Page 68 of A Mistake of Worth
The door closed behind him with a soft finality.
Drew didn’t speak. Just gestured toward the car with a tilt of his head, already moving.
Henri followed.
Marc was waiting by the car door. He opened it, and Henri climbed back into the middle seat. David was still pressed against the far window, exactly where Henri had left him.
Marc settled in beside Henri, and the car pulled smoothly back into traffic, the car’s quiet hum barely audible over the steady thrum of Henri’s pulse. London slipped past the windows in a blur of steel and glass—buildings he recognized, streets he’d memorized during quiet walks home.
And yet, it all felt distant now. A life he’d borrowed. One he was no longer allowed to keep.
No one spoke.
The Helion’s cabin hummed—the climate control, a soft exhale, the faint tick of the turn signal when the autopilot negotiated a lane change. Ozone, new leather, Marc’s cologne. Henri could hear his own pulse in his ears.
David sat on the far side of the seat, curled close to the door as if he might somehow melt into it if he stayed still enough. His hands rested in his lap, fingers fidgeting with the edge of his borrowed shirt.
Marc shifted in his seat, gesturing for Henri to move. Henri slid over to the far window, the cabin spacious enough to accommodate the movement easily. The Helion’s interior was designed for comfort and privacy, with ample room between seats. Marc settled in the middle, closer to David now.
The first touch was small—fingers brushing David’s knee as if adjusting a crease. David flinched anyway.
Henri reacted before he could think. “Please. Don’t.”
Marc turned his head slowly. “Please don’t what, Henri?”
Henri swallowed hard. “Don’t do whatever you’re about to do to him. You can do it to me. Just... not him.”
Marc’s smile curved, deliberate, and cruel. “But then it wouldn’t be punishment, would it? You’d take it. You always do. That’s what makes you so good at it. But this—”
He looked at David with a clinical sort of interest. “This is new. You’ve never had to watch someone else bear the price.”
Henri clenched his jaw.
Marc’s gaze flicked to the boy beside him. “He’s been good, hasn’t he? So quiet. So eager to learn.”
He reached again, more forcefully this time, and pulled David closer, dragging him into his lap.
David didn’t resist. Just folded inward, shoulders hunched, face turned toward the window as if he could will himself out of the moment.
Henri’s body went still.
Marc’s hand slid to David’s waistband, unhurried. He pulled the jeans down slowly.
Pale blue lace.
Fitted. Feminine. Delicate in a way that made Henri’s stomach twist.
Marc adjusted the fabric with practiced ease, exposing the curve of David’s hip. “You like them?” he asked without looking. “He does. Don’t you, David?”
David said nothing.
Just trembled.
Henri’s throat went dry.
He had never been made to wear lace. Had never been dressed for display like this. And still, he knew exactly what Marc was doing, how he was staging the moment, crafting it for maximum effect.
Marc ran his fingers along the edge of the panties.
