Page 60 of A Mistake of Worth
Then Henri took a small step backward, that same retreating motion he always made when he thought he’d done something wrong, and Michael’s control snapped.
“Jesus fucking Christ!” The words burst out, sharp and loud in the small space. “I just wanted a fucking towel!”
The effect was immediate.
Henri went silent. Not just quiet. Silent.
His entire body language changed in the space of a heartbeat. Shoulders rolling in, chin dropping, hands moving to his sides. And then, without a word, without even a breath, he knelt.
Not gracefully. Not like it was a choice.
He just folded, dropping to the floor as if gravity had suddenly tripled around him.
Michael froze, towel clutched in his hand.
Henri’s head was bowed, eyes fixed on the ground between Michael’s feet. His hands rested on his thighs, palms up in a gesture of complete submission. His breathing was shallow, controlled, barely audible. Every muscle in his body held perfect stillness.
Waiting.
Michael’s mind went blank with horror.
This was automatic. Practiced. A response that had been burned into Henri’s nervous system over years of repetition. How many times had Henri done this before? How many times had a raised voice sent him to his knees? How many punishments had followed this exact position?
The thoughts crashed through him. Fury at Marc for training this into Henri, grief for what Henri had endured, terror that he’d just traumatized Henri further.
“What are you doing?” Michael’s voice came out hoarse, shaking. “Henri, what are you doing?”
Henri didn’t answer. Didn’t move. Didn’t even seem to be breathing.
“Get up.” Michael’s voice was too quiet, too gentle. Henri remained motionless. “Henri, get up. Please.”
Still nothing.
Michael dropped the towel and hauled Henri up by his arms, not rough but fast, pulling him to his feet with more urgency than grace. Henri’s body was limp, compliant, offering no resistance but no help either. Dead weight in Michael’s hands.
“Look at me,” Michael demanded, but Henri’s eyes stayed fixed on the floor. “Look at me.”
When Henri finally raised his head, his eyes were glassy and distant. Present but not present. Looking through Michael rather than at him.
Michael recognized that look. Henri had gone somewhere else. Retreated into himself, waiting for whatever came next.
“Henri,” Michael said softly, releasing one of Henri’s arms to cup his cheek. “Come back to me. You’re safe. I’m not going to hurt you.”
He stroked his thumb gently across Henri’s cheekbone, a steady, grounding touch. “Can you feel my hand? Focus on that. You’re here with me, in London, in my house. You’re safe.”
Henri blinked slowly, his eyes starting to focus. His breathing was still shallow, controlled.
“That’s it,” Michael murmured. “Keep breathing. Stay with me.”
Another blink. Henri’s gaze sharpened slightly, seeing Michael now instead of whatever ghost he’d been looking at.
“Why were you down there?” Michael asked gently, keeping his voice soft. “What did you think I was going to do?”
Henri’s mouth opened, then closed. Opened again. His voice came out hoarse, barely audible. “I thought... you were angry. I thought you needed...”
He trailed off, but Michael understood. Henri had thought Michael needed him to submit. To kneel. To offer himself up for whatever punishment Michael deemed appropriate.
Michael’s other hand was still gripping Henri’s arm, and he could feel the tension there, the way Henri was holding himself perfectly still. Ready to drop again at the first sign that Michael wanted him to.
