Page 5 of A Mistake of Worth
The girl glanced at her father, received a slight nod, and murmured her acceptance.
Olivier laughed, rich and unbothered. “I think we can arrange suitable incentives, Alonso. Consider the contract guaranteed.”
“No,” Henri whispered, the word barely audible. “Please, I—”
But Olivier was already standing, shaking Alonso’s hand, discussing which of his houses they should adjourn to. Marc rose as well, offering his arm to the subdued girl, not sparing Henri another glance.
Henri’s protests died in his throat, swallowed by the realization that no one was listening. No one cared. Marc’s possessiveness had limits, and business came first.
Marc left with Alonso’s daughter for the theater. Olivier and Alonso took Henri back to the Second Cat house, the one with the soundproofed study and locked doors.
Henri didn’t remember much of that night. Just fragments. The pain. His tears. His pleas that went unanswered as two men used him, passed him between them like he was nothing. Less than nothing.
By morning, the contract was signed.
That had been the first time. Not the last.
Years later, Henri would see Alonso again at La Sauvegarde. Finding him in the office after a long meeting, shaking hands with Gabriel over some warehouse lease renewal. The man’s wolfish grin when he’d spotted Henri, eyes raking over his body with the casual entitlement of someone who’d already sampled the merchandise.
Henri had flinched before he could stop himself, then forced his professional mask back into place.
“Mr. Martelli,” he’d said, extending his hand for the expected handshake, trying not to remember how those same fingers had traced patterns on his skin with the edge of a blade.
“Henri,” Alonso had purred, holding the handshake just a moment too long. “Always a pleasure. I hope we’ll have more opportunities to... collaborate in the future.”
Gabriel hadn’t noticed the undercurrent, had probably assumed it was just the usual posturing between a CFO and a vendor. He’d had no reason to suspect that Marc had alreadyarranged for Henri to spend an evening entertaining the man in ways that had nothing to do with warehouse leases.
Because by then, Henri had learned. This was what he was for. What he’d always been for.
The memory faded, leaving Henri kneeling in Marc’s penthouse, the present crashing back with cruel clarity.
“Alonso will be in town next month,” Marc was saying, his tone conversational, as if discussing dinner plans. “I believe you remember him? He’s been asking after you. Quite insistent, actually.”
Henri’s breath stilled. His hand moved unconsciously to his thigh, where the faintest white lines were still visible if you knew where to look.
Marc noticed the gesture and smiled. “Loves knives, that one. Never left permanent scars, of course. I made sure of that.”
He hadn’t. Henri kept his hand still, forced himself not to trace the thin white lines that proved otherwise. Marc’s memory had a way of editing itself to cast him in the most flattering light.
Henri remembered the blades well enough. The gleam of satisfaction in Alonso’s eyes when Henri had flinched and whimpered exactly the way he liked. Alonso had been less careful that night, too excited by Henri’s tears to maintain his usual precision.
Marc had been furious about the scars. Not because Henri had been hurt, but because permanent marks were sloppy, unprofessional.
“Perhaps you were right about Jean.” Marc stepped away from his desk, pulling Henri to his feet in one fluid motion. His eyes roamed Henri’s body with familiar appreciation. “The situation has become... complicated.”
Henri stayed perfectly still as Marc’s hands traced his shoulders, his chest, his hips, cupping his soft cock and balls. Possessive. Claiming.
“You helped me see reason,” Marc continued, his voice carrying that gentle tone that always preceded his most demanding moments. “But you know what this means?”
“Yes,” Henri whispered, skin prickling under Marc’s touch. “I’ll make it up to you.”
“Good boy.” Marc’s smile was almost kind. “Go prepare yourself for me. I’ll be up once I finish here.”
Henri gathered his clothes, careful not to disturb their neat folds. The glass staircase felt cold under his bare feet as he climbed to the second floor. He pressed his palm to the master suite’s entry panel, the soft chime granting him access.
The room spread out before him, dominated by a massive four-poster bed in dark mahogany. Everything here was designed to complement Marc, from the varied shades of blue, each chosen to echo his eyes, to the deep wood tones that matched his chestnut hair. Plush carpeting in midnight blue and cream formed intricate Persian patterns beneath the bed.
Twin walk-in closets flanked the far wall. One housed only suits and formal wear, each piece perfectly tailored and arranged by color. The other held more casual clothing, including a small dresser where Marc kept the items he preferred Henri to wear. Henri couldn’t remember the last time he’d selected his own clothing without Marc’s approval.
