Page 21 of These Hallowed Bones (Bloody Desires #3)

"Exactly. No synthetic medium can capture that quality."

"How do you find them?" he asked suddenly. "Your contributors."

The question pleased me. It wasn't just that he would ask, but that he would do so without flinching. Another sign of his evolution.

"That's a conversation for another time. When you're ready, I'll show you every aspect of the process. The selection of subjects is as much art as their transformation."

“You choose them yourself.”

“An artist must take responsibility for his art,” I replied.

Micah picked up a glass jar and turned it over in his hand. "You've taught me to use these materials, but I haven't truly contributed to them." He looked up. "If I'm serious about this path, shouldn't I contribute too?"

"What did you have in mind?" I kept my expression neutral, curious but not leading.

Micah hesitated before replacing the jar. "Something of myself. Something... permanent."

"Blood, perhaps?" I suggested. "Many artists have incorporated their blood into their work."

"No." His voice grew firmer. "I’ve already used my own blood in a painting. I need something more…significant. You spoke of sacrifice. Real sacrifice. Like you.”

"That was my choice," I reminded him. "Made after considerable thought."

"I've given it considerable thought," he insisted, turning to face me.

"For years. My whole life I've been looking for something real.

This is it. Please, Ezra. I need to do this.

I need…" He looked down at his hand, tracing his fingers over the back of his palm.

"The first joint of my little finger. It's least used for painting but would leave a permanent mark of my commitment. "

I studied him, weighing his words. "Are you certain? "

"I'm certain." His gaze never wavered from mine. "It’s important."

I moved to the cabinet, retrieving a case of surgical tools. I arranged them on the steel table. Scalpels of various shapes. Bone saws. Forceps. Clamps.

"If you change your mind at any point before we begin, simply say so," I offered, opening another drawer containing suturing materials. "There would be no judgment."

Micah crossed to the other side of the table. "I won't change my mind."

I brought him a chair and laid out a surgical pad on the steel table, helping him position his fingers. Then I went to the sink to scrub up to my elbows.

When I turned around, he was clutching the moth tightly to his chest with one hand. “Have you…” He swallowed. “Have you done this before?”

"Yes," I answered, pulling on sterile gloves. "Trust me, Micah. I'll take care of you." I adjusted a surgical mask over my face.

He nodded, his breathing quickening as I prepared the anesthetic injection. "This will numb the area completely," I explained, swabbing his hand with iodine.

He flinched sharply, his fingers instinctively curling away from the cold brown liquid. "That stings," he murmured.

"Keep still," I said, steadying his hand with mine.

When the needle approached his skin, he winced visibly, turning his face away. The moth glowed brighter against his chest as his grip tightened around it.

"Look at me," I said. His eyes found mine, searching for reassurance. "Focus on my face, not the needle."

The anesthetic slid beneath his skin. His pupils contracted sharply, then expanded again as he exhaled.

"Good," I praised, setting the syringe aside. "Now we wait for it to take effect."

Ten minutes passed in silence. I used the time to arrange my instruments. Micah watched, his expression softening, eyes dulling.

"Can you feel this?" I asked, testing the area with a sterile needle under his fingernail.

"No," he answered, almost sleepily. "Nothing at all."

I positioned a tourniquet around his finger and carefully marked the location for amputation.

Instrument in hand, I paused, hovering above his skin.

I couldn’t say why. I’d cut into living flesh before.

While unpleasant, it had never given me anxiety.

Yet now, my heart was fluttering, my breathing fast, sweat beading on the back of my neck.

There was a part of me, I realized, that didn’t want to hurt him.

"Daddy?" Micah’s brow creased. “Is everything okay?”

I forced a smile. “Yes, dear boy. Everything is perfect.”

He nodded, clutching the moth to his chest.

What followed was communion through violence. The serrated edge of the saw bit into flesh with a wet resistance that sent shivers down my spine. Blood welled, dark and viscous, catching the light like garnets.

Micah’s face paled, but he didn’t look away. His tongue darted out, wetting his lips. He squeezed his moth so tight, I worried he might break it. Yet no sound escaped his lips. Only a single tear tracked down his cheek.

The wet tear of tissue, the snap of tendons giving way.

These weren't medical procedures but sacraments.

His blood baptized my gloved hands, marking me as his as surely as I was marking him.

This wasn't mutilation but transformation, two souls witnessing each other's true nature across an altar of shared becoming.

When it was done, I sealed the wound with careful stitches. Micah had grown pale, his consciousness drifting in and out of focus. The endorphins and shock had taken their toll. His head rolled slightly, eyes unfocused.

"Stay with me," I murmured, checking his pulse. Strong, but rapid. "You're doing beautifully."

"Did you..." His words slurred significantly. "Did you save it?"

"Yes," I assured him, nodding toward the specimen jar where his sacrifice floated in preservation fluid. "It will become something extraordinary."

His lips curved into a weak smile before his eyes fluttered closed. Not unconscious, but drifting in the liminal space between awareness and surrender. I dressed the wound carefully, wrapping his hand in clean bandages. The procedure was complete, but the care had just begun.

"How are you?" I asked, supporting his drooping head with my hand.

"Float... floating," he managed, words soft and indistinct. "Not...here..."

"That's normal," I told him, stroking his hair. "Your body is processing what happened."

"Did I… Was I good?" The single question emerged through his haze, vulnerable and raw.

"Yes," I assured him, something tightening in my chest. "You’ve made me very proud."

After administering pain medication, I guided Micah upstairs to my bedroom rather than the guest room. This shift marked another boundary crossed, another layer of intimacy granted as reward for his sacrifice.

"Let me take care of you now," I said, helping him undress.

He surrendered completely, allowing me to bathe him gently, keeping his bandaged hand dry. Water flowed over his skin, carrying away the antiseptic smell, replacing it with sandalwood and cedar from my personal soap. I dressed him in white silk pajamas and brushed his hair back from his face.

I caught myself imagining similar evenings in the far-flung future, just mundane moments of domesticity. The thought struck me as odd, yet satisfying, like discovering an unexpected harmony that completed a composition.

When I tucked him into my bed, his eyes reflected gratitude so profound it bordered on worship. I removed my clothes and joined him under the sheets.

"You've pleased me greatly tonight," I told him. The act of cutting into him, claiming a piece of him, had aroused me in ways impossible to hide. "Your sacrifice deserves a reward."

He understood immediately and quickly closed his lips over my nipple. Breath tickled my chest as he let out a soft sigh, clutching his moth with his injured hand. The other slid down my stomach, tracing the obvious arousal tenting the sheets.

My cock hardened further as he sucked. I stroked his hair, trying to ignore the need thrumming through me. Micah was in no shape for what I wanted to do with him. Not tonight. But my body clearly wasn’t getting the message.

“You were so brave,” I whispered and kissed the top of his head.

The words were both tactical and true. He had such an exceptional spirit, a rareness I hadn't fully appreciated until tonight. The adrenaline still coursing through me from the procedure heightened every sensation, his mouth against my skin electric and consuming.

"Stay with me like this." My hand slid down to cup his ass, pulling him closer. “Just let me look at you.”

He nodded and closed his eyes. The sucking slowed, but didn’t stop. The sensation of his lips and tongue around my nipple sent waves of pleasure through me that made the throbbing of my cock impossible to ignore.

A groan escaped me, my control slipping in a way it never had with previous subjects. I'd anticipated his physiological reactions, planned each step of his dependency, but I hadn't accounted for my own response to him.

My hand moved beneath the sheets, wrapping around my cock. The contact pulled another sound from my throat, half relief and half frustration. I began stroking myself, timing the movements with the pulls of his mouth.

Micah's eyes fluttered open, heavy-lidded but aware enough to register what was happening. A small smile curved his lips around my nipple as he watched my face. Even in his weakened state, his awareness of his effect on me was evident.

"You need to come, Daddy?" he mumbled against my skin, and then licked and blew on my nipple.

The action nearly undid me. "Yes," I admitted, my pace increasing. "You make me need this."

That was the troubling truth. It wasn't just the violence, the thrill of the procedure that had aroused me. It was him. Specifically him. His surrender, his trust, his transformation under my guidance. The realization struck with alarming clarity as my orgasm built.

I'd created countless works, transformed numerous subjects, but none had made me lose control. The thought should have disturbed me more than it did.

His mouth worked more purposefully now despite his exhaustion, sucking rhythmically, his tongue flicking against the sensitive bud. My hand moved faster, pre-cum slicking my movements.

"Look at me," I commanded, needing to see his eyes.

He obeyed, gaze locking with mine even as his lips maintained their delicious pressure. The intimacy of that eye contact, the raw connection between us, pushed me toward the edge.

I came hard, the orgasm wringing a sound from my throat I didn't recognize. My release spilled hot over my hand and onto my stomach as waves of pleasure radiated outward.

Through it all, Micah watched me, his eyes reflecting satisfaction at having caused this loss of control. Even in his drugged, post-procedure state, he recognized his power over me. The realization was as unsettling as it was arousing.

As the final pulses subsided, I reached for tissues to clean myself. My hands weren't entirely steady, another indication of how deeply he had affected me.

Micah's lips finally released my oversensitive nipple with a pleased sigh. "I like watching you come," he murmured, the words slurring slightly as exhaustion reclaimed him. His hand reached out, fingers trailing through the mess on my stomach. The gesture was both innocent and intensely erotic.

"Sleep now," I told him, cleaning us both. "You need rest."

His eyes closed, his breathing deepening almost immediately. Yet his lips remained pressed lightly against my chest, maintaining our connection.

I stared at the ceiling, my heart rate gradually slowing. This wasn't part of my design. I'd intended to transform him, not to be transformed in return. The reciprocal nature of our relationship was an unexpected variable, one I hadn't properly accounted for.

I stroked his hair as he slept. The amputation site would heal quickly.

The physical pain would fade. But the psychological impact would linger, reinforcing his commitment every time he looked at his hand.

A permanent reminder of the choice he made.

A visible symbol of devotion that would deepen each time someone asked about the missing joint.

I didn't recognize it at first, the strange warmth spreading through me as I watched him that night. It wasn't hunger or pride. It wasn't even satisfaction. It seemed wrong. Like softness growing where discipline should be. A deviation from my design that I couldn't immediately classify or control.

But deep down, I knew exactly what was happening, and that I was powerless to stop it.