His lips brushed my temple in a gesture not quite a kiss but intimate enough to draw eyes. "I told them you had vision. The rest was already there, waiting to be uncovered."
We stood together, studying the smaller experimental pieces. His fingers traced patterns against my hip and found the marks he'd left on my skin last night. He pressed hard enough to make me inhale sharply.
"The bone ash mixture in the center panel," he observed quietly. "You modified my formula."
"Added calcium phosphate and adjusted the pH," I confirmed. "Creates better light refraction while maintaining structural integrity."
"You've truly made the technique your own."
We moved through the gallery. Ezra's hand remained at the small of my back as we spoke with critics and collectors. I found myself reaching repeatedly for comfort that wasn't there, my maimed hand seeking the moth's soft texture, finding only empty air. The phantom sensation of velvet against my skin intensified my awareness of being exposed, on display.
The gallery director approached. Her silver hair formed into an elegant chignon. She wore an unusual brooch that caught my attention immediately. The delicate silver piece appeared to contain ivory inlay.
"That's a beautiful piece," I commented, nodding toward her brooch.
"Oh, this? A gift from Ezra years ago." She touched it fondly, preening slightly under my attention. "One of his earlier experiments in mixed media, he called it."
She traced the ivory-like inlay with her manicured finger, completely unaware of what she was actually touching. "Everyone asks about it. I've had collectors offer obscene amounts to acquire it."
Ezra's smile remained perfectly polished, but I recognized the dark amusement in his eyes. The "ivory" wasn't ivory at all, but bone harvested from one of his early subjects. This woman wore someone's remains as jewelry, completely unaware. She'd walked around for years with part of one of Ezra's victims pinned to her chest, proudly displaying it at every gallery opening. My cock hardened immediately at the thought, the rush of arousal catching me off guard.
"Micah, darling, the Times critic wants a statement about your process," she continued. "Come charm him, won't you?"
Ezra leaned close to me. "Every person here wishes they could touch what belongs to me," he breathed against my ear, too low for anyone else to hear. "Tonight I'll remind you why none of them ever will."
"Yes, Daddy,” I whispered back, light-headed.
His pupils dilated. Hunger flashed across his features before he regained control. "Good boy. Now go be brilliant."
The rest of the evening passed in a blur of introductions, explanations, and carefully crafted statements about my artistic vision. Critics praised the emotional depth of my work. Collectors inquired about prices and availability. Fellow artists studied my techniques with envy. Through it all, Ezra remained a constant presence, sometimes beside me, sometimes across the room, but always connected by invisible threads only we could feel.
By the time the last guests departed, exhaustion settled deep in my bones. The gallery director hugged me tightly while whispering congratulations and predictions of skyrocketing prices after the glowing reviews she anticipated. The cleaningcrew began gathering empty glasses and rearranging furniture as we said our final goodbyes.
"Did you notice the young man in the navy blazer?" Ezra asked as we walked to his car. "The one studying your fourth piece all evening?"
"The art student?" I replied while sliding into the passenger seat. "He kept taking photos when he thought no one was looking."
I reached immediately for my moth, pulling it from beneath the seat where I'd stashed it before the exhibition. I squeezed it against my chest with my maimed hand, and the toy responded with a soft blue glow that illuminated the car's interior. The comfort of having it again made my shoulders drop, tension draining from my body.
"Not just an art student." Ezra started the engine, his eyes softening at the sight of me clutching my comfort object. "His fingers were stained with oil paint, but not commercial brands. His own mixes, judging by the undertones. He's dedicated to his craft."
My pulse quickened at the implication. "For a private collection, perhaps?"
"Perhaps." Ezra's smile promised something as he pulled away from the curb. "We could send him an invitation to view your more experimental works in our private gallery."
The drive home passed with us discussing our favorite moments from the exhibition, the reactions to specific pieces, and the collectors who'd purchased works without having any idea what they were really buying. Ezra's hand rested on my thigh, occasionally squeezing just hard enough to remind me of his presence.
Our home welcomed us with familiar shadows as Ezra disabled the security system. Above our bed hung the framed section of drywall we'd carefully cut from Julian's house sixmonths ago. The abstract pattern of our mingled fluids had darkened with time, transforming from crimson and white to deep burgundy and amber. The trophy served as a constant reminder of our triumph over Julian's presumption. Only we understood its true significance, this physical embodiment of claiming what was ours.
"I have something for you," Ezra said. He took my hand and led me toward his study. "A celebration of your success tonight."
The study had evolved from Ezra's solitary domain into our shared sanctuary. My books now filled the once-empty shelves beside his. Two laptops sat side by side on the antique desk. Ezra's expensive stationery had migrated to the left to make room for my preferred journals.
Ezra opened a drawer in his desk and removed a small black box.
"This was meant for later," he explained while turning to face me. "But tonight seems appropriate."
He opened the box, revealing two identical rings of brushed platinum. The simple, elegant bands had no adornment except a small inscription on the inner surface.
