Page 41 of A Mistake of Worth
The ride back to Chester Terrace blurred past in fragments. London traffic, the relentless buzz of his phone. Time stretchedand contracted until Henri couldn’t tell if minutes or hours had passed.
By the time the car rolled to a stop at Chester Terrace, he was unraveling. The door hadn’t even fully opened before he stumbled out, nearly falling onto the sidewalk.
Michael was already waiting.
Henri didn’t speak. He couldn’t. The sob that tore from his throat as he collapsed into Michael’s arms didn’t even feel like his own.
Buzz.
Buzz.
His phone was still in his hand. Still tethered to everything he thought he’d escaped.
“Inside. Now.” Michael’s voice was calm, but it cut like steel.
Henri let himself be pulled forward, legs barely cooperating, body curled into Michael’s. The door shut behind them, and the world went quiet except for the awful, buzzing heartbeat in his hand.
Michael took the phone gently, prying it from his fingers. “I’ve got you. You’re safe.”
“No,” Henri gasped, burying his face in Michael’s shirt. “You don’t understand. He knows. I didn’t wear it, and he knows, and he’s so angry, and I—”
“Breathe.” One hand anchored him on his chest, firm and warm. The other pulled him close.
Henri tried. But each breath scraped raw against his throat.
“You did nothing wrong.”
Henri shook his head wildly. “You don’t know what he’s like when I disappoint him.”
Michael guided him gently to the couch, settling behind him, arms forming a wall around his chest. “He can’t touch you here,” he said. “He’s an ocean away.”
Henri shook against him. “He always finds a way.”
On the coffee table, the phone buzzed again.
Your silence is telling me everything I need to know.
Michael picked it up, met Henri’s eyes, and pressed the power button. The screen went dark.
Michael wrapped both arms around Henri again, tucking him close.
“You’re not alone anymore,” he whispered. “I won’t let him hurt you. Not ever again.”
Henri clung to him, tears soaking into his shirt. The words should’ve brought comfort.
But all Henri could think about was that one day, Marc would get to him.
Because he always did.
Chapter eight
Michael
Michaelendedhiscallwith Rhys and pinched the bridge of his nose. They’d finally agreed on a path forward for the Denmark proof of concept, but it had been exhausting. Rhys had spent most of the call half-distracted, rambling about their Oslo connection while Michael tried to lock down sensor configurations. The man had charm and vision, but focus? Only on alternate Tuesdays.
He leaned back in his office chair, exhaling hard.
Today had already been too much.
