Page 35 of These Hallowed Bones (Bloody Desires #3)

Ezra

The bed was empty when I woke, still warm where Micah's body had pressed against mine through the night. I reached automatically for him before my brain registered his absence. The indent of his head remained on the pillow beside me.

A piece of cream-colored paper on the nightstand caught my attention. My expensive stationery, but Micah's careful handwriting across its surface, the letters slightly uneven where his maimed hand had struggled to maintain control:

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

A small heart accompanied his initial, traced with the awkward grip his amputated finger had forced him to adapt.

The gesture should have seemed juvenile, but instead, it sent warmth spreading through my chest. He'd thought of me while I slept.

Wanted to surprise me. The consideration struck me as both touching and unnecessary. His presence was gift enough.

Guilt twisted in my stomach as I studied the note.

Last night, after our shared triumph in the studio, I'd been distant.

Not deliberately, but something had shifted inside me while watching him work.

His innovation, his independence, his evolution beyond my careful design.

Pride warred with an unfamiliar anxiety I couldn't name or control.

My nipples ached, raw and tender from his desperate nursing after our artistic consummation. The sensation usually brought satisfaction, knowing my body provided what my boy needed most. Now it served as a physical reminder of my failure to reciprocate his vulnerability.

Micah deserved better than my conflicted response to his growth.

He'd transformed from a traumatized student to an accomplished artist in months, exceeding every expectation while maintaining the core vulnerability that made him precious to me.

His questions about my reaction had been perceptive, cutting straight to truths I hadn't wanted to acknowledge.

You're afraid. Not of losing control of your student. Of losing something more.

Smart boy. Too smart sometimes.

I rose from bed and moved through my morning routine, expecting any moment to hear his key in the front door, his voice calling my name.

Coffee brewed while I showered. I dressed in casual clothes, anticipating spending the day reviewing last night's documentation with him, planning our next project together.

But the house remained silent.

10:30 came and went. Then 11:00. My coffee grew cold as unease crept through me like morning fog.

If he'd gone to Le Petit Jardin for those croissants he knew I loved, that was fifteen minutes away, twenty if traffic was particularly bad.

Even accounting for the line, my boy should have returned by now.

I tried his phone. Straight to voicemail.

The first tendrils of genuine concern sprouted as I scrolled through my contacts. Perhaps he'd encountered an old classmate, gotten caught up in conversation. Perhaps his car had broken down again, and he was arranging a tow. Reasonable explanations existed.

But Micah always answered his phone for me. Always.

By noon, concern had crystallized into alarm.

I drove toward the coffee shop, hands tight on the steering wheel as scenarios played through my mind.

Not fear for his safety, since my boy could handle himself better than most suspected, but the growing certainty that something had interrupted his plans. Someone had interfered.

Le Petit Jardin occupied its usual corner, morning rush was long over, only a few patrons were scattered among the tables near the windows. I pushed through the glass doors into the warm embrace of coffee and pastry scents, scanning for any sign of Micah.

"Excuse me." I approached the young woman behind the counter, her name tag reading 'Sarah.' "I'm looking for someone who was here earlier this morning. Dark hair, about this tall?" I gestured to indicate Micah's height. "He would have ordered lavender honey croissants."

Recognition flashed across her features. "Oh yeah, the guy with the moth plushie who spilled his coffee. Is he okay? He seemed really out of it when his friend helped him to the car."

Ice flooded my veins. "Friend?"

"Older guy, well-dressed. Said the customer wasn't feeling well, helped him outside." She frowned, concern creeping into her voice. "I wondered if maybe he was diabetic or something. He looked pale, kind of... droopy?"

Drugged. Someone had drugged my boy in a public space, in broad daylight, with enough confidence to walk him out past witnesses. The audacity sent rage spearing through my chest.

"What did this friend look like?" My voice stayed level despite the fury building in my throat.

"Tall, maybe fifty? Dark hair with some gray. Expensive coat. Really polite." She pointed towards the far corner. "They were sitting over there when it happened."

I moved to the indicated table, studying the area.

A paper coffee cup lay discarded in a nearby trash bin, lid cracked, contents long since cleaned up.

But on the floor, partially hidden beneath the table's base, lay two items that confirmed my worst fears: Micah's phone, dark and silent, and beside it, his moth toy, its soft blue glow pulsing weakly like a distress signal.

My hands shook as I retrieved both items. A cold wave of panic surged through me, momentarily paralyzing my lungs.

In all our time together, I had never once seen him willingly separated from either.

The phone connected him to me, and the moth.

.. the moth was his comfort when I wasn't there to provide it.

My chest constricted painfully, nipples aching.

Somewhere, my boy was afraid, and I couldn't offer the comfort of my body, the security of nursing at my chest while I stroked his hair and held him safe.

Someone had taken him, but they'd underestimated what they were stealing. My boy wasn't some helpless victim waiting for rescue. He was a predator who'd learned to hunt from the best teacher available.

Poor bastard probably thought he'd caught a trained pet.

"This friend," I said, returning to the counter as fragments of possibility coalesced into terrible certainty. "Did you see what kind of car he was driving?"

"Black sedan. Really nice. I noticed because my boyfriend's into cars." Sarah's expression had shifted to worry. "Is everything okay? Should I call the police?"

"No need," I replied, forcing my features into reassuring calm. "I'm sure there's a reasonable explanation."

But there wasn't. Only one person in the art world had shown interest in Micah beyond professional courtesy. Only one man had looked at my boy like prey while wearing the mask of sophisticated charm.

Julian Frost.

I drove to my office at the college in a blur of mounting rage and calculations.

There, I intended to track down Julian’s business card.

Julian's presumption, his fundamental misunderstanding of what he'd stolen, demanded correction.

The fool thought he'd captured something fragile and breakable when he'd actually caged a creature capable of reducing men to meat.

I clutched the moth to my chest with one hand, its soft velvet wings against my skin.

The toy pulsed faintly, as if sensing its owner's distress from miles away.

In that moment, a visceral ache spread through my chest, my nipples throbbing with the absence of Micah's mouth.

He would be frightened, disoriented. Seeking comfort only I could provide.

The thought sent a wave of possessive rage through my blood that threatened to overwhelm rational thought.

My boy is frightened, and I can't comfort him.

The realization sliced deeper than scalpel or bone saw—clean, irreversible.

More than the violation of someone touching what was mine, more than the theft of my masterpiece, what truly enraged me was knowing Micah would seek comfort in the only way he truly trusted and find only emptiness.

No Daddy to nurse from, no reassuring heartbeat beneath his ear, no hand stroking his hair as he surrendered to the peace only I could provide.

In my office, I tore through my desk, searching for Julian’s business card.

I knew I had one with his personal number on it somewhere, but I couldn’t find it.

Frustrated, I sank into my chair and got to work on my laptop, researching Julian Frost more thoroughly than I'd ever bothered before.

Gallery connections, financial records, property holdings.

The man who'd taken my boy was about to discover exactly what he'd stolen.

What emerged painted a picture that should have been obvious from the beginning.

Julian Frost collected more than art. I found police reports from three different cities, carefully buried but accessible to someone with my resources.

The reports detailed missing persons cases involving young men who'd caught Julian's attention at gallery openings.

Each case was unconnected, written off as voluntary disappearances.

But I recognized the pattern because I understood predatory behavior intimately. Julian was a crude collector, valuing quantity over quality, grabbing pretty things without understanding their true nature. Everything I despised about lesser killers who confused accumulation with artistry.

The realization sent something primitive and vicious surging through my bloodstream.

Someone had dared touch what belonged to me, had mistaken my carefully cultivated masterpiece for common prey.

Julian thought he understood what he was dealing with, but he'd grabbed a lion and mistaken it for a kitten.

My cell phone rang as I placed the moth on my desk. Blocked number.

I answered it. “Where is he?”

"Professor Bishop," Julian's voice oozed false courtesy through the speaker. "I trust you're having a pleasant morning."

"If you’ve harmed one hair on his head—”