"Whatever comes next, I want to make you proud," he said sincerely. "I want to create something that honors what you've taught me."
My fingers traced the line of his jaw approvingly. "You will, sweet boy. When the exhibition concludes, your real education begins."
The promise hung between us, weighted with significance. Tomorrow would bring public recognition, the formal acknowledgment of our professional connection. But the true progression lay beyond. Micah's transformation from assistant to true accomplice, from student to artist in his own right.
Everything proceeded according to my design. As it always did.
Micah
Light shimmered through theRavenna Gallery's soaring glass ceiling, bouncing off champagne flutes and jewelry. The elegant crowd swirled through the exhibition space—women in designer dresses, men in tailored suits that whispered of old money. Their quiet murmurs and occasional gasps created a soundtrack as orchestrated as Ezra's paintings.
My suit fit perfectly, charcoal gray and cool against my skin, burgundy accents echoing Ezra's work. The specially commissioned cufflinks weighed heavy at my wrists, the tiny compartments containing microscopic fragments of both the pianist's metacarpals and my own severed finger joint. A private trophy hidden in plain sight.
Pride and terror warred within me. Pride at standing beside Ezra as his chosen protégé. Terror that someone might see through the performance, might glimpse the hunger thatlived beneath my carefully composed exterior. The weight of pretending to be just another promising young artist Ezra's willing accomplice pressed against my chest until breathing became a conscious effort.
I flexed my hand, the finger stump throbbing. I wished again for the comforting soft glow of my moth, but it would have been out of place here. Too revealing.
Ezra stood beside me, magnificent in his tailored black suit. His presence commanded attention without effort, drawing eyes throughout the room.
I watched him work the crowd, a master in his element. The public Ezra—charming, brilliant, respected—bore little resemblance to the predator who marked my body in private. Was it wrong to feel jealous that others received his attention, even in this diluted form? I wanted to press against him, claim him publicly as he had claimed me privately. The need to kneel at his feet, to show everyone who I truly belonged to, burned beneath my carefully maintained smile.
"Straighten your shoulders," Ezra murmured, his breath hot against my ear as we stood before the exhibition's centerpiece. His hand rested at the small of my back, fingers digging in slightly, sending lightning up my spine. "Remember who you are tonight."
The welts from yesterday's punishment throbbed beneath the wool of my pants. The fabric scraped over the tender skin, sending sparks of pain-pleasure up my spine. Fourteen days of sexual denial had transformed my nerves into exposed wires. My cock stirred at Ezra's slightest touch, my skin prickling when he approached. Even the brush of air from passing guests registered as stimulation.
"Exquisite work, Ezra." A tall woman approached, her silver hair swept into an elegant chignon. She smelled of expensive perfume and cigarettes. "The luminosity you've achieved inthe darkness defies conventional technique. I've studied it for twenty minutes and still can't determine your method."
"Margaret." Ezra inclined his head graciously. " Allow me to introduce Micah Salt, my new protégé. Micah, Margaret Holloway, chief curator at the Whitney."
Lines deepened around her mouth as she frowned slightly. I fought the urge to tuck my maimed hand behind my back, to hide the evidence of my devotion to our art.
"Your teacher speaks highly of your potential, Mr. Salt. Quite unprecedented, really. Ezra has never officially taken on a student before."
"The right vessel for knowledge appears rarely," Ezra replied, his fingers pressing firmer against my back. "Micah possesses unique perception."
My throat tightened. Pride surged through me alongside a darker, more electric thrill. She stood mere feet away, admiring textures created from human bone ash, praising techniques that would horrify her if discovered. My cock hardened. The power of our shared secret burned through my veins, more intoxicating than any drug.
"If your work demonstrates even a fraction of Professor Bishop's innovation, your future looks promising," Margaret continued, tapping manicured nails against her champagne flute. "Perhaps you'll show me your portfolio sometime."
"Micah is focusing exclusively on developing his technique under my guidance for the immediate future." Ezra slid his hand from my back to my elbow. "But I appreciate your interest in his development, Margaret."
The polite dismissal registered in her slight nod before she moved on, her silk dress swishing softly against the polished floor. Ezra guided me through the growing crowd toward the gallery's far corner, his stride purposeful, forcing me to quicken my pace to match his.
"She'd make an extraordinary subject," he whispered once we were beyond earshot, his lips brushing my ear. "The bone structure of her face contains architectural qualities I've rarely encountered. Her cheekbones would transform beautifully under my knife."
My stomach dropped, twisted, then fluttered upward. Not revulsion—God help me—but excitement. The shadow inside me stretched toward his words, hungry and eager.
"You're considering her for..." My voice cracked, throat suddenly dry. I swallowed hard, unable to complete the question aloud. Unconsciously, I brought my sleeve to my mouth, teeth grazing the fabric before I caught myself and lowered my hand.
"No." His eyes scanned the room, glacier-cold and calculating. His jaw flexed once as he assessed. "Unfortunately, her disappearance would generate unwanted attention."
The clinical assessment sent goosebumps racing across my skin. People milled around us, laughing, drinking, admiring his work, completely unaware they stood in the presence of a predator assessing potential prey.
Ezra’s fingers brushed the nape of my neck, slipping under my collar to touch bare skin. His thumbnail scraped lightly against my vertebrae, and my knees nearly buckled.
"Ezra Bishop, you magnificent bastard!" A booming voice cut through the ambient gallery noise. A tall man with a meticulously groomed beard approached, arms outstretched. His tailored emerald velvet jacket stood out boldly among the conservative suits. Gold rings glinted on several fingers. "Another triumph! The critics will be masturbating to these pieces for months!"
My skin crawled before I registered why. Something in his approach—the too-wide smile, the calculated exuberance—read as performance rather than genuine. Predatory.
