I moved to the indicated table, studying the area. A paper coffee cup lay discarded in a nearby trash bin, lid cracked, contents long since cleaned up. But on the floor, partially hidden beneath the table's base, lay two items that confirmed my worst fears: Micah's phone, dark and silent, and beside it, his moth toy, its soft blue glow pulsing weakly like a distress signal.
My hands shook as I retrieved both items. A cold wave of panic surged through me, momentarily paralyzing my lungs. In all our time together, I had never once seen him willingly separated from either. The phone connected him to me, and the moth... the moth was his comfort when I wasn't there to provide it. My chest constricted painfully, nipples aching. Somewhere, my boy was afraid, and I couldn't offer the comfort of my body, the security of nursing at my chest while I stroked his hair and held him safe.
Someone had taken him, but they'd underestimated what they were stealing. My boy wasn't some helpless victim waiting for rescue. He was a predator who'd learned to hunt from the best teacher available.
Poor bastard probably thought he'd caught a trained pet.
"This friend," I said, returning to the counter as fragments of possibility coalesced into terrible certainty. "Did you see what kind of car he was driving?"
"Black sedan. Really nice. I noticed because my boyfriend's into cars." Sarah's expression had shifted to worry. "Is everything okay? Should I call the police?"
"No need," I replied, forcing my features into reassuring calm. "I'm sure there's a reasonable explanation."
But there wasn't. Only one person in the art world had shown interest in Micah beyond professional courtesy. Only one man had looked at my boy like prey while wearing the mask of sophisticated charm.
Julian Frost.
I drove to my office at the college in a blur of mounting rage and calculations. There, I intended to track down Julian’s business card. Julian's presumption, his fundamental misunderstanding of what he'd stolen, demanded correction. The fool thought he'd captured something fragile and breakable when he'd actually caged a creature capable of reducing men to meat.
I clutched the moth to my chest with one hand, its soft velvet wings against my skin. The toy pulsed faintly, as if sensing its owner's distress from miles away. In that moment, a visceral ache spread through my chest, my nipples throbbing with the absence of Micah's mouth. He would be frightened, disoriented. Seeking comfort only I could provide. The thought sent a wave of possessive rage through my blood that threatened to overwhelm rational thought.
My boy is frightened, and I can't comfort him.
The realization sliced deeper than scalpel or bone saw—clean, irreversible. More than the violation of someone touching what was mine, more than the theft of my masterpiece, what truly enraged me was knowing Micah would seek comfort in the onlyway he truly trusted and find only emptiness. No Daddy to nurse from, no reassuring heartbeat beneath his ear, no hand stroking his hair as he surrendered to the peace only I could provide.
In my office, I tore through my desk, searching for Julian’s business card. I knew I had one with his personal number on it somewhere, but I couldn’t find it. Frustrated, I sank into my chair and got to work on my laptop, researching Julian Frost more thoroughly than I'd ever bothered before. Gallery connections, financial records, property holdings. The man who'd taken my boy was about to discover exactly what he'd stolen.
What emerged painted a picture that should have been obvious from the beginning. Julian Frost collected more than art. I found police reports from three different cities, carefully buried but accessible to someone with my resources. The reports detailed missing persons cases involving young men who'd caught Julian's attention at gallery openings. Each case was unconnected, written off as voluntary disappearances.
But I recognized the pattern because I understood predatory behavior intimately. Julian was a crude collector, valuing quantity over quality, grabbing pretty things without understanding their true nature. Everything I despised about lesser killers who confused accumulation with artistry.
The realization sent something primitive and vicious surging through my bloodstream. Someone had dared touch what belonged to me, had mistaken my carefully cultivated masterpiece for common prey. Julian thought he understood what he was dealing with, but he'd grabbed a lion and mistaken it for a kitten.
My cell phone rang as I placed the moth on my desk. Blocked number.
I answered it. “Where is he?”
"Professor Bishop," Julian's voice oozed false courtesy through the speaker. "I trust you're having a pleasant morning."
"If you’ve harmed one hair on his head—”
"Relax, professor. Your boy’s safe and sound. For now." Julian's chuckle held no warmth. "Such a devoted boy you've trained. So eager to please, so concerned about disappointing his Daddy. It's almost touching."
Trained. As if Micah was some obedient pet rather than a partner who'd evolved beyond my wildest expectations. Julian's fundamental misunderstanding would be his downfall. And his use of that sacred word, that title Micah whispered against my skin while nursing at my chest, while offering himself completely to me... Hearing it from Julian's mouth was sacrilege.
"You’ve made a grave mistake."
"Now, now. No need for threats between civilized men. Though I must say, your training methods are quite... thorough. The things he's willing to do for Daddy's approval are fascinating to observe."
Rage boiled behind my eyes, white-hot and consuming. The thought of Julian's pathetic hands touching what was mine, of this crude imposter putting his fingers on skin I had marked, claimed, worshipped... My vision went red around the edges. How dare this bottom-feeding collector think he could handle my masterpiece? How dare he touch what he was too stupid to understand?
But beneath the fury, dark satisfaction bloomed. Julian had no idea what he was observing. He thought he'd captured some broken boy desperate for validation when he'd actually grabbed a predator who'd learned to hunt from me. Micah's submission wasn't weakness but choice, his devotion earned through recognition rather than manipulation. The finger joint he'd sacrificed to our art proved his commitment more eloquently than any words.
This amateur had stolen a masterpiece and was treating it like a trinket. Worse still, he was wasting Micah's potential, reducing art to a commodity. The thought made my jaw clench. Micah would offer himself to me willingly, would let me transform him into something transcendent because I understood his true nature. But Julian? Julian would squander everything beautiful about him, use him like any common victim.
I hope you try to break him, I thought viciously.I hope you push him just far enough to see what lives beneath that beautiful face. And when he shows you his claws, I'll be there to help dispose of what's left.
"What do you want?" The words emerged as a growl.
