Page 21 of A Mistake of Identity
Ellis
With its deep squares and lines, the ornate ceiling came into focus as Ellis blinked away the lingering haze of sleep. His entire body felt like one big bruise, but the sharp pain he remembered had worn down to a steady ache. As he moved, the silk sheets made a soft sliding sound against his skin, and for a moment, he couldn’t grasp where he was.
Someone had cleaned him up while he was unconscious, washing away the evidence of his humiliation in the Display Case. That thought should have mortified him—someone handling his body while he was out—but instead, there was only relief. He hoped it hadn’t been Gabriel. The man had already seen him at his lowest: naked, bound, and sobbing on that machine.
Then it all came rushing back—Donovan’s face twisted with rage, the first crack of the belt across his back. The slaps, the kicks when Ellis hadn’t responded fast enough to his demands. Being forced to his knees, choking when Donovan shoved his prick down his throat.
Ellis’ breath hitched as the memories assaulted him. The blindfold cutting off his vision, the bit-gag stretching his jaw painfully wide. Then that machine—that massive dildo forcing its way in when he’d had nothing but the lingering traces of his night with Gabriel to ease the way. The mechanical whir, the crowd’s laughter, his muffled screams...
A sound nearby made Ellis jerk, his body trying to curl into itself despite the protest of overexerted muscles. Something brushed against him and he flinched hard.
“Easy there,” Jean’s voice cut through the panic. “You’re safe. You’re in Gabriel Rohan’s house.”
Ellis forced his eyes open—when had he squeezed them shut?—to find Jean perched in an oversized leather chair nearby, one leg tucked under him as he played with the sleeve of his too-big sweater.
The familiar sight of his friend helped ground him, even as fragments of memory kept surfacing: Gabriel’s voice cutting through his pain, those strong arms lifting him, cradling him while he wept. God, he’d buried his face in Gabriel Rohan’s neck and probably gotten tears and who knows what else all over his expensive suit. Yet Gabriel hadn’t seemed to care, had held him closer, whispered soft French words into his hair.
“Gabriel...” Ellis tried the name, but his voice came out rough. “He came for me?”
Jean’s laugh had an edge to it. “Oh honey, he came in like wrath personified. Grabbed us both and brought us to this fancy prison of his.” He waved his hand around the enormous bedroom. “Where, might I add, we’re basically trapped. The guards won’t even let me walk in the garden. There’s a huge brick wall out there! Where exactly do they think I’m going to go?”
Ellis frowned, trying to keep up. “But why would he...” His voice cracked. “I’m nobody. Just a—”
“If you say ‘just a whore’, I will throw this stupid expensive pillow at your head,” Jean cut him off. “Gabriel Rohan has decided you’re his now. And trust me, when a Rohan man decides something, that’s that.” The last words came out so bitter that Ellis stared at his friend.
“How would you know?”
Jean’s fingers stilled on his sleeve. Something crossed his face—like he’d been waiting for this question. “Because my real name is Jean Saint-Clair. Henri Rohan, Gabriel’s brother? He’s best friends with my brother Marc.”
Ellis felt like the room tilted sideways. “You’re...”
“A runaway rich kid? Yeah.” Jean’s smile wasn’t happy at all. “Before you ask why—why does any spoiled rich kid run away? Got bored, wanted to rebel, you know how it goes.” The words sounded rehearsed, hollow, like Ellis’s own practiced explanations to clients about choosing this life.
“Okay,” Ellis nodded, recognizing the need to hide behind convenient lies. His bladder chose that moment to make itself known, demanding attention. “I need to...” he started pushing himself up, trying to hide his wince.
“Bathroom? Here, let me help. Dr. Nguyen said you’re not supposed to move too fast yet.” Jean was already reaching for his arm. “And don’t worry, Gabriel’s keeping busy at the office. Looks like he can actually stay away when it comes to letting you heal.”
The words shouldn’t have disappointed him, but they did. Ellis pushed that feeling aside as Jean helped him stand. He didn’t even think about his nakedness—after years at Heart Court, being nude around others was unremarkable. But something felt different now, like his body wasn’t just his anymore. The thought should have frightened him. Instead, it sent an unexpected shiver down his spine.
His legs trembled as Jean helped him across the thick carpet, and he couldn’t tell if it was from his injuries or from the weight of these new, confusing feelings. Gabriel Rohan had saved him, had seen him at his absolute worst, and instead of disgust or dismissal, had treated him like something precious. Something worth protecting. But how long would that last?
“I can manage from here,” Ellis mumbled, face heating.
“You sure?” Jean’s hand stayed steady on his arm. When Ellis nodded, Jean let go, like he was making sure Ellis wouldn’t fall. “Okay, but I’m staying right outside this door. You need anything, and I mean anything. You just say the word. One of my clients liked me holding his dick while he peed. Weird kink, but it doesn’t bother me.”
Ellis grimaced. “Thanks, but I’ll manage.”
“Don’t lock it. If I hear you fall, I’m coming in.”
Ellis closed the door carefully behind him, then turned around and froze. The bathroom was bigger than his entire room at Heart Court. He shifted his weight, and something felt odd. The floor wasn’t cold like tile should be. It was warm under his bare feet, like someone had stuck a giant heating pad under it. Who even had heated floors?
Gabriel Rohan, apparently.
A large marble counter with two sinks extended along one wall, topped by a mirror that reached to the ceiling. Ellis had only ever seen something like it in movies.
In the corner, there was what had to be the largest bathtub he’d ever seen. It sat up on its own little platform like some kind of throne and looked like it could fit half the baseball team’s lineup. The thought made him bite back a smile despite everything.
Then his eyes landed on the shower. It took up most of one wall, all glass sides, and chrome fixtures. His throat went tight, memories of the Display Case at Heart Court flooding back—the trapped feeling, the eyes on him, nowhere to hide. He glanced away, relief washing over him when he spotted a little separate room with its own door. Just a normal toilet. Thank god.
