Page 40 of These Hallowed Bones (Bloody Desires #3)

Micah

Six months after Julian's disappearance, Ravenna Gallery buzzed with anticipation. My first solo exhibition, "Sacred Transfigurations," had drawn a larger crowd than either the gallery owner or I expected. Critics, collectors, and curious art enthusiasts packed the space.

Expensive perfume mingled with faint chemical undertones that only I could detect.

Preservation agents still subtly emanated from the materials in my pieces.

The bruises Ezra had left on my hips and thighs the night before throbbed pleasantly beneath my clothes.

Every shift of fabric against the marks reminded me who I belonged to, even in this public space.

My fingers twitched, seeking the comfort of my moth's velvet wings.

But the plush toy remained in the car, too large and conspicuous for a professional gallery opening.

The absence left me oddly vulnerable, like walking into battle without armor.

I ran my thumb over the stump where my little finger's first joint had been, the phantom ache intensifying in moments of heightened emotion.

The amputation site had healed cleanly, but the nerves still sang when anxiety crept up my spine.

The centerpiece triptych hung on the far wall and commanded attention even from across the room.

Each panel incorporated materials harvested from Reverend Morris, transformed through techniques Ezra had taught me but executed according to my own artistic vision.

The crushed orbital bones from his eye sockets provided the iridescent base material.

Calcium phosphate gave the resin its unearthly glow.

Dark circular elements created from specialized carbon compounds marked the focal points of each panel, suggesting eye-like forms without being obvious.

Only I knew these compounds contained ash from the reverend's ocular tissues, processed beyond recognition.

The piece silently accused the man who'd tried to exorcise my demons and became art instead.

A smaller companion piece hung nearby, composed of materials that paid tribute to my artistic journey.

Elements harvested from my very first independent work with Reverend Morris created a unique luminosity.

The textural components contained subtle religious symbolism, visible only to viewers who studied the piece carefully.

The asymmetry between the two collections communicated volumes to those who understood what they were seeing.

No one did, of course. Not really.

Except Ezra.

Across the room, Ezra held court with the gallery's most influential patrons.

Light caught the silver threading through his dark hair whenever he moved, creating momentary halos.

The burgundy pocket square I'd selected that morning broke the monochrome severity of his black suit.

Though his gaze never directly met mine, his attention stalked my every movement.

Even while deep in conversation, his body remained angled toward me, a compass needle fixed on its true north.

A subtle tension would build across his shoulders whenever someone invaded my space.

Catching me watching him triggered that familiar twitch at the corner of his mouth, barely perceptible to anyone else.

The most revealing tell appeared when other men admired my work.

His hands would flex and curl, long fingers moving unconsciously as though already planning precisely where to cut into their flesh.

"Your use of organic materials creates extraordinary depth," an older woman in expensive jewelry remarked while leaning close to examine the central panel.

"Thank you," I replied, shifting my maimed hand behind my back. "I find traditional media limiting for expressing certain conceptual truths."

"Reminiscent of Ezra Bishop's work, yet distinctly your own voice," she continued, studying me now instead of the painting. "His influence is evident, but not overwhelming. A difficult balance to achieve between mentor and protégé."

My gaze drifted to Ezra across the room.

Our eyes met briefly. A current passed between us that made my skin prickle despite the distance.

His right hand formed a subtle gesture against his thigh.

Two fingers extended, then curled into his palm.

We'd established this instruction months ago: approach this person, assess potential.

"Professor Bishop recognized something in my work that others missed," I said carefully. "A particular vision that aligned with his own artistic investigations."

"Clearly more than just artistic alignment," she observed with sharp eyes that missed nothing. "You've moved into his home, I understand? Quite a rapid progression from student to... partner."

The art world thrived on gossip, and our relationship had provided plenty.

The distinguished professor and his much younger protégé lived together, created together, appeared everywhere as a unit rather than separate entities.

Speculation ranged from a calculated career move to a genuine artistic partnership, with plenty of salacious theories in between.

None came close to the truth.

"The right connection accelerates artistic development," I replied, offering nothing concrete. "Professor Bishop and I share complementary approaches to creation."

She smiled knowingly, unconvinced by my careful phrasing. "Well, whatever the nature of your... collaboration, the results speak for themselves. Extraordinary work for someone so young."

I thanked her again and excused myself, moving through the crowd toward the small alcove where my more experimental pieces hung.

These incorporated techniques neither Ezra nor I had attempted before, pushing boundaries in ways that excited us both.

The third piece in the series contained elements from my early experiments with bone ash compounds.

The translucent layers created a distinctive pearlescent glow.

The irony amused me. My first tentative steps with these controversial materials had evolved into confident mastery.

A man in a charcoal suit studied one of these pieces intently.

Something in his posture caught my attention.

He leaned slightly to one side. His head tilted as if trying to decipher a code rather than appreciate art.

Before I could approach him, arms slipped around my waist from behind.

Familiar cologne surrounded me as Ezra's chest pressed against my back.

"You're the talk of the evening," he murmured against my ear. "Everyone wants to know how my quiet student created something so revolutionary."

The man in the charcoal suit caught Ezra's gaze, nodded politely, and disappeared into the crowd.

I leaned into Ezra slightly. "Did you tell them I had excellent guidance?"

His lips brushed my temple in a gesture not quite a kiss but intimate enough to draw eyes. "I told them you had vision. The rest was already there, waiting to be uncovered."

We stood together, studying the smaller experimental pieces. His fingers traced patterns against my hip and found the marks he'd left on my skin last night. He pressed hard enough to make me inhale sharply.

"The bone ash mixture in the center panel," he observed quietly. "You modified my formula."

"Added calcium phosphate and adjusted the pH," I confirmed. "Creates better light refraction while maintaining structural integrity."

"You've truly made the technique your own."

We moved through the gallery. Ezra's hand remained at the small of my back as we spoke with critics and collectors.

I found myself reaching repeatedly for comfort that wasn't there, my maimed hand seeking the moth's soft texture, finding only empty air.

The phantom sensation of velvet against my skin intensified my awareness of being exposed, on display.

The gallery director approached. Her silver hair formed into an elegant chignon. She wore an unusual brooch that caught my attention immediately. The delicate silver piece appeared to contain ivory inlay.

"That's a beautiful piece," I commented, nodding toward her brooch.

"Oh, this? A gift from Ezra years ago." She touched it fondly, preening slightly under my attention. "One of his earlier experiments in mixed media, he called it."

She traced the ivory-like inlay with her manicured finger, completely unaware of what she was actually touching. "Everyone asks about it. I've had collectors offer obscene amounts to acquire it."

Ezra's smile remained perfectly polished, but I recognized the dark amusement in his eyes.

The "ivory" wasn't ivory at all, but bone harvested from one of his early subjects.

This woman wore someone's remains as jewelry, completely unaware.

She'd walked around for years with part of one of Ezra's victims pinned to her chest, proudly displaying it at every gallery opening.

My cock hardened immediately at the thought, the rush of arousal catching me off guard.

"Micah, darling, the Times critic wants a statement about your process," she continued. "Come charm him, won't you?"

Ezra leaned close to me. "Every person here wishes they could touch what belongs to me," he breathed against my ear, too low for anyone else to hear. "Tonight I'll remind you why none of them ever will."

"Yes, Daddy,” I whispered back, light-headed.

His pupils dilated. Hunger flashed across his features before he regained control. "Good boy. Now go be brilliant."

The rest of the evening passed in a blur of introductions, explanations, and carefully crafted statements about my artistic vision.

Critics praised the emotional depth of my work.

Collectors inquired about prices and availability.

Fellow artists studied my techniques with envy.

Through it all, Ezra remained a constant presence, sometimes beside me, sometimes across the room, but always connected by invisible threads only we could feel.