Page 113 of A Mistake of Worth
Michael’s gut tightened. He stared at the number for three rings, some animal part of his brain screaming at him not to answer.
He answered anyway. “Michael Taylor.”
A beat of silence, then a voice he didn’t recognize immediately. Low, mocking. “Michael.”
Michael’s hand clenched around the phone. “Who is this?”
A laugh, smooth and cruel all at once. “Don’t play stupid.”
Recognition hit cold. Marc.
Michael’s grip on the phone went white. His voice sharpened. “Marc.”
“Ah,” Marc purred, amusement dripping through the line. “I was beginning to think London had made you slow.”
Michael ground his teeth. “What do you want?”
A wet sound carried faintly over the line.
Choked gasps, the slick rhythm of a throat working around something too thick, too deep.
Marc’s voice dipped lower, intimate and cruel. “Do you hear that? That’s David. He’s very good. So eager. His lips are swollen, tears rolling down his face, and he still begs for more.”
Michael’s stomach turned, bile burning his throat.
“He’s so pretty.” Marc’s breathing had gone slightly uneven, like he was moving. “Much prettier than Henri ever was while doing this.”
Michael couldn’t speak. His throat had locked.
Marc chuckled, cruel and lazy. “Henri was always stubborn. Tight jaw, glaring at me while I forced him down. It took years before he learned not to fight it. Years before I could wring even a single tear. He never looked grateful, and he should have been.”
The wet sounds continued in the background, rhythmic and obscene.
“Sometimes I thought he might bite my cock off.” Marc laughed at his own joke, ugly and satisfied. “But no. Henri’s a good boy. Always has been. Too proud to break, too obedient not to try.”
Michael squeezed the phone so hard the case creaked. “You bastard.”
“Mm. Yes, I suppose.”
Marc’s tone shifted. Something fraying at the edges. “But let’s not waste time. You’ve made quite the mess, Michael. Jaheel on the BBC, contracts collapsing, governments circling.”
A pause. The wet sounds stopped. Michael heard Marc’s breathing, slightly ragged.
“All for Henri, isn’t it?”
Michael said nothing. His jaw ached from clenching. Silence was admission enough.
Marc’s laugh held a jagged quality now, like glass beginning to crack. “You want him. Admit it. Every leak, every whisper, every move you’ve made has been about him. Don’t—don’t bother denying it.”
The stutter was slight, almost imperceptible. But it was there.
Michael’s pulse hammered. “Get to the point.”
“Henri is mine,” Marc said, voice cutting through the veneer of control. “My property. Mydog. But dogs can be sold.”
Michael’s fury spiked, white-hot and instant. “He isn’t a dog.”
“He is exactly a dog,” Marc corrected, and the words came faster now, less measured. “Collared, trained, obedient. Leashed. You want him? Fine. You can—you can have him. Ten million dollars. Liquid. Transferable.”
