"And now you will," I whispered, deepening the cut, working my way down the side of his face. "You'll become our lesson in humility."
Blood welled up around the blade as I worked, following the contours of his face—down the temple, along the cheekbone, under the jaw. Ezra stood opposite me, mirroring my movements on the other side, our blades moving and meeting with perfect symmetry.
"Look at his eyes," Ezra murmured as we worked. "He finally understands."
Julian's gaze darted frantically between us, the realization sinking in that he wasn't just being killed. He was being transformed, becoming the very thing he'd failed to understand. The ultimate irony, the final lesson.
Working together, we carefully separated skin from fascia, the layers peeling back with wet, sucking sounds. Julian's screams dissolved into gurgles as we methodically removed his face, exposing muscle, nerves, and blood vessels beneath.
"The student becomes the teacher," I said, working the blade under his cheek with the same care I'd once used to scrape away the painted face of Christ. "You wanted to understand our art? Now you're part of it."
With a final, careful incision, we lifted the face away—a mask of skin and features, still recognizable despite the blood andtrauma. Julian lay beneath, faceless yet alive, his chest rising and falling in shallow, panicked breaths.
"The void beneath perception," Ezra observed, holding the removed face up to the light, studying it as one might a rare specimen. "Just as you revealed in your triptych."
I laid Julian's face carefully on a metal tray. "Not the holy, but the profane. Not divinity, but voyeurism. Same technique, different subject."
Julian made wet, desperate sounds, his exposed facial muscles twitching in grotesque patterns as he tried to form words without lips or cheeks.
"Your face was your lie," I told him as he struggled. "The mask you wore while you hunted. Now everyone will see what you truly are."
He croaked out a final word. “Yes,” perhaps, or even “Amen.” I couldn’t be sure which. But after, Julian's eyes clouded as he slipped away, his life—what little meaning it had—fading into obscurity.
But then Ezra’s eyes found mine across Julian's cooling body, and something else entirely took hold. The adrenaline, the violence, the desperate relief that we'd survived this threat all crystallized into raw need.
For a long moment, we just stared at each other, chests heaving, blood drying on our skin. The air between us charged with something electric and primal.
Ezra pressed me against the blood-spattered wall and claimed my mouth hungrily.
"Mine," he growled against my lips, his bloody hands fisting in my hair hard enough to make me gasp. "My boy. My monster. My perfect, deadly creation."
"My Daddy," I replied. “My teacher. My god.”
His mouth moved to my throat, teeth sinking in deep enough to break skin. I cried out as he marked me, warm blood tricklingdown my neck to mix with Julian's spray across my shirt. The pain sent electricity straight to my cock, making me hard.
"He tried to poison you against me," Ezra snarled, biting harder, leaving deep impressions in my flesh. "Make you doubt what we have."
"Never." I gasped, head thrown back against the concrete. "I know exactly what you are to me. What we are together."
His hand found my cock through my pants, squeezing hard enough to make me whimper. "Tell me."
"You're my salvation," I panted, hips bucking into his brutal grip. "My Daddy. My dark god, who saw my true nature and worshipped it instead of fearing it."
"And what are you?" He demanded, biting a line down my throat while his other hand tore at my clothes.
"Your masterpiece." I replied, the truth spilling out as he stripped me against the wall. "Your perfect weapon. Your beautiful boy who kills for you."
He spun me around suddenly, pressing my face against the bloodstained plaster. Ezra kicked my legs apart and yanked my pants and underwear down without further ceremony.
"Stay still." He commanded, the sound of his belt hitting the floor making me shudder. "Let Daddy claim what's his."
I braced against the wall, feeling Julian's blood streak across my chest, my arms, painting me in the evidence of our shared violence. When Ezra's spit-slicked fingers found my hole, I pressed back against him desperately.
"Fuck, you're still loose from this morning," he growled, pushing two fingers inside me immediately. "My good boy, always ready for Daddy's cock."
"Please, Daddy," I begged, shameless in my need. "Please fuck me. Mark me. Make me yours again."
His fingers scissored inside me, stretching me open, finding that spot that made me cry out. He added a third finger, twisting them until I was sobbing against the concrete.
