Page 70 of A Mistake of Worth
David’s breathing changed again. Not panic. A low exhale, jaw loose, lips parting as Marc rolled his wrist. Relief, or what felt like it. Henri’s teeth clicked together. Bodies learned fast. They learned what to do to minimize harm.
They cleared the security gate of Farnborough Airport, the tires thumping over the seam, and hummed along the service road. Sodium lamps washed the tarmac in flat light as the car slowed for a badge check, then rolled on toward the private hangars.
The ground crew moved like clockwork shadows. A marshal lifted two fingers in greeting as they passed. The jet waited ahead—sleek and pale under floodlights, door already dropped, a strip of light cutting into the night from the cabin. The pilot stood at the base of the stairs. The attendant waited just inside, hands folded, face set to neutral.
The car stopped with a soft brake squeal.
Marc’s strokes slowed to a final, lazy glide. He smoothed David down. Palmed him once, not for kindness but to remind him who decided the pace. Then he adjusted the lace, closed David’s fly, and set his shirt to rights with neat, practiced tugs.
“Up,” he said.
David climbed off Marc’s lap at once, legs shaky, turning to offer Marc a hand he didn’t need. Marc rose without taking it, adjusting his cuffs without looking at Henri.
Henri opened his own door. Humid air hit his face, chemical and metallic, the familiar reek of jet fuel catching at the back of his throat. He stepped out and stood for a moment, eyes tracing the floodlit rivets curving along the fuselage, the way the paintcaught the light. Then he moved because there was no other choice.
The pilot’s nod was brisk, deferential. The attendant’s smile didn’t reach her eyes as she pressed back against the bulkhead to let them pass.
Henri’s hand found the rail as he climbed the stairs, aluminum cold against his palm. He counted the steps without meaning to. Twelve to the lip. Two more into the cabin.
Heat met him first as he entered the jet, recirculated air scented faintly with cedar and new leather. Screens glowed in the forward rows. The couches at the back looked the same as always, cream beneath the narrow windows, low tables polished to a gloss, the bar stocked and waiting.
Henri slid into his usual place without being told. Right side, third row, window. The one he’d sworn never to take again. The leather still molded to his body, memory etched into every line of it. Marc and David passed him without a glance, making their way to the low couches at the back.
Up front, Drew had already staked his territory in the first row. He’d taken the aisle seat, stretched his legs as far as they would go, and pulled noise-canceling headphones firmly over his ears. The glow of the seat-back screen lit his face, giving him something to fix his eyes on. He wasn’t looking behind him. He never did. Drew’s way of handling these flights was simple: pretend nothing else in the cabin existed.
The door sealed with a soft hiss, muting the world outside. The jet’s nose inched forward, paused, then began its slow turn toward the runway. Engines hummed to life, building power beneath the floor.
The jet shuddered forward. London tilted in the oval glass, streets and rooftops sliding out of reach. Henri pressed his palm to the cold window, helpless against the ache in his chest as the city fell away. Michael fell with it. Every hour they had stolen,every soft morning, every touch that had almost convinced him he belonged somewhere other than Marc’s grasp. Gone in the span of a takeoff.
The attendant passed down the aisle with practiced efficiency, then vanished into the galley. Altitude steadied, engines smoothing into their ceaseless hum, but Henri’s stomach twisted with the climb. He kept his eyes forward, refusing the view, refusing to witness the last pieces of Michael dissolve beneath the clouds.
The seatbelt light flicked off with a soft chime. Marc stood slowly, deliberately, and crossed to the minibar. He poured whiskey into a heavy tumbler from a bottle already open, took a slow sip while staring at Henri, then turned his attention to David.
“Strip.”
Henri’s pulse pounded. David flinched, spine stiffening, eyes snapping to Marc. He didn’t move.
Marc tilted his head, studying him with clinical interest. “Did you not hear me?”
David nodded, a quick, shallow jerk. His throat worked, lips twitching but producing no sound.
Marc took another leisurely sip of his whiskey, letting the silence stretch taut between them. “Do you need help?”
David’s gaze darted to Henri then, sharp and uncertain, before he tore it away again. His cheeks burned scarlet. The flush had nothing to do with arousal. It was pure humiliation. Henri saw the nerves radiating from him as plainly as he felt them in his own skin.
David shook his head fast. “No, sir,” he whispered, voice thin.
He rose on trembling legs, hands hovering uselessly at the hem of his shirt. He hesitated, then tugged it over his head, folding it with slow, mechanical care, seams aligned. His fingers shook.
Henri stood before he thought about it. He crossed to David carefully, making his movements small. “Let me,” he said, voice low.
He sank to his knees, hands sure. Untied laces, slid off shoes, peeled away socks. His palms smoothed David’s calves, firm but unhurried, grounding him. The skin was damp under his touch, pulse racing beneath.
Henri unfastened the jeans next, drawing them down, folding them neatly as if the ritual itself could make this bearable. The blue lace beneath caught sharp against flushed skin. He rose, brushing David’s hips with his hands, steadying him. The trembling slowed. David leaned forward, breath evening out, lips parting on something too close to eagerness.
Henri tensed, looking away. Reflex, not want. He knew that lesson too well.
“I’m sorry,” Henri murmured at his ear. “Just breathe.”
