The croissants he'd never taste. The gesture that had led to my capture. The note on his nightstand promising to return soon.
The scent of lavender from the pastries followed me into unconsciousness, transforming from bakery sweetness to the sharp chemical smell of preservation fluid. The same scent that had filled our workshop as we transformed our subjects. Now I was the one being preserved, transported, transformed against my will.
Good boy, Julian had called me. But that phrase belonged to someone else. That was Daddy's to give, not Julian's to steal.
As consciousness faded, one final thought pierced the chemical haze: Ezra was going to tear Julian apart for this.
Ezra
The bed was emptywhen I woke, still warm where Micah's body had pressed against mine through the night. I reached automatically for him before my brain registered his absence. The indent of his head remained on the pillow beside me.
Sunlight flooded the bedroom, overexposed and intrusive, like a photographer's flash on raw film. I checked the time: 9:47 AM. Later than I'd slept in months, but considering we'd worked until nearly four disposing of remains and properly preserving harvested materials, the extra rest made sense.
A piece of cream-colored paper on the nightstand caught my attention. My expensive stationery, but Micah's careful handwriting across its surface, the letters slightly uneven where his maimed hand had struggled to maintain control:
Gone to bring you something special. Back soon. Your boy, M.
A small heart accompanied his initial, traced with the awkward grip his amputated finger had forced him to adapt. The gesture should have seemed juvenile, but instead, it sent warmth spreading through my chest. He'd thought of me while I slept. Wanted to surprise me. The consideration struck me as both touching and unnecessary. His presence was gift enough.
Guilt twisted in my stomach as I studied the note. Last night, after our shared triumph in the studio, I'd been distant. Not deliberately, but something had shifted inside me while watching him work. His innovation, his independence, his evolution beyond my careful design. Pride warred with an unfamiliar anxiety I couldn't name or control.
My nipples ached, raw and tender from his desperate nursing after our artistic consummation. The sensation usually brought satisfaction, knowing my body provided what my boy needed most. Now it served as a physical reminder of my failure to reciprocate his vulnerability.
Micah deserved better than my conflicted response to his growth. He'd transformed from a traumatized student to an accomplished artist in months, exceeding every expectation while maintaining the core vulnerability that made him precious to me. His questions about my reaction had been perceptive, cutting straight to truths I hadn't wanted to acknowledge.
You're afraid. Not of losing control of your student. Of losing something more.
Smart boy. Too smart sometimes.
I rose from bed and moved through my morning routine, expecting any moment to hear his key in the front door, his voice calling my name. Coffee brewed while I showered. I dressed in casual clothes, anticipating spending the day reviewing last night's documentation with him, planning our next project together.
But the house remained silent.
10:30 came and went. Then 11:00. My coffee grew cold as unease crept through me like morning fog. If he'd gone to Le Petit Jardin for those croissants he knew I loved, that was fifteen minutes away, twenty if traffic was particularly bad. Even accounting for the line, my boy should have returned by now.
I tried his phone. Straight to voicemail.
The first tendrils of genuine concern sprouted as I scrolled through my contacts. Perhaps he'd encountered an old classmate, gotten caught up in conversation. Perhaps his car had broken down again, and he was arranging a tow. Reasonable explanations existed.
But Micah always answered his phone for me. Always.
By noon, concern had crystallized into alarm. I drove toward the coffee shop, hands tight on the steering wheel as scenarios played through my mind. Not fear for his safety, since my boy could handle himself better than most suspected, but the growing certainty that something had interrupted his plans. Someone had interfered.
Le Petit Jardin occupied its usual corner, morning rush was long over, only a few patrons were scattered among the tables near the windows. I pushed through the glass doors into the warm embrace of coffee and pastry scents, scanning for any sign of Micah.
"Excuse me." I approached the young woman behind the counter, her name tag reading 'Sarah.' "I'm looking for someone who was here earlier this morning. Dark hair, about this tall?" I gestured to indicate Micah's height. "He would have ordered lavender honey croissants."
Recognition flashed across her features. "Oh yeah, the guy with the moth plushie who spilled his coffee. Is he okay? He seemed really out of it when his friend helped him to the car."
Ice flooded my veins. "Friend?"
"Older guy, well-dressed. Said the customer wasn't feeling well, helped him outside." She frowned, concern creeping into her voice. "I wondered if maybe he was diabetic or something. He looked pale, kind of... droopy?"
Drugged. Someone had drugged my boy in a public space, in broad daylight, with enough confidence to walk him out past witnesses. The audacity sent rage spearing through my chest.
"What did this friend look like?" My voice stayed level despite the fury building in my throat.
"Tall, maybe fifty? Dark hair with some gray. Expensive coat. Really polite." She pointed towards the far corner. "They were sitting over there when it happened."
