Page 104 of A Mistake of Worth
His release tore out of him, angry, violent—his knee slamming the desk, the old wood reverberating. David swallowed every drop, eager, lips clinging, tongue lapping, almost entranced as if the act itself were a reward.
Marc’s voice came, low and cutting. “Pull him up. I want to see him. That little cock straining. Pathetic, perfect. Show me what belongs to me.”
The words were meant to humiliate, but the slip was there, threaded between the cruelty. Perfect. Henri heard it, and his stomach turned. Marc’s hunger wasn’t just for control. It was for David. And that was worse.
Henri dragged David onto his lap, chest to back, one arm locking across his body as he shoved his pants down. Pale skin, slight frame, cock and balls exposed, displayed for the camera as if Marc had reached through and positioned the intern himself. Henri stroked him firmly, mechanical, forcing the boy’s body to react while Marc watched. His mouth found David’s throat, teeth grazing, lips pressing, all while his mind slipped somewhere else…
Michael’s hand guiding his rhythm, voice praising him, calling him beautiful, telling him how good he was. Michael’s mouth on his skin, not a camera in sight, no orders, no audience. Just warmth. Just want.
David came with a sharp gasp, thin spurts striping his dress shirt, his spent cock twitching helplessly in Henri’s grip. Marc’s eyes devoured it all, and then, with a click, the feed went dead.
They moved through the aftermath in silence. Wiping skin, rinsing mouths, the ensuite sink running too loud for the small space. David tugged at his ruined dress shirt, the fabric clinging damply to his chest. He peeled it off, cheeks flushed, and held it out awkwardly.
Henri took it without a word and crossed to the linen closet tucked beside the sink. The door opened on neat rows. Spare shirts, pressed and folded, stacked alongside towels. He dropped David’s soiled one into the laundry bin for collection and pulled out a crisp white replacement.
“Here.” He passed it over.
David slipped into it, the cotton hanging too large, sleeves swallowing his wrists, shoulders drowning in the extra fabric. Itmade him look impossibly young, swallowed whole by someone else’s life. Henri’s gaze caught on it despite himself.
Patricia was going to have questions when David returned to them in a different colored, too-large button-down. Henri mentally grimaced at the lecture forthcoming.
David smoothed the hem, buttoning it clumsily, pocketing his phone as if ready to walk out. That was when Henri stopped him.
“Have a seat.”
Henri led the way back into the office and reclaimed his chair behind the desk, posture settling into practiced authority. He gestured toward the pair of seats opposite.
David crossed the room and lowered himself into one. The same chair Gabriel had occupied minutes earlier. The ghost of his brother’s scrutiny clung to the space, sharpening the wrongness of David sitting there now. Posture straight, eyes lowered, every inch of him bent toward obedience.
It made Henri want to shake him. It made him want to cover him with a blanket.
“Leave him,” Henri said, leaning forward. “Whatever you think Marc is, walk away. I’ll fund you. Tuition, housing, anything. Just get out.”
There was a long pause before David shook his head, small but certain. “I don’t want out. He’s… good to me.”
The words stunned him. Henri searched for the lie, the fear, but David’s voice carried neither.
“Good to you?” Henri forced, incredulous. “Marc?”
“I like the rules,” David said, cheeks flushed but steady. “I like knowing what’s expected. I like the way he takes care of things. I like… when he’s pleased with me.”
Henri’s chest clenched, brittle. David was describing Marc the way Henri would describe Michael. The rules as structure, obedience as safety, care woven into control. Hearing Michael’s language applied to Marc was obscene.
“You don’t understand,” Henri snapped. “Marc doesn’t care about you. You’re useful. For now. That’s all. The moment you stop—”
“I know what I am,” David cut in. Quiet, but unyielding. “I’m not deluding myself. But I also know what I want. What I need. Marc gives me that.”
“He’ll destroy you,” Henri whispered.
“Maybe. Maybe not. But maybe that’s my choice.”
Choice. The one thing Henri had never been given. David was walking into the trap. Henri had been thrown. It made all the difference. It made no difference at all.
Henri’s hands clenched on the desk. He wanted to shake David, to scream that what felt like structure was a trap, that Marc’s care was a noose disguised as a safety net. But David’s eyes held the same certainty Henri had seen in the mirror years ago, back when he’d still believed he could manage Marc, could make it work.
“You won’t listen,” Henri said, voice raw. “You think you understand what you’re signing up for, but you don’t. You can’t.”
“Maybe,” David said quietly. “But it’s still my choice to make.”
