Page 28 of These Hallowed Bones (Bloody Desires #3)

Ezra crowded me against the shelves. His cologne filled my nostrils, sandalwood and cedar and something uniquely him. I leaned toward him unconsciously, mouth parting with the desire to nurse at his chest, to take the comfort only he could provide.

"That's not the point." His hand shot out, fingers gripping my jaw hard enough to make me gasp. "Your body belongs to our work now. To me."

He released me and unbuttoned my pants. The zipper rasped loudly in the small space.

He slid inside to grasp my bare cock, his palm rough and hot against my sensitive skin.

The contact sent electricity shooting up my spine.

Two weeks of denial had left me hypersensitive, and I was already half hard before he even touched me.

"Daddy," I whimpered, panic rising as my body threatened to disobey. "I can't—I might not be able to—please, I don't want to ruin our project—"

"Shhh," he soothed, stroking me slowly. "I know you want to be good. I'm not going to let you fail. That's for our creation. I just need to touch you, to feel you, to…" He paused and swallowed. “I just need to do this.”

My head fell forward against his shoulder and I nodded.

Whatever he wanted, whatever he needed, I would give him without question.

Ezra kept stroking me, bringing me to the edge quickly.

When I whimpered out a warning, he squeezed hard and gave my balls a firm tug.

The denial made my legs go weak. A sob tore from my throat, loud enough that he pressed his other hand over my mouth.

"Quiet," he commanded against my ear. "Unless you want the entire gallery to know what their rising star is doing in the supply closet."

I nodded frantically against his palm, tears leaking from the corners of my eyes—not from pain but from the unbearable tension of being brought so close then denied again. My maimed finger throbbed as if in sympathy with my aching cock.

"Who owns you, Micah?" he repeated, his voice a low growl that vibrated through my body.

"You do, Daddy," I gasped when he removed his hand from my mouth. Sweat beaded on my forehead, trickling down my temples.

"Good boy," he praised, releasing me and stepping back. "Now compose yourself. We have guests waiting."

Cold air rushed between us. My cock throbbed painfully, still out and leaking. My hands shook violently as I tucked myself away, zipping up with difficulty over my erection. My shirt had come untucked, my hair mussed, my face flushed.

Ezra watched me struggle, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes. When I finished straightening my clothing, he reached out to adjust my tie, fingers brushing against my throat. The tenderness of the gesture threatened to undo me again.

He leaned in, pressing his lips briefly to my forehead. "You did well today. Julian won't approach you again. Tonight, when we're home, you can have your moth back and nurse as long as you need. I know you miss both."

The promise of comfort—of my glowing moth in my arms and his nipple between my lips—sent relief flooding through me.

I nodded gratefully, desperate for the familiar ritual.

The nursing wasn't about regression or infantilization—it was about connection, about the one place where my body felt wholly my own even as I surrendered it.

When I suckled at Ezra's breast, the fractured pieces of myself knit back together, the public and private Micah becoming one integrated being.

We returned to the gallery separately. I spent several agonizing minutes in the restroom, splashing cold water on my face, gripping the porcelain sink until my knuckles turned white.

My reflection looked foreign—flushed cheeks, wild eyes.

The careful mask I'd worn my entire life had slipped, revealing glimpses of whatever creature lurked beneath.

When I rejoined the exhibition, Ezra was surrounded by admirers. He gave me a quick, approving nod.

I moved through the crowd, accepting congratulations on my selection as Ezra's protégé, discussing the technical aspects of his work without revealing their true nature. Wine sloshed in crystal glasses. Snippets of pretentious art theory floated around me.

"Micah," Ezra's voice startled me from behind. His hand settled on my shoulder, squeezing once in warning. "I believe you two know each other?"

I turned to find Ezra accompanied by an older man in a clerical collar, silver hair neatly combed, posture military-straight despite his obvious age. My stomach dropped and my skin prickled. My heartbeat drowned out the sounds of the gallery.

“Reverand Morris,” I managed, though the words came out automatically.

I was no longer in my body. When he shook my hand, I felt nothing.

I couldn’t. If I let myself, I’d be back there, at the conversion therapy retreat, back under his thumb as he anointed me with holy water, back on my knees while he attempted to cast the demons out of me.

"Micah Salt," he said with a tight smile. "I haven’t seen you since your grandmother’s funeral."

The mention of my grandmother pulled me back into my body without warning.

Every welted stripe from Ezra's belt seemed to throb anew, every bite mark on my skin burned.

I fought the urge to cover myself, to hide the evidence of what I'd become—what I'd always been.

My maimed finger ached. My mouth flooded with the desperate need to nurse at Ezra's breast.

"I wasn’t aware you followed contemporary art," I managed.

"I don’t usually, but when I received the professor’s invitation, I could hardly decline," he explained, eyes cold and assessing despite his cordial tone.

I flinched and turned to Ezra, a small ache starting in my chest. He’d invited my tormenter? Why?

"I must admit I was surprised when I received your call, Professor," the reverend said.

Ezra’s fingertips brushed briefly against my lower back, steadying me. "I wanted you to see how far your past pupil has come. Micha’s told me so much about how you helped him. I thought you should get to see how that investment paid off. After all, it’s only thanks to you that he’s here today."

I blinked and stared at Ezra. All night, he’d been pointing out potential victims, explaining who would and wouldn’t make a good choice for my first solo project.

What if he hadn’t invited the reverend here to hurt me, but to inspire me?

The hurt scabbed over. Of course he would do that.

Ezra was brilliant. Even more than I could have imagined.

The shadow inside me stirred. I traced the healed amputation site with my thumb, drawing strength from its permanence.

"The Lord's work often requires firm hands," Reverend Morris agreed, placing his bony hand on my shoulder. His fingers dug into the same spot where Ezra's teeth had marked me two nights ago. "It’s good to see you’ve made something of yourself, young man. Your grandmother would be proud."

The touch burned through the fabric of my suit, but I didn’t pull away. Instead I heard myself say, “Thank you, Reverend.”

"Actually, Micah will be undertaking his first major independent project under my guidance soon," Ezra said smoothly. "Perhaps you would consider participating, Reverend? His concept explores themes of spiritual transformation and transcendence through art. Your perspective could prove valuable."

"I'm always happy to guide young artists toward depicting proper theological concepts," Reverend Morris said, nodding approvingly. Deep lines creased his forehead as he smiled thinly. "The modern art world so often devolves into blasphemy when approaching religious themes."

"Excellent. Micah will contact you to arrange the details," Ezra concluded.

As Reverend Morris moved away to examine the exhibition, Ezra guided me toward a quieter corner of the gallery. Blood pounded in my temples. My skin felt too tight, as if something inside me strained against its confines.

"Do you understand what I've given you?" he asked quietly, his voice intimate despite the public setting.

"My first independent project," I whispered, mouth dry as ash, heart thundering against my ribs. The shadow inside me stretched, hungry.

"The perfect canvas," Ezra said. "The opportunity to transform the very source of your shame into transcendent art."

The symmetry knocked the air from my lungs.

"Can you imagine it, Micah?" Ezra whispered, his voice low and seductive. His fingers touched my jaw, turning my face to his. "The man who tried to exorcise your demons becoming the vessel through which your true nature finds expression?"

Saliva flooded my mouth, and the rush of blood to my groin made me light-headed. Sweat beaded along my hairline despite the gallery's cool air.

"Yes, Daddy," I breathed, unable to deny the rightness of it. The shadow that had always lived inside me, the darkness Ezra had recognized and nurtured, now strained toward this opportunity with single-minded hunger. "It's... perfect."

"I thought you might appreciate the symmetry." Ezra's smile revealed the edge of a canine tooth. His pupils had expanded, nearly swallowing the gray of his irises. His fingers stroked my throat briefly. "I know you’ll make me proud."

Around us, the gallery hummed with appreciation for Ezra's artistic genius. Critics and collectors praised the collection's "organic light" and impossible textures, blissfully unaware of its true source.

And among them moved Reverend Morris, thin and austere in his clerical collar, completely unaware he had just accepted an invitation to become my first independent creation.

The man who had once held me down for exorcism now casually sipped champagne, blissfully ignorant of his impending transformation.

Ezra's hand touched my face, thumb brushing across my cheekbone in a gesture too intimate for our public personas but too quick to draw attention. His eyes said everything his words couldn't in this public space.

The shadow inside me stretched hungrily, no longer fighting for release but settling into my bones. For the first time in my life, I felt no shame in its presence. Only anticipation. Only certainty.

I was becoming something new under Ezra's guidance. Something that both terrified and thrilled me.

Something true.