Page 95 of A Mistake of Worth
“Turn around,” David said finally, his voice carefully controlled.
Henri obeyed, bracing himself against the sink. David’s touch remained clinical as he worked the cream into Henri’s back, down to the swell of his ass. He paused there, hesitating.
“I couldn’t find an applicator,” David said quietly. “For the internal application.”
Henri closed his eyes. “Under the sink. Small blue box.”
David retrieved it quickly. A medical-grade applicator, little more than a soft sponge attached to a thin stick. Henri hadused them countless times before, but never while someone else watched. Never while someone else held it.
“The box is almost empty.” David’s voice was hollow. He stared at the nearly depleted package for a moment too long before removing the applicator from its sealed wrapper.
Henri made a mental note to buy more.
David coated the sponge thoroughly with cream, his movements careful and precise. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, then gently inserted the applicator.
The humiliation crashed over Henri in waves. This was worse than the cleaning in the shower. This felt clinical in a way that stripped away the last vestiges of his dignity. He gripped the edge of the sink and breathed through it, counting seconds until David withdrew the applicator and set it aside.
Tomorrow, Henri told himself. Tomorrow the cream would have done its work, the pain would be manageable, and he could do this himself. He wouldn’t need David’s help. Wouldn’t need anyone’s help.
The thought felt hollow even as he clung to it.
When David finished, he washed his hands thoroughly and offered his arm. Henri accepted the support, allowing himself to be guided back to the bedroom.
Fresh sheets had been laid out. Crisp white cotton that smelled of expensive detergent. On top sat a pair of soft sleep pants and a shirt Henri recognized immediately. Navy cotton, worn soft from washing, with a small logo he remembered from a shop in London. One Michael had bought him during those precious weeks of freedom.
“I talked to Marc,” David said quietly, not meeting Henri’s eyes. “About the clothes situation. He said you could wear them again.”
Henri stared at the shirt, something cracking open in his chest.
A week. He’d been naked for a week. Always exposed, always cold, the penthouse’s air conditioning raising goosebumps on his skin no matter how he tried to warm himself.
Even during work calls, he’d had to keep his camera off. Inventing excuses. Technical difficulties. Connectivity issues. Sitting at his desk naked, reviewing financial reports, speaking to board members, and pretending he was still the CFO of La Sauvegarde, not just Marc’s property made flesh.
The vulnerability had been the point, of course. The constant reminder that everything, even the basic dignity of clothing, existed only at Marc’s pleasure.
He’d thought of Michael once during those naked days. Just once, before he’d forced the memory away. That afternoon in London when Michael had used the toy, when Henri had worked naked at his desk while Michael controlled him. The vulnerability had felt different then. Chosen, safe, grounding. A way to let go instead of being stripped down. Michael’s control had steadied him. Marc’s rules only erased him.
No. He wouldn’t think of that again. Wouldn’t compare. That path led nowhere but more pain.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
David nodded once and left, closing the door with a soft click.
Henri sat on the edge of the bed, picking up Michael’s shirt with trembling fingers. The fabric was warm from the lamp beside it, soft against his damaged skin. He started to press it to his face, then stopped.
Marc never gave gifts without strings. What did he want Henri to do with this hope? Was this kindness real, or just another way to measure Henri’s gratitude, his dependence?
But the shirt smelled faintly of Michael beneath the clean cotton. That familiar scent of safety and choice and mornings that belonged to him. Henri pressed it to his face anyway, breathing it in.
The memory hit without warning: Michael’s hands helping him into this very shirt on a lazy Sunday morning, the casual intimacy of shared clothes and shared space. The way Michael had smiled when he saw Henri wearing it, possessive and fond and completely without agenda.
“Looks better on you than it does on me,” Michael had said, pulling Henri close for a kiss that tasted of coffee and contentment.
Henri clutched the shirt to his chest and let himself fall apart completely. He cried for the boy who’d been traded away, for the man who’d forgotten how to want anything for himself, for the three weeks of freedom that had shown him what love was supposed to feel like.
When the worst of it passed, he pulled on the clothes with careful movements, each small motion an act of rebellion against the voice in his head that said he didn’t deserve comfort. The shirt hung loose on his frame. He’d lost weight since returning to PDC.
He lay down on the fresh sheets, curled on his side, and held Michael’s shirt against his face. The painkillers were pulling him toward unconsciousness, but he fought sleep, wanting to hold onto this moment of relative peace for as long as possible.
