Page 6 of These Hallowed Bones (Bloody Desires #3)

"The gift of true vision," he said, his hand rising to hover near my face, not quite touching, but close enough that I could feel the heat of his skin.

"Most people move through life with a veil between themselves and reality.

They see what they expect to see, what they've been taught to see.

But a few, a rare few, perceive what exists beneath the surface. "

His fingers finally made contact, tracing the curve of my jaw with a touch so light it might have been imagined. "You see it, don't you? The beauty in what others call horror. The truth behind the masks everyone wears."

I remained perfectly still, afraid that any movement might break the spell of this moment. "Sometimes. But only glimpses."

"I can help you see more clearly," he said, his thumb brushing lightly across my lower lip.

I had the strangest urge to draw his thumb between my lips and taste him.

"I can show you how to embrace what you've been taught to fear.

" He stepped back suddenly, breaking the contact, leaving me slightly dizzy from the intensity of the exchange.

"But first, you must experience both sides of the artistic relationship.

You've mastered creation, but you've never truly understood what it means to be the subject.

The vulnerability required, the surrender. "

He prepared his materials, setting out charcoals and a large sketchpad.

"You want to draw me," I said.

"Yes. But not as you present yourself to the world. Not as the careful construction you show your professors, your peers, your therapists." His eyes flicked up to meet mine. "I want to draw you as you truly are. As God sees you."

"You mean..."

"Nude," he confirmed. "But the nakedness of the body is secondary. What I seek is the nakedness of the spirit beneath."

My shoulders stiffened as memories flooded my conscious mind. The years of conversion therapy, the exhausting prayer sessions, the fasting until I was too weak to stand… The exorcism when I was sixteen had left scars that weren't visible but cut deeper than any physical wound.

"I... I'm not sure that's appropriate," I stammered, backing away slightly. "We could work with clothed figures, or perhaps—"

"Micah," Ezra interrupted, his voice gentle yet firm. "What you're feeling right now is precisely what holds your art captive. That fear, that shame, wasn't born in you. It was placed there by others who feared what they didn't understand."

He stepped closer, and I fought the urge to lean into him. "Who told you your body was something to be ashamed of? Who convinced you that being seen was sinful?"

I tried to swallow again, but my throat was raw, like I’d been eating sandpaper. “How did you know?”

"It's written in how you carry yourself," Ezra said, answering my unspoken question.

"The way you flinch from certain forms of contact.

The religious iconography in your work, always depicted in states of torment or ruination.

" His voice softened. "Dear boy, they broke something in you, didn't they?

Told you that your very nature was a sin. "

I couldn't speak, even if I’d known what to say. He was right. It was as if he could see straight through me, into my very marrow, where I’d buried those terrible memories.

"What if they were wrong?" he continued, moving around me in a slow circle. "What if what they called sin was simply truth they were too frightened to face? What if your darkness isn't corruption but clarity?"

I shook my head, trying to clear it of his words. "If the other faculty found out—"

"But they're not here," Ezra said, coming to stand directly before me.

"There's only you and me and the truth of who you are beneath all those layers of imposed shame.

The artist in you knows that this boundary must be crossed if you're ever to create with complete honesty.

Embrace that part of you. Embrace the fear. "

He gestured to a large screen, one meant to provide privacy while undressing.

I stared at it for a moment, then took a deep breath, centering myself.

This was just an artistic exercise. Figure drawing was standard practice in any art curriculum.

Yet there was nothing standard about this moment, about the way my heart hammered against my ribs or the strange mixture of fear and anticipation making my blood run hot and thick to places it shouldn’t.

Still, how could I resist when I knew he was right?

I stepped behind the screen and undressed with shaky hands.

When I stepped out, Ezra was standing at an easel, arranging charcoal and paper. He looked up briefly, and I warred with myself about whether to reach down and cover myself. But he looked away before I ever reached a conclusion.

"Stand here," he said, indicating a spot where the studio lighting would cast dramatic shadows. "Turn slightly to your right. Chin up."

I followed his directions, hyperconscious of my nakedness, of the cool air against my skin, of Ezra's eyes studying me. The shadow inside me stirred restlessly, both shrinking from this exposure and somehow reaching toward it, recognizing something essential.

"Arms at your sides," he instructed, moving around me, adjusting my position with light touches that left trails of heat on my skin.

His fingers pressed against my shoulder, turning me fractionally.

"Head tilted just so." His hand cupped my jaw, adjusting the angle with a gentle pressure that was both impersonal and intimate.

My heart raced as his fingers slid over skin no other man was supposed to touch.

All the shame buried in me clawed its way to the surface, but my body didn’t get the memo.

My face flushed as I realized with horror that I was getting hard, and without the protection of my clothes, I had no way to hide it.

I tried to twist away, but Ezra wouldn’t let me.

His eyes dropped, and I reached to cover myself.

“I-I’m sorry,” I stammered. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. It’s—”

“My dear boy,” Ezra said, gently touching my wrists. “There’s nothing wrong with you, and you have no need to be sorry for anything. Even the Godly say the body is a temple. And temples are where sinners go to worship, are they not?”

“I…Yes, that…that makes sense.”

“God made Adam and called it wonderful,” he said. “And you are made in His image. Why would you hide that from me? From art? That’s why we’re here, Micah. Don't hide it, Micah. Show me."

Slowly, I relaxed and let him pull my arms away.

I remained silent, allowing him to position me like a doll, each touch both impersonal and strangely intimate. When he was satisfied, he returned to his easel and began to draw.

"Most artists never truly understand what they ask of their models," he said, his voice low and focused as his hand moved across the paper.

"They see the human form as an object, a technical challenge to be mastered.

They never consider the experience of being seen so completely, of surrendering to another's vision.

" His eyes met mine briefly before returning to his work.

"That's what separates true artists from mere technicians, Micah.

The capacity to understand both sides of the creation. "

I stood motionless, my limbs growing stiff from maintaining the pose, yet strangely energized by the intensity of his focus.

Once he started drawing, I thought the attention or the uncomfortable position might be enough to shut down my strange arousal, but every time his eyes flicked up to look at me, my cock hardened further.

There was something transformative about being seen this way, about allowing another person to perceive me without the armor of clothing, expression, or movement.

I felt simultaneously exposed and liberated, as if the very act of standing naked before Ezra somehow released me from the constant effort of concealment.

"Tell me about your mother," he said suddenly, the request so unexpected it nearly broke my concentration.

"What?" I managed, careful not to move from the position he'd arranged.

"Your mother," he repeated, his eyes flicking up to meet mine before returning to his work. "The one who hanged herself when you were eight. The one you watched for three days before telling anyone."

Ice flooded my veins. "How do you..." My voice trailed off, the question unnecessary. He had researched me, obviously, found the news articles, perhaps even the police reports.

He set down his charcoal for a moment. "What fascinated you most? During those three days."

"The way she changed," I said, my voice sounding distant to my own ears. "Hour by hour. The way light fell differently across her skin as time passed. The colors that appeared, unlike anything I'd seen before."

Ezra nodded, as if I'd confirmed something important. "You weren't traumatized. You were transfixed. It wasn't grief that kept you silent, but fascination."

My cheeks burned as his eyes drifted downward. “Do you find the thought of death arousing, Micah?”

“No,” I answered quickly, then hesitated before changing my answer.

“Maybe.” Then, even quicker, “It’s not death.

Not exactly. But my mother… She wasn’t a kind woman.

I always felt so powerless when she was hitting me.

But when she was hanging there, she was the one who was helpless.

I don’t find that idea particularly satisfying in a sexual way so much as… . the feeling.”

“You like feeling powerful,” he said flatly.

The shadow inside me squirmed. “Who doesn’t?”

“Plenty of people,” he said and turned back to his work.

“But there’s just as much power in surrender, Micah, a fact that you’re learning here tonight.

Tonight, I’ve made you powerless. You chose to give up the societal constructs that let you hide the truth of who you are, and I captured it in charcoal and canvas.

You chose surrender, because some part of you craves that sort of recognition.

There’s no shame in being who you are, dear boy. Only in hiding it from yourself.”

I couldn't speak, could only stand there, naked and seen in ways I'd never experienced before. Ezra continued to draw, his hand moving in sure, confident strokes across the paper. Time blurred, minutes or hours passing as I remained motionless.

He was right. At any point, I could break the pose. I could cover myself or walk back behind the screen. I could put my clothes back on and leave. There was no gun to my head. I’d chosen this, chosen surrender. Chosen him.

But what did that mean?

When he finally set down his charcoal and stepped back from the easel, I felt disoriented, as if awakening from a trance. My muscles ached from stillness, yet I felt strangely invigorated, almost euphoric.

"You can move now," he said, wiping his hands on a cloth.

I rolled my shoulders and shook out my hands. "May I see?" I asked, gesturing toward the easel.

He considered for a moment, then nodded. "Come look."

I approached the easel, acutely aware of my continued nakedness but no longer self-consciousness. There was no point. He’d already seen me at my most vulnerable and nothing bad had happened. No fire. No floods. No damnation. There was just a drawing.

The portrait was both recognizably me and somehow more than me, rendered with a technical mastery that captured not just my physical form but something beneath the skin, something I recognized with a jolt of both fear and wonder.

In the shading around my eyes, in the set of my mouth, in the tension visible beneath the surface of my skin, he'd somehow revealed the shadow that lived inside me. The darkness that I'd always feared was visible, tangible in the play of charcoal against paper.

"That's..."

"You," Ezra said simply, standing close beside me. "Not as you pretend to be, but as you are."

I stared at the drawing, transfixed by the stranger who was unmistakably me, yet more honest than any mirror had ever shown. In Ezra's rendering, the darkness wasn't a flaw to be hidden or controlled, but an integral part of my being.

His fingers moved slightly, tracing the knobs of my spine with a touch so light it might have been imagined. "How do you feel?"

"Exposed," I whispered. "But also... free."

His lips curved into that almost-smile. "Exactly. Now you begin to understand."

He moved away suddenly. "Come here," he said, picking up the canvas. He laid it flat on the steel table.

I approached the table, still naked, though the awareness of my nudity had transformed from discomfort to a strange sense of power.

Ezra held out a box of matches to me, his expression unreadable. "Destroy it."

I stared at him in confusion. "What?"

"The drawing. Destroy it." His eyes held mine, challenging. "You destroy your own work, attacking it when it comes too close to revealing what lives inside you. Now I want you to destroy my work, my vision of you."

I took the matches with unsteady hands, looking down at the portrait. It was masterful, possibly the most honest depiction of me that had ever existed. The thought of reducing it to ash filled me with a strange reluctance.

"Why?" I asked, echoing my earlier question.

"Because destruction can be a form of preservation," he replied. "Because it can be surrender."

As I hesitated, he stepped closer, his presence overwhelming.

"Do you know what happens to a butterfly that never leaves its chrysalis?

It dies, trapped in the very shell meant to protect its transformation.

Your fear has become your chrysalis, Micah.

It once protected you, but now it confines you.

"His hand covered mine, guiding the matchbox open. "Let it go."

I struck a match and lifted it, casting Ezra's features in dramatic shadow. For a moment, I hesitated, the fire trembling between my fingers. Then I lowered the flame to the corner of the drawing.

The canvas caught quickly, and the fire spread. The drawing burned, but the feeling remained. I was free from a cage of my own making.

When only ashes remained on the metal surface of the table, Ezra’s hand curled around the nape of my neck. “How do you feel now?”

“Awake,” I said slowly. “Like all this time, I’ve been…sleepwalking.

"Good boy," he said. "Now you're ready to begin."