Page 87 of A Mistake of Worth
David blinked, puzzled but quick to adjust. Henri saw himself in that immediate compliance. The way David’s shoulders automatically shifted to match Henri’s posture, the careful stillness that meant:I’m listening, I’ll learn.
Every slip was a potential landmine.
The coffee machine clicked off just as Marc entered, barefoot but immaculate in navy lounge pants and a fitted shirt. Henri spoke before Marc could notice any flaw, the words a reflex born from years of preemptive damage control.
“A new coffee machine will arrive today. Four cups at once. Tomorrow breakfast will be ready all at the same time.”
Marc’s brow lifted almost imperceptibly. “Good.”
David looked between them, confusion flickering over his features, but Henri didn’t explain. He set Marc’s coffee at his right hand with the orange juice beside it, then took his own seat. David’s cup waited near his plate.
It happened fast. David reached for his coffee just as Marc lifted his, his elbow brushing Marc’s arm. Dark liquid splashed across the front of Marc’s pristine white shirt.
David’s face drained of color. “Shit, I’m—”
Henri was moving before the apology finished, paper towels in hand, his body responding to crisis with practiced efficiency. He pressed them into Marc’s free palm, then turned for the glass staircase at a near run, taking the steps two at a time to the master suite. A minute later, he returned with a fresh shirt.
Marc’s fingers were clamped around David’s chin.
Henri flinched, his own jaw aching in phantom sympathy. He expected the escalation. The violent upward jerk of Marc’s hand, the crack of palm against cheek, the humiliation that always followed mistakes. His body tensed, ready to witness David’s first real lesson in consequences.
But Marc’s grip stayed steady, controlled. His voice was low and deliberate. “Do you understand?”
David tried to nod, but Marc’s grip held him still. “Use your voice.”
“Yes,” David whispered.
Marc released him with something that almost looked like tenderness, turning to Henri without a ripple of tension, and accepting the clean shirt, stripping there at the table. Henri took the ruined one to the laundry, his hands shaking slightly as he held the fabric.
The wrongness of it burned in his throat. He’d made that same mistake before, more than once, during their teens, at university. Every time, Marc had upended the mug over his head, the scald burning his scalp and skin, coffee running down his face, while Marc’s hand cracked across his cheek. There had never been a quiet correction. Never patience. Never that gentle release.
Marc’s restraint with David felt like watching someone else’s life, some alternate version where Marc had learned kindness.
The thought made Henri’s skin crawl.
They finished the meal in brittle silence, and when the plates were cleared, Marc moved to the couch, turning on the television. David followed automatically, and Marc pulled him in close, his arm draped across David’s shoulders like it belonged there.
Henri stayed in the kitchen, clearing plates, rinsing them, and stacking them neatly in the dishwasher. Every movement was precise, a product of ingrained muscle memory. The familiar routine should have been soothing, but instead it felt like performance art. Playing the role of the perfect domestic while his replacement was being groomed on the couch.
When the last glass was in place, he stepped into the living room and froze.
David’s head rested in Marc’s lap, his lips wrapped loosely around Marc’s cock, the slow, steady motion less about urgency than possession. Marc wasn’t even watching him. His eyes were on the television across the room, attention half on whatever show was playing, half on the lazy rhythm of David’s mouth. One hand idly stroked through David’s hair, the other cradled the back of his neck in a grip that could almost pass for tenderness. David’s eyes were closed, jaw relaxed, his whole body angled toward Marc like he belonged there.
He wasn’t just servicing Marc. He was settled there, comfortable.
Henri knew what it was to kneel between Marc’s legs. He’d done it countless times, always on his knees on hard floors, always with Marc’s hand fisted brutally in his hair, always with the threat of choking if he didn’t perform perfectly. Never like this. Never lying comfortably on soft cushions. Never with Marc’s gaze softened like that, never with the gentling stroke of fingers that looked like love.
The serenity on David’s face was worse than fear would have been. Fear could be overcome. But this looked like contentment. Like David was learning to find peace in it.
“I’m going to check work emails,” Henri said finally, his voice carefully neutral.
Marc didn’t look at him. “Do not message Michael or Gabriel. I’ll know.”
Henri’s reply came easily, too easily, sliding back into old patterns of speech without conscious thought. “Understood.”
He hated how natural the word felt on his tongue.
The office was cool and still, with the faint scent of polished wood settling around him. Henri buried himself in sorting emails, but the normalcy of corporate communication felt surreal. Messages about quarterly reports and board meetings, as if he were still the same person who’d left London just days ago. His assistant asking about Monday’s schedule. A client requesting a follow-up call.
