Page 93 of A Mistake of Worth
When David freed Henri’s wrists, he paused, staring at the raw, bleeding skin where the hemp had chewed through. His jaw tightened as his eyes traveled down Henri’s body, taking in the mottled bruises spreading across his chest and ribs, the fingerprints darkening on his hips. Then his gaze dropped lower, between Henri’s still spread thighs, and his breath caught.
“Jesus, you’re bleeding. You’re...”
“I know.” Henri’s voice was flat, emotionless. He’d felt the tearing, the wet warmth that meant substantial damage. “Just finish.”
David’s face went white, but he didn’t stop working. He moved to the ankle restraint, his fingers fumbling slightly as he worked the knots free. When the last rope fell away, Henri tried to push himself up and nearly collapsed. His free leg wouldn’t support him, the one that had been bound, cramping violently. His vision whited out at the edges as blood rushed to limbs that had been immobilized too long.
David caught him before he could hit the floor, stumbling under Henri’s weight. “Shit, okay, I’ve got you. I’ve got...” His hands fumbled for purchase under Henri’s arms, feet sliding on the hardwood as he tried to brace himself.
Henri was nearly a head taller, and David struggled to keep them both upright. “Just give me a second.”
Henri forced his legs to take some of his weight, gritting his teeth against the cramps that seized his muscles. Each attempt to stand properly sent fresh waves of pain through his pelvis and thighs. He leaned heavily on David, hating his own weakness but unable to do anything about it.
“Come on,” David said, his voice tight with effort. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
The walk to Henri’s bedroom felt endless. They had to cross the entire second floor, making their way down the long hallway that connected the playroom to Henri’s private suite. David half-carried, half-dragged him, adjusting his grip every few steps as Henri’s legs gave out. Each step was agony, muscles screaming in protest, his vision swimming with each jarring movement.
When they finally reached Henri’s bedroom, the windows stood open to the night air. The city sprawled below, Porte du Coeur’s lights twinkling across the darkness in patterns Henri normally found beautiful. Now they just blurred in his vision, smearing into streaks of gold and white that made his head pound.
David wrestled him into the en-suite bath, and by the time he got Henri onto the shower bench, both of them were breathing hard. Henri was shaking so hard his teeth chattered. David braced his hands on his knees for a moment, catching his breath.
“Okay,” David said, straightening. “Okay.”
David turned on the water, angling the main showerhead away from Henri while he adjusted the temperature. He held his handunder the spray, waiting as steam began to rise, then made a small adjustment before redirecting the water toward Henri.
“Do you want me to stay?”
Henri let the spray pound against him, washing away the worst of what had been done to him. The heat was a mercy; it loosened the knots of pain in his muscles, dulled the shivers that had nothing to do with cold.
The water turned pink around his feet, then deeper shades of red as it ran down his legs. Henri watched as it flowed and spiraled around the drain, mesmerized by the patterns it made. Rivulets branching and merging, diluting from crimson to rose to pale pink before disappearing. Round and round, carrying pieces of him away with each rotation. He couldn’t look away from it, couldn’t stop tracking each swirl and eddy as though the motion itself held some answer he desperately needed.
When he glanced up, remembering David had spoken, he found David gone, and Henri was grateful for the solitude. He leaned against the wall, letting the spray beat against his neck and chest where fingerprint bruises were already darkening. The Bosnian. Henri still couldn’t remember his name. He’d been careless, grabbing too hard, leaving evidence. The marks would heal. They always did. But that didn’t erase the fact that they’d been made.
When David returned, he carried a glass of water, prescription painkillers, and the familiar jar of Smooth cream. Henri recognized the pills, something strong from Marc’s medicine cabinet. He swallowed them without question. Unconsciousness would be a gift at this point.
Henri looked up at David, forcing his voice to stay steady. The hot water continued to pound against his back and shoulders, a constant rhythm that was slowly unknotting the worst of the cramping. “In Marc’s bathroom, behind the mirror in the medicine cabinet near where you found those pills,there’s a green bottle of antivirals and antibiotics. Blue and white capsules. I’ll need to start those tonight.” He swallowed hard, hating how routine this sounded. “The man didn’t use protection. Marc will want me tested soon. Monday, probably. So I’m clear for the next one.”
David’s face went pale, but he nodded. “I’ll get them.”
He disappeared again. Henri stayed on the bench, letting the water work its mercy on his damaged body. He didn’t have the strength to stand yet, wouldn’t until the painkillers started their work. The steam filled his lungs with each breath, warming him from the inside.
When David returned, he had two more pills in his palm, one blue, one white. Henri took them with the remaining water, the bitter taste familiar on his tongue. He handed the empty glass back to David, who set it on the marble counter.
David stripped and stepped into the shower with him.
Henri’s head snapped up, confusion cutting through the haze of pain. “What are you doing?”
“Helping,” David said simply, reaching for the shampoo. “You can’t do this yourself right now.”
Henri opened his mouth to protest, then closed it again. He was right. Henri could barely keep himself upright on the bench, let alone wash himself properly. But having someone else in here, touching him after what had just happened...
David’s hands moved through Henri’s hair with careful efficiency, working shampoo through the tangled strands. The touch was clinical, impersonal, rather than anything intimate. He massaged Henri’s scalp gently, mindful of the tension there, then guided his head back under the spray to rinse.
The conditioner came next, David’s fingers working through the knots with patient attention. He took his time, not pulling or rushing, just methodically working through each tangle until Henri’s hair was smooth.
“I need you to stand,” David said quietly once he’d rinsed the conditioner away. “I know it hurts, but I need to clean the rest.”
Henri gritted his teeth and let David help him up, his legs shaking with the effort. He braced his hands against the tile wall, spreading his legs for balance, the position achingly familiar for all the wrong reasons.
