Page 118 of A Mistake of Worth
Marc’s voice broke the silence. “Welcome.”
He took a slow step forward, closed his fist in Henri’s hair, and pulled him to his feet. “Come.”
Henri rose unsteadily, and as he turned, Michael saw his back. Welts crossed and overlapped, some raw and red, others already beginning to fade to yellow at the edges.
Michael followed without speaking.
Marc led Henri toward the staircase made of glass and steel, his movements deliberate and unhurried. Henri’s steps were hesitant, unsteady, the movements of a man who had been pushed past exhaustion and into something that looked like survival on autopilot.
When his bare foot caught on the first step, he stumbled forward with a sharp intake of breath, and Michael’s hand jerked up automatically before he caught himself. Marc’s grip in Henri’s hair jerked him upright again without pause or acknowledgment.
The sound of bone striking glass echoed through the space when Henri’s shin hit the third step. Michael flinched at the impact, his body moving forward half a step before freezing. Henri gasped but kept climbing, guided only by Marc’s brutal grip and the searing pain of every step that told him where the edges were.
On the seventh stair, his knee struck hard enough that the sound carried through the room like a crack of thunder, and Michael’s breath hissed between his teeth as he started forward again, muscle memory screaming to catch him, to steady him.
Still, Henri made no protest. His hands reached out blindly for balance, leaving faint streaks on the clear surface where blood had begun to smear, and Michael had to lock his knees to keep from closing the distance between them.
Michael’s fists closed until his nails bit into his palms, drawing his own blood. Every instinct in him screamed to move, to reach for Henri, to end this nightmare, but Marc’s voice from the day before repeated in his head like a mantra, and the threat that came with it held him still.
When they reached the second floor, Marc dragged Henri down the hallway without slowing. Henri’s gait was uneven, his balance fragile, and there was a thin line of blood trailing alonghis shin with a darker smear at his knee where the impact had split the skin.
At the end of the hall, Marc opened a door and stepped aside with a theatrical flourish, keeping his hand fisted in Henri’s hair until they had crossed the threshold, then finally let go.
Henri swayed once, disoriented, his breathing shallow and uneven as he tried to orient himself in the darkness behind the blindfold.
The room was a stage set for cruelty, designed with the same care some people put into nurseries or gardens. Warm light from recessed fixtures cast everything in honey gold, making the polished implements gleam like jewelry in a display case.
The air was thick, almost humid, carrying the scent of leather and something else Michael couldn’t quite name. Outside, the city hummed faintly through reinforced glass, but here the silence felt absolute, as if the room itself was holding its breath.
Two chairs faced a chaise positioned like an altar at the center of the space. Between them sat a low table spread with instruments Michael recognized from his own explorations of consensual play—canes, cuffs, paddles, gleaming lengths of polished wood and steel.
Marc gestured to a chair. “Sit.”
Michael did.
Henri stayed by the door until Marc’s hand twisted into his hair. He dragged him across the room and tossed him onto the chaise. Henri flailed blindly as he fell, unable to see where he was landing.
Marc grabbed his hips with bruising force, arranging his body for display. Ass up, knees spread wide, the flared base of a plug visible between his cheeks. Henri’s arms shook as he braced himself, palms flat against the brocade fabric, back forced into a deep arch.
Michael’s hands clenched on the chair arms. His cock throbbed painfully against his trousers. Horror and desire tangled until he could hardly tell one from the other.
Marc stepped back, surveying what he’d arranged. A smile touched his mouth. “Who do you belong to?”
Henri’s response came automatically, practiced: “You, Marc.”
“Good boy.” Marc turned his head slightly toward Michael. “Welcome our guest.”
Henri lifted his chin a fraction. “Welcome. I hope this pleases you.”
Michael felt his lip curl. How many times had Henri said that? To how many strangers?
Marc’s smile sharpened. He moved to the table, fingers brushing over the instruments until he chose a cane. He flexed it once, testing the give, then circled back to stand behind Henri.
Michael couldn’t breathe. Every inch of Henri’s back was already torn and bruised, the raised welts crossing one another. There was nowhere left for pain to land that hadn’t already been claimed.
The first strike cracked through the room, loud enough to make Michael flinch. Henri’s whole body jerked, his hands clenching hard into the fabric of the chaise. The sound that escaped him was small, bitten back, followed by a single word pushed through his teeth.
“One.”
