Page 81 of A Mistake of Worth
Henri stepped out after Marc, the transition from car to cool, conditioned air so seamless it was almost disorienting. David followed, his expression unreadable in the shifting light. The ride from the airport had been quiet for the most part. Marc scrolled through messages, Henri stared out at the streets heknew too well, and David occasionally glanced between them like he wanted to speak but didn’t dare.
It had been different on the plane.
Marc had slept for nearly three hours over the Atlantic, stretched across the couch with his jacket folded beneath his head.
Henri had pulled himself off the floor, legs shaking, and stumbled back to his seat. His pants were still unbuttoned, fabric torn at the waistband. He’d tried to clean himself with tissues from the bathroom, but he could still feel Marc inside him, the ache settling deep. His cheek throbbed where it had ground into the carpet.
He’d curled against the window, forehead pressed to the cool glass, and tried to disappear into the clouds below.
David had watched him return. Henri had seen it in his peripheral vision, the boy’s wide eyes tracking his unsteady walk, taking in his disheveled state, the way Henri couldn’t quite straighten his spine. Then David had looked away, staring at his hands.
After twenty minutes of silence, Henri forced himself to move. His body protested, muscles stiff and sore, but he couldn’t leave David sitting there alone with whatever he was thinking.
He crossed to the couch and lowered himself carefully onto the cushions. Every movement hurt.
David’s eyes widened slightly. He glanced toward Marc’s sleeping form, then back to Henri.
“He’s out,” Henri said quietly, his voice rougher than he’d intended. “He won’t wake for hours. He never does during these trips.”
David nodded but said nothing. His gaze kept dropping to Henri’s torn slacks, the marks on his face.
Henri let the silence stretch and waited. Sometimes that was all people needed, just the space to decide whether to speak.
Finally, David’s voice came, barely above a whisper. “I’ve never seen him like that before. What he did to you.”
Henri’s jaw tightened. “That’s Marc.”
“But before, he was just...” David’s hands twisted in his lap. “Particular. About how things should be. Where I should stand, how I should dress. I knew he had a temper, but I’d never seen—”
“You hadn’t given him reason,” Henri said quietly. “I did.”
David paled. “By orgasming?”
“By stepping between him and something he wanted.” Henri shifted on the couch, wincing at the movement. “But that’s not why he did what he just did. You understand that, right?”
David’s brow furrowed. “I thought it was because I couldn’t... because I was bad at—”
“No.” Henri’s voice was firm. “That had nothing to do with you. It was about me. About London. About the fact that I left for three weeks, and he couldn’t control me.” He met David’s eyes. “He would have found a reason regardless. That’s what you need to understand. When Marc wants to punish someone, the excuse doesn’t matter.”
David’s throat worked as he swallowed. “So even if I do everything right—”
“If he wants to punish you, he will. He’ll just find a reason that makes it seem justified.” Henri leaned forward slightly, keeping his voice low. “Listen to me. Marc is possessive of what he considers his. Obsessively so. Don’t become one of his possessions.”
“Is it too late for that?” David’s voice cracked on the question. “I signed the contract.”
Henri went still. “Contract?”
“The arrangement.” David looked down at his hands. “Marc had his lawyers draw it up. I moved into his place. Sleep in his bed. He pays for everything, and in exchange I...” He trailed off.
“Be available,” Henri finished quietly. “Be perfect. Be his.”
“Yes.” David’s voice was barely audible.
Henri’s chest tightened. A contract. Marc had formalized it, made it legal, binding. That was new. Or maybe it wasn’t. Maybe Henri had just never needed one because Marc had owned him since childhood.
David closed his eyes. When he opened them again, they were wet. “My mother’s sick. MS. She gets government aid and medical care, but she’s angry about it. Does the bare minimum to qualify and nothing else. My stepfather works the docks. He doesn’t care about me or my sister. Just himself and my mother. He’s not mean, exactly. Just... absent. We’re furniture he has to walk around.”
Henri understood that kind of neglect. The kind that didn’t leave bruises but hollowed you out anyway.
