Page 9 of These Hallowed Bones (Bloody Desires #3)

His eyes widened. "You're...?"

"Interested exclusively in men," I confirmed. "Though I've never felt the need to apply labels. Desire simply is. Like gravity, like time, a fundamental force rather than a moral choice."

The relief that washed over his features was palpable, years of isolation momentarily lifted by the simple recognition of shared experience.

Yet beneath that relief, I noted a new awareness in his gaze as it moved over me, an assessment that hadn't been present before, or perhaps had been rigorously suppressed.

"You never faced the same... difficulties? With family, with religion?" he asked, clearly trying to reconcile my confident self-acceptance with his own tormented history.

"My parents were more concerned with intelligence than sexuality," I explained.

"Academic achievement was the only measure that mattered in our household.

As for religion..." I shrugged slightly.

"Faith, like art, requires critical examination to be meaningful.

Those who accept dogma without question understand neither God nor themselves. "

He nodded. "I've never talked about this with anyone," he admitted. "Not openly."

"I'm honored by your trust," I said, and meant it, though not perhaps in the way he might interpret. Trust was essential to what would come next, the foundation upon which dependency could be built. "And I think this calls for something stronger than scotch, don't you?"

I ordered two brandies to mark the moment. When the drinks arrived, I raised my glass in a toast. "To authenticity, the only virtue that matters."

"To authenticity," he echoed.

We continued our observations for another hour, the alcohol loosening Micah's inhibitions, allowing more of his natural perceptiveness to emerge.

His eye was instinctively drawn to vulnerability, to isolation, the predator's instinct wrapped in artistic sensitivity.

By the time we decided to leave, he was more relaxed in my presence than I'd yet seen him, the careful distance he maintained noticeably diminished.

"I need to use the restroom before we leave," I said, rising from the booth. "Would you mind settling the tab? I'll meet you outside."

"Of course," he agreed readily, reaching for his wallet.

I made my way through the bar, pausing briefly in the corridor that led to the restrooms to observe him unnoticed.

He settled the bill with a generous tip, his movements more fluid than usual, animated by alcohol and the liberation of confession.

The potential I'd sensed in him was developing beautifully.

Instead of entering the bathroom, I slipped out the side exit into the parking lot.

The night air was cool against my skin after the warmth of the bar, carrying the scent of pine from the surrounding forest. Micah's car was easy to identify—an aging Honda Civic with a Ravencrest Institute parking sticker on the rear window.

I glanced around the dimly lit lot, then retrieved a small multi-tool from my jacket pocket. I opened the door and disconnected a single rubber hose—just enough to stall the engine.

I closed the hood silently and returned to the bar through the same side door, stopping briefly in the restroom to wash any trace of engine grease from my hands.

The entire operation had taken less than two minutes, a minor sabotage that would create the perfect opportunity to deepen my access to Micah's life.

When I exited the building through the main door, he was waiting beside his car, breath visible as vapor in the cool night air.

"Productive evening," I observed, approaching with unhurried steps. "You have a natural talent for observation."

"It's strange," he admitted, hands tucked into his pockets against the chill. "Once you start looking for vulnerability, you see it everywhere."

"Because it's the one universal human quality," I replied, stopping a few feet from him. "Everyone carries wounds, fears, hungers they try to conceal. The artist's gift, or perhaps curse, is the ability to perceive what others hide."

"Is that what you see when you look at me, Ezra?"

I studied him in the dim light of the parking lot. "I see potential. Most people are merely canvases painted by others, by society, by religion, by family. But you, Micah... you're ready to become the artist of your own existence."

The words landed as intended, his expression softening with a mixture of hope and uncertainty. "Even if what I might create is... disturbing?"

"Especially then," I assured him. "Comfort never created anything of value. Only through disruption do we access truth." I nodded toward his car. "Drive safely. The roads can be treacherous out here after dark."

"I will," he promised, turning toward his vehicle. "Thank you for tonight. For everything."

I waited beside my own car, knowing what would come next. Micah slid into the driver's seat, and I heard the engine turn over once, twice, and then catch with a rough stutter before dying completely. He tried again with the same result—a momentary start followed by failure.

“Car trouble?”

"The damn thing won’t start. Dammit, and I don’t know the first thing about cars."

"Let me take a look," I offered, moving toward the hood. "Try it again."

He returned to the driver's seat, turning the key as I leaned over the engine compartment. The motor caught briefly, coughed, then fell silent. I straightened, shaking my head.

"Could be several things," I said thoughtfully. "Fuel pump, ignition system... Hard to diagnose properly in this light."

Micah glanced around the dimly lit parking lot, then at his watch. "It's after midnight. I doubt any mechanics are open."

"None that I'd trust," I agreed. "We could call a tow truck, but at this hour, the cost would be substantial. And you'd still need somewhere to stay until morning."

I allowed the problem to hang in the air between us, watching him work through the limited options.

"I could get an Uber back to my apartment," he suggested half-heartedly.

"From here? It would cost a small fortune," I pointed out. "And you'd still need to arrange transportation back tomorrow to deal with the car."

I paused, as if the thought were just occurring to me. "My place is only fifteen minutes from here. You're welcome to stay in my guest room tonight. We can come back in the morning when it's light and see if it's something simple enough to fix, or arrange a tow to a reputable mechanic."

The tension on his face eased slightly. "I don't want to impose..."

"It's no imposition," I assured him. "I'd feel terrible leaving you stranded, especially after I suggested this outing."

He hesitated, then nodded. "If you're sure it's not too much trouble."

"None at all," I said, watching as he locked his vehicle. "I imagine you could use a proper coffee after those drinks, anyway. I make excellent espresso."

As I opened the passenger door for him, I caught the momentary hesitation in his eyes, the last feeble protest of his conditioning against what his body clearly desired. Then he slipped past me into the seat, his shoulder brushing against my chest in a contact that wasn't entirely accidental.

His scent filled my senses briefly: the fading notes of his morning cologne, the scotch on his breath, and beneath it all, the chemistry of anticipation.

I closed the door and circled to the driver’s side, allowing myself a small, private smile.

He was pliant now, softened by alcohol, stripped of armor, his instincts beginning to seek my approval instead of fearing it.

His defenses were crumbling more rapidly than I had dared hope.

As I slid behind the wheel and started the engine, I glanced at his profile illuminated in the soft dashboard lights.

The alcohol had relaxed his features, but there was something else there too—a vulnerability mixed with excitement.

He turned, catching me looking at him, and the silence vibrated with possibilities.

"Ready?" I asked, the word carrying weight beyond its simple meaning.

He nodded. "Ready."