Page 75 of These Hallowed Bones

"It's called survival, sweet boy," he replied while carefully withdrawing from me. "The pleasures of our private life alongside the necessary vigilance."

After cleaning up, we settled in his study, our study. Ezra's laptop sat open to art review websites while I curled against his side, my head resting on his shoulder. The moth rested in my lap, its soft glow illuminating the keyboard as I squeezed it gently. The first review appeared shortly before midnight, glowing praise for my "revolutionary techniques" and "profound emotional depth." More followed. Each highlighted different aspects of the exhibition while universally acknowledging the emergence of an important new voice in contemporary art.

"They love you," Ezra observed while scrolling through the fourth consecutive positive review. "Just as I knew they would."

"They don't know me," I countered and traced patterns on his chest where my blood had dried in abstract whorls. "Not really. They know the mask I wear for them. The carefully constructed artistic persona."

His fingers traced the ring on my left hand, the metal warmed now by my skin. "And that's how it will stay. Our secret. Our truth."

"Our choice," I added and felt the smooth metal where our blood had dried into the microscopic crevices of the platinum.

We abandoned the reviews and started planning our future. More exhibitions. More hunts. More transformations of the mundane into the transcendent. A shared life built on perfect understanding of each other's darkness.

"What do you think about Italy next summer?" Ezra asked. His fingers played with the latest bite mark on my shoulder. "There's a residency program in Florence I've been invited to join. Three months of teaching and creating. You could come as my husband."

The casual use of "husband" sent warmth cascading through me. "Florence sounds perfect."

"I've already mapped potential hunting grounds," he murmured, pulling a small notebook from the bedside drawer. He opened it to reveal meticulous notes and architectural sketches.

I traced the detailed diagrams with my maimed hand, the stump of my little finger catching slightly on the paper. "You've been planning this for a while."

"Since I saw your first independent work," he admitted. "I knew then we'd need to expand our canvas beyond this city." His finger tapped the circled area on the map. "The art students near the Accademia tend to wander alone at night, sketching the old buildings. No one notices when one disappears."

"So many beautiful bone structures," I agreed, already imagining the possibilities. "Italian cheekbones will create extraordinary luminosity in the right medium."

"Not to mention all those devout Catholics with their guilt complexes," Ezra added. "Perfect psychological profiles for your religious transformation series."

"We'll need to establish a proper workspace there," I mused. "Somewhere private, with good ventilation and drainage."

"Already arranged," he replied and pressed a kiss to my temple. "A converted wine cellar beneath our apartment. Stone walls, original floor drains intact. The previous owner was a taxidermist."

The shadow inside me stirred pleasantly at the prospect. Not fighting for escape anymore, but fully integrated into who I was, who we were together.

As midnight passed and a new day began, we remained entwined together, planning our future in soft voices. Italy next summer. Then perhaps Japan after that, where Ezra knew a private collector who specialized in unusual artistic materials. Each destination offered new inspiration, new techniques, new subjects to transform.

"I want to watch you work in Florence," Ezra murmured. His voice roughened with renewed desire. "Want to see you select your first Italian subject. Want to guide your hand as you make that first cut into Mediterranean flesh."

"I want you to help me open them," I replied and felt his cock harden against my thigh. "Want to create something so beautiful together that no one would ever guess its origins."

"My perfect, bloodthirsty boy," he groaned and pulled me closer. "My gorgeous monster."

Through the window, dawn broke across the sky. The moth glowed softly in my lap, illuminating our blood-marked skin in gentle blue light. I traced the ring on my finger. The cut on my thigh throbbed pleasantly, the latest mark in the constellation of scars that mapped Ezra's ownership across my body. Each one a promise, a memory, a covenant written in flesh.

"Florence next," I whispered, leaning against his chest.

Ezra's reflection appeared behind mine in the window glass, his eyes meeting mine with a promise no wedding vow could capture. In the distance, the sun continued its rise, oblivious to the beautiful monsters watching its ascent, planning their next masterpiece.