Page 33 of These Hallowed Bones (Bloody Desires #3)

"And the eyes are just the beginning?" I asked, gesturing toward the floating specimens.

"Phase one," Micah confirmed. "Tonight I'll harvest bone and cartilage from his facial structure."

He continued explaining his artistic vision, describing a complex, multi-stage transformation that would culminate in a triptych that demonstrated sophistication I hadn't expected for years.

"What about Daniel?" I asked, indicating the terrified photographer still strapped to the other table.

Micah glanced toward him thoughtfully. "I hadn't planned on two subjects simultaneously.

But his perspective as a photographer could be incorporated thematically.

Eyes that observe, versus eyes that judge.

" He turned to me, expression serious. "Would you help me with him while I complete the next phase with Reverend Morris? "

I smiled. "Of course."

Daniel's muffled whimpers drew my attention back to him. The photographer's eyes pleaded desperately, shifting between Micah and me as understanding of his fate solidified.

"He truly believed he was protecting me," I told Micah, removing the gag from Daniel's mouth. "His concern seemed genuine, if misguided."

"Please," Daniel gasped immediately. "This isn't you, Micah. He's manipulating you. You don't have to do this."

Micah paused, turning toward the photographer. The moth's glow flared against his chest as he approached Daniel slowly, expression unreadable.

"You don't know me," he said quietly. "You never did. You saw what everyone sees: the careful mask I constructed to survive. Professor Bishop didn't create what I am. He freed me to be who I always was."

His hand rose, fingers hovering above Daniel's terrified face without touching.

"You followed me. Invaded my privacy. Dug into my past without permission.

" He leaned closer, voice dropping to an intimate whisper.

"I've wanted to create art from human materials since I was eight years old, watching my mother's body transform over three days. Long before I met Professor Bishop."

I could almost see the memory playing behind his eyes—those three days spent watching his mother's suspended body, the blue-gray patina of her skin, the subtle shift in coloration as blood settled, the tightening of features as tissues dried.

The boy who had documented every detail, fascinated not by death but by transformation.

The truth had always been there, waiting for recognition.

"Micah, please," Daniel begged. "Whatever happened to you as a child, you can get help."

"I found help," Micah interrupted, glancing toward me warmly. "I found understanding. I found someone who sees beauty where others see only horror."

The photographer's eyes widened, not merely with fear now but with the collapse of moral certainty. His world—where victims remained victims, where evil had clear boundaries, where righteousness protected the innocent—crumbled. "You're both insane."

"No," Micah corrected gently. "We're artists who refuse conventional limitations. Who recognize that transformation requires sacrifice."

He turned back to me, businesslike again. "I'll need about forty minutes to complete the facial harvesting from Reverend Morris. During that time, perhaps you could prepare Daniel's ocular structures?"

"Certainly," I agreed, moving toward my tools while watching Micah return to the reverend.

Reverend Morris had begun regaining consciousness, his head turning blindly as awareness returned. The bandaged eye sockets added a macabre quality to his expressions as terror registered on his features. He seemed to sense Micah standing over him, despite his inability to see.

"Welcome back," Micah greeted him. "We're about to continue your transformation."

The clergyman's mouth worked soundlessly, muscles still immobilized by the paralytic compound.

I began preparing my tools for Daniel's ocular extraction, but my attention remained focused on Micah. His movements displayed confidence I hadn't witnessed before, hands steady as he positioned a light to illuminate the reverend's face.

"You taught me that pain opens doorways to spiritual truth," he told the terrified clergyman. "Tonight we'll explore that concept together."

The first incision was perfect, precise pressure, perfect angle, minimal blood loss.

The scalpel traced the zygomatic arch accurately, revealing bone beneath parted flesh.

Micah's technique showed refinement beyond what I'd taught him, suggesting independent study and practice.

The way he'd adjusted his grip to accommodate his missing finger joint spoke of hours of private adaptation, finding new ways to maintain precision despite his sacrifice.

"Beautiful work," I commented.

Micah smiled without looking up. "Thank you, Daddy. I've been studying advanced facial anatomy to prepare for tonight."

The term of endearment sent a surge of possessive pleasure through me.

My cock hardened at the sound of that word on his lips, a reminder of the nights he'd spent nursing at my chest, taking comfort only I could provide. It’d been nearly a month since I'd forbidden his release, since I'd demanded his essence be preserved for our work.

As I turned my attention to Daniel, beginning the delicate process of extracting his first eye, I found myself constantly glancing toward Micah.

His work proceeded with remarkable exactness.

He hummed softly as he separated facial muscle from bone, a melody I didn't recognize accompanying his methodical movements.

A curious symmetry emerged between our parallel projects.

I harvested eyes that had observed, while Micah worked on sockets where judgment had resided.

Divine vision versus human perspective, the watcher versus the condemner.

Both subjects transformed through the removal of sight, yet with opposite symbolic meaning.

The perfection of this unplanned synchronicity sent a thrill through me.

"That's new," I observed, nodding toward a specialized tool he used to elevate tissue planes.

"I modified a dental instrument," Micah explained. "The curved edge allows cleaner separation of periosteum from bone. I had to adapt it to work with my grip." He flexed his maimed hand, the amputation site prominent in the stark studio lighting.

I removed Daniel's left eye carefully, preserving the optic nerve for potential artistic use. The photographer's body convulsed beneath the restraints, his remaining eye wide with unspeakable agony.

"Shhh," I soothed, appreciating his suffering while maintaining professional focus. "Your contribution will achieve significance beyond anything your photography accomplished."

While I worked, Micah continued harvesting the reverend's facial bones. His technique combined surgical accuracy with artistic vision, each cut revealing a deeper understanding of both anatomy and aesthetic transformation.

"You were right about one thing," Micah continued, voice dropping. "When I first entered your office, I hoped for artistic mentorship, maybe validation of my technical skills. I never imagined this freedom." He looked up, meeting my eyes across the room. "Thank you for seeing me. The real me."

I smiled and leaned across the space to kiss him. "You've exceeded my expectations. Truly.”

"I've had an exceptional teacher," he replied, and we returned to our work.

After some time, Micah stepped back and drew his forearm across his temple, wiping away sweat. "What do you think?"

The clergyman's face had been artfully deconstructed, key elements removed while maintaining recognizable features.

The surgical accuracy was impressive, but more striking was the compositional consideration evident in what remained.

Micah had created negative space with purpose, revealing underlying structure while preserving identity.

"Extraordinary," I acknowledged, genuine admiration coloring my tone. "You've maintained recognizable features while harvesting significant structural elements. The balance between removal and preservation shows remarkable artistic judgment."

Pride shimmered in his eyes.

"I've been thinking," Micah said as he returned to work on the reverend. "About expanding our artistic exploration. Moving beyond individual transformation to more complex statements."

"In what way?"

"Installations," he explained, excitement coloring his voice.

"Environmental pieces where the transformed materials create immersive experiences.

Imagine a room where light passes through properly preserved tissue, creating patterns that shift as viewers move through the space.

Transformation of not just material but perception. "

"That's an ambitious evolution," I observed.

"Too ambitious?" Micah’s maimed hand moved unconsciously toward his mouth, sleeve catching between his teeth before he caught himself and lowered it.

"Not at all," I assured him. "But we must be mindful of our audience. Not everyone will appreciate the new medium. Perhaps such works would have more power if left…unsigned."

“Art for art’s sake,” he murmured. “Of course.” He paused briefly before turning back to me. “How is he coming?”

“Almost done,” I said.

I watched as he gently wiped blood from his instruments, movements precise and elegant.

He hummed softly, that same unfamiliar melody from earlier, something I hadn't taught or exposed him to.

An unexpected warmth had spread through my chest, watching him.

There was pride in his progress, yes, but also something more.

When he looked up, catching me watching him, his smile carried warmth but also something new. Something knowing. "What are you thinking about, Daddy?"

The term no longer seemed childish, but rather intimate in a way I hadn't anticipated when first conditioning him to use it.

"You're becoming your own artist," I acknowledged. "Finding your own vision, distinct from mine."

"Does that disappoint you?" he asked, his voice softening as his shoulders tensed slightly.

"No," I said truthfully. "It surprises me. In a most fascinating way."

His shoulders relaxed. He removed and discarded his bloodstained gloves. "I'm still yours, Daddy. For as long as you’ll have me."

"I know," I replied, not sure I was entirely convinced.

He paused and looked up. "You're afraid. Not of losing control of your student. Of losing something more."

I couldn't lie. Not well. Not to him. Not anymore. The observation struck uncomfortably close to the truth. I stepped back from Daniel, who’d gone still. Not dead. Not yet, but drifting quietly in that direction.

“I’ve been alone for most of my life, Micah,” I found myself saying. “Working alongside you… It’s what I’ve dreamed of. Everything I wanted.”

“And yet?”

I closed my eyes, searching, reaching for the words.

“‘And I do not know whether he is a sinner,’ the man replied. ‘But I know this: I was blind, and now I can see.’” I looked over my shoulder at him.

“Have you ever walked out of a dark room into direct sunlight? That first moment, when the brightness stings, when you must resist the urge to shut your eyes against it? Today is that moment. You are the sun.”

He smiled and took my hand, saying nothing. The kiss he placed on my cheek was sunlight itself—soft, searing, impossible to look away from.