezra knelt before me, taking my face between his hands. His thumbs stroked gently across my cheeks, collecting tears I hadn't realized were falling.

"What is it, Micah?" he asked, his voice soft. "Tell me what you need."

I struggled to express it, my cheeks burning with shame even as desire coiled tight in my belly. "I..."

"Take your time. I'm not going anywhere."

He made no move to rescue me from my discomfort, no attempt to fill the silence or provide easy answers. Simply waited, patient and attentive, allowing me the space to find my own words.

"Last night," I finally managed. "I can't stop thinking about... your chest. How it felt in my mouth."

Saying it out loud made my stomach twist with a mix of want and embarrassment. Not because it was wrong—I'd stopped believing that—but because it felt raw . Exposing a need that deep, that intimate, was more terrifying than any confession.

Ezra’s expression didn’t change. “Is that what you need right now?”

"Yes," I said. No hesitation this time. "It quiets everything. I don’t know why exactly. But it helps."

I swallowed. “Please.”

He waited. Not with judgment, but presence.

Holding the silence open so I could step into it willingly.

He wanted me to own it , to name what I needed without apology or shame.

My body answered first, heat blooming low in my gut, breath catching, cock stirring against the seam of my jeans. But my voice followed.

"Can I suck on you, Daddy?" The word slipped out with startling ease. Not a game, not a joke—just the truest name for the man who made me feel safe enough to fall apart and still be whole.

"Come," Ezra said, taking my hand. He led me to a leather chaise in the corner of the studio, positioning himself against the raised back. He patted the space beside him. "Here. You'll be more comfortable."

The invitation was simple, but it held weight. Permission. Safety. A choice.

I settled next to him, then shifted to drape myself across his lap, my head resting against his chest. The position felt natural, familiar. As if I were always meant to be here.

Ezra unbuttoned his shirt, one button at a time, revealing inch by inch the chest I'd explored so thoroughly the night before. The skin around his nipples looked flushed, a little swollen, faintly bruised. My stomach clenched.

“Did I... hurt you?” The question slipped out before I could stop it, low and hoarse with guilt.

Ezra looked down at me, amused. “You did,” he said simply. “But I don’t mind hurting for you.”

That undid me.

I leaned in slowly, giving him time to stop me—but he didn’t. My mouth found his chest again, not with desperation this time, but care. I brushed my lips over his skin, soft and reverent. I tasted salt, warmth, him.

My tongue circled one nipple lightly, avoiding pressure. He inhaled sharply, chest rising beneath my cheek. I kept going, teasing the sensitive skin with careful flicks and slow licks until it pebbled under my tongue.

I wasn’t nursing. I wasn’t clinging. I was worshipping.

His fingers threaded through my hair, not to guide but to ground. The rhythm of my tongue deepened, just enough to make him breathe heavier. My hand slid to his thigh, squeezing gently.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “Show me how good it feels to take your time.”

I kissed lower, tracing the edge of his ribcage with my lips, tongue flicking lightly against the line where muscle met bone. His body twitched under me, breath hitching.

“Easy,” I whispered, not sure if I was telling him or myself.

He chuckled, low and pleased. “That’s new.”

“What is?”

“You, taking your time.”

I smiled against his skin, feeling bold and shy at once. “I want to please you.”

Ezra’s fingers tightened in my hair—not demanding, just present. “Oh, my sweet boy… You do.”

I kept going, letting sensation guide me.

The way his skin warmed beneath my tongue.

The way his nipple twitched when I barely grazed it with my teeth.

I’d thought this act was only about comfort before, but I understood now.

It was also about power. About trust. About letting myself want and be wanted in return.

When I finally drew back, his chest glistened with spit and the beginnings of arousal. His eyes were dark and heavy-lidded, lips parted.

“Good boy,” he murmured.

My whole body flushed. My fingers found his belt buckle, hesitating there. I looked up and licked the sensitive bud again, seeking permission.

"Not yet," he said, removing my hand gently but firmly. "First, you learn to receive. Then you learn to give."

The denial sent a fresh wave of heat through me. Not because I was being rejected, but because I recognized his restraint as necessary caretaking. He cared enough to say no, thinking of me first.

"Will you touch me too?" I asked, voice muffled against his skin.

Ezra's hand stilled in my hair. "Tell me exactly what you want, Micah. Be specific. I need to know how and what you want to feel."

I flushed hot, but something in his tone told me there would be no moving forward without answering. The thought of speaking my desires aloud made my cock throb against his stomach.

"I want..." I swallowed hard. "I want what you did yesterday. Your fingers inside me. Finding that spot that turned pain into something sacred." The confession came out in a rush, my face burning against his chest.

"And why do you want that?" His voice was gentle but insistent.

"Because I…” I trailed off, trying to find the words. “I never understood before yesterday what people meant when they spoke of religious ecstasy. After yesterday, I think I’m beginning to understand.”

His fingers resumed stroking my hair. "Then I think you’re ready for something more." His thumb traced my lower lip. "Do you trust me, Micah?"

“Yes, of course.”

He took my hand. "Then come with me. I have much more to show you."