Page 34 of These Hallowed Bones (Bloody Desires #3)

Micah

Blood still caked my fingernails despite scrubbing until my skin turned raw.

I picked at the dried remnants with the stump of my little finger, tracing dark crescents—trophies of last night's work.

Reverend Morris, reduced to artistic components.

Daniel, a perfect contrast. My first independent kill.

My transformation from student to creator.

So why did my chest feel hollow?

My moth lay pressed against my side, its soft velvet wings pulsing with faint blue light as if sensing my disquiet. I clutched it closer, seeking comfort from the familiar texture, the gift Daddy had given me when he first welcomed me into his world.

Ezra's breathing stayed deep and even beside me, silver hair catching pale morning light through curtains I couldn't afford in a lifetime.

My gaze traced the contours of his chest, lingering on his nipples.

They looked red, swollen, chafed from my desperate attention the night before.

Afterward, I'd nursed for nearly an hour, clinging to him while he stroked my hair and called me his good boy.

The memory made my mouth water, lips tingling.

I swallowed hard and looked away. Better to let him rest than wake him for my comfort.

Beautiful. Untouchable. Distant even in sleep.

Something was wrong. Had been wrong since we'd finished disposing of the bodies, since he'd taken me afterward against the blood-spattered workbench.

His cock had been hard, his grip bruising, but even when he'd whispered "good boy" against my throat as he came, something in his eyes had shifted.

A distance I couldn't name that made my stomach twist. Not being allowed to come had left me aching. Just thinking about it had made me hard again, so hard it hurt. He’d promised me relief today, but…

Had I disappointed him? Pushed too hard, too fast?

The thought sent panic spiking through my veins, hot and acidic.

Not the old hunger for scraps of approval, but something deeper.

Something mine. The fear of losing the one person who'd ever seen my darkness and called it beautiful.

I belonged to Daddy completely, and it was my choice, my gift, my sanctuary.

I wouldn't spiral. But I could show him. Prove that my growth hadn't changed what lived at the core of us.

A gesture. Something that said I still thought about his pleasure, his preferences, the small indulgences he denied himself.

Le Petit Jardin across town made those lavender honey croissants the same golden color as fresh bone dust. He'd described them like other men described art, but he never indulged in such luxuries for himself.

Maybe today my gesture could bridge whatever distance had opened between us.

I slipped from beneath Egyptian cotton sheets, bare feet silent against polished hardwood. I held my moth against my chest with my maimed hand, its glow casting blue shadows across the room.

Should I take it with me? The thought of separation made my chest constrict. The moth had barely left my arms since Daddy gave it to me.

"You're coming with me this time," I whispered to it. Something inside me couldn't bear the thought of leaving it behind today. The premonition that had crawled up my spine all morning intensified. Better to keep my comfort close.

My clothes from last night lay scattered across his bedroom floor, designer pieces he'd selected now rumpled and stained beyond salvation. Blood on the cuffs. His cum on the shirt. Evidence of what we'd become together.

But Ezra had thought of this too, of course.

In the walk-in closet, a section held clothes in my size.

Not my own things brought over, but pieces he'd chosen specifically for me.

Quality fabrics in colors he liked seeing me wear.

I selected dark jeans and a soft gray sweater, both fitting perfectly because Daddy paid attention to details like that.

Like everything else about taking care of me.

In his study, expensive stationery waited. My handwriting looked childish against the elegant surface, the stump of my finger making my grip awkward as I wrote:

Gone to get you something special. Back soon. Your boy, M.

I added a small heart beside my initial, then wanted to crumple the whole thing.

The edge of my sleeve found its way between my teeth, the familiar texture against my tongue anchoring me as I considered starting over.

But time was running short if I wanted to return before he woke, so I left it, cheeks burning with shame I couldn't name.

November air bit through my jacket as I stepped outside.

The world had turned gray and brown while we were underground, colors drained like blood from a corpse.

Traffic lights blurred past as I drove, my mind cycling through possible conversations, ways to bridge whatever distance had opened between us.

My mouth ached for the comfort of Daddy's chest, for the soft pulse beneath my cheek that told me I was safe. Maybe he’d let me have it again this morning, this time on the other side. I knew it pained him sometimes. He never complained, just held me and stroked my hair and called me his.

Sometimes, I’d look up and him and wish to hear those three little words neither of us had said yet.

I told myself I was being selfish, that I didn’t need them.

It was clear he loved me in the way he cared for me, the way he looked after me.

What difference would it make to hear it out loud?

And yet, I wanted that, wanted him to kiss my forehead, while I was at his chest, give me my moth to hold and say, “I love you, sweet boy.”

Maybe today , I thought. Maybe if I said it first, he’d say it back.

Le Petit Jardin glowed warm gold against the overcast sky, occupying a converted Victorian with the kind of architectural details that screamed old money. Bread and roasting coffee beans hit my nose as I pushed through the glass doors, my moth tucked under my arm.

"Cute moth," the barista said as I ordered everything I knew he loved. "My daughter collects plushies too."

I nodded, uncomfortable with the attention but unwilling to let go of my talisman.

The moth's glow intensified slightly as I clutched it tighter, the velvet wings soft against my maimed hand.

The lavender scent from the pastries reminded me of the preservation chemicals we'd used last night—sweet and sharp and perfect.

"Micah Salt?"

Ice water flooded my veins. I turned slowly, already knowing what I'd find.

Julian Frost looked immaculate even at this unholy hour, charcoal wool replacing his usual emerald velvet but with the same predatory smile carved into his face.

The same calculating gleam lit his eyes as they moved over my rumpled appearance, pausing with interest on the stump of my little finger as I accepted my order.

"Julian." I kept my voice steady despite my pulse jumping. My amputation site throbbed like a warning pulse. "Early morning for you."

"Same as you, I'd imagine." He gestured toward the pastry case, that practiced smile never shifting. "Ezra's mentioned this place. Their croissants are apparently divine."

The casual reference to Ezra set off every alarm bell in my head. How much did this fucker know about our routines? About his preferences? The art world was small, but this felt too fucking coincidental.

"Just grabbing breakfast," I said, accepting my order. The bag felt warm against my palms, filled with carefully selected peace offerings. My sleeve found its way between my teeth again.

Julian's eyes narrowed at the gesture, something knowing flashing behind them. "Of course. Such a thoughtful boy." Something oily slicked beneath Julian's surface charm. "I imagine Daddy appreciates having someone so... attentive to his needs."

My blood froze at his use of that word. That sacred word. Ours alone. Spoken only in moments when I was open, trembling, his. The fact that Julian knew it, used it so casually, made my skin crawl.

"I should get back," I said, edging toward the door. "He'll be wondering where I went."

"Will he?" Julian's head tilted, studying me like a specimen. "You look tired, Micah. Exhausted, even. Long night of... artistic collaboration?"

My blood turned to fucking ice. The way he said 'artistic collaboration' carried too much weight, too much understanding. No one should know about our work. No one could know.

"I don't know what you mean," I replied, but my voice cracked.

Julian stepped closer. Close enough that expensive cologne mixed with something chemical and sharp. "Of course not. Just concerned about a fellow artist pushing himself too hard. You look like you could use some rest."

His hand moved toward his coat pocket. A glint of metal—a syringe?—before it vanished. "In fact, I was hoping we could discuss your work somewhere more private. I have opportunities that might interest someone with your... particular talents."

"I need to go." I turned toward the door, but Julian shifted to block my path. Not obviously. Just moving so leaving would require pushing past him.

"Don't be rude, Micah. I'm trying to help your career." His smile sharpened, becoming more predatory. "Besides, I think Ezra would be very interested to know how thoroughly he's... trained... his protégé. Such devoted work deserves recognition, don't you think?"

The threat hung between us, barely veiled but unmistakable. Julian knew something. Enough to be dangerous. And the way he said 'trained' made my teeth clench, as if Daddy was some kind of handler instead of the man who'd seen me completely and chosen to nurture what lived in my shadows.

"What do you want?" I asked quietly.

"Just conversation. A chance to get to know Ezra's protégé better." His eyes glittered. "I have a car outside. We can talk privately."

Every instinct screamed danger, but what choice did I have?

If Julian really knew about our work, refusing him could expose everything.

The image flashed before me: police breaking down Daddy's door, flashlights illuminating preserved specimens, our private sanctuary defiled by strangers who could never understand its beauty.

Headlines screaming about "The Ravencrest Ripper and His Profane Protégé.

" Ezra in handcuffs, his career, our future, everything we'd built together destroyed in an instant.

I could harvest organs without flinching, could reduce men to artistic components, but the thought of losing him made my hands shake. The stump of my amputated finger throbbed.

"Fine," I said. "But I need to text Ezra first. Let him know where I'm going."

"Of course." Julian's smile widened. "Take your time."

I pulled out my phone, setting my coffee cup on a nearby table to type:

Julian ambush. Suspicious. Threatening exposure. Help.

My thumb hovered over send as Julian's shadow fell across the screen. I quickly deleted the message, fingers trembling as I typed a replacement while he loomed beside me:

Ran into Julian from gallery at Le Petite Jardin. Discussing opportunities. Call soon.

"Telling Daddy all about our little chat?" Julian asked, his breath warm against my ear as he peered at the screen.

I tilted the phone away, heart hammering. "Just letting him know I'll be late."

"Don't forget your coffee," he said, sliding the cup back toward me. "Hate to see good caffeine go to waste."

The first sip tasted normal. Rich, bitter, exactly what I'd ordered.

But dizziness swept through me almost immediately.

The coffee cup slipped from suddenly nerveless fingers, hot liquid splashing across the tile.

The moth fell from my grip, landing beside the spilled coffee, its blue glow flickering frantically.

Julian's arm steadied me as my knees buckled, his grip firm but false.

"Careful there," he murmured against my ear. "Don't want you hurting yourself."

The barista looked up at the sound, but Julian waved dismissively, making a subtle drinking gesture with his free hand. "I'll help him to my car."

My vision blurred at the edges. Whatever he'd dosed me with worked fast—muscles slackening despite my efforts to stand. The phone slipped from my grip, landing beside my abandoned moth.

I’d spent months learning control with Daddy. Precision with a scalpel. Steadiness even covered in blood. The discipline to hold a subject's eye open without flinching. Now, my body betrayed me. Muscles turned to water. Thoughts to fog. The loss of mastery was more terrifying than death.

"Good boy," Julian whispered as he guided me toward the door.

Those words in his mouth tasted like ash on my tongue. A blasphemy. They belonged to Daddy. Only Daddy could call me that. My lips parted, seeking the comfort of Ezra's chest, instinct driving me toward a sanctuary I couldn't reach.

Morning air bit my skin as Julian helped me toward a black sedan. My legs moved mechanically, body obeying Julian's guidance while my mind screamed warnings I couldn't voice.

"Daddy's going to look for me," I managed to slur, fighting to form words through the chemical fog.

"Oh, I'm counting on it," Julian replied, opening the passenger door. "That's rather the point."

He eased me into the seat, buckling the seatbelt around my increasingly unresponsive body. The world tilted sideways as he closed the door, my reflection showing dilated pupils and slack features.

Julian slid into the driver's seat, starting the engine. He hummed softly to himself as he pulled away from the curb.

The last thing I managed before darkness claimed me was the realization that Ezra's breakfast sat abandoned on the counter, growing cold while I disappeared into Julian's carefully laid trap.

The croissants he'd never taste. The gesture that had led to my capture. The note on his nightstand promising to return soon.

The scent of lavender from the pastries followed me into unconsciousness, transforming from bakery sweetness to the sharp chemical smell of preservation fluid.

The same scent that had filled our workshop as we transformed our subjects.

Now I was the one being preserved, transported, transformed against my will.

Good boy , Julian had called me. But that phrase belonged to someone else. That was Daddy's to give, not Julian's to steal.

As consciousness faded, one final thought pierced the chemical haze: Ezra was going to tear Julian apart for this.