Page 92 of A Mistake of Worth
Gabriel’s hand briefly touched his shoulder. “We’ll get him back, Michael.”
Chapter seventeen
Henri
Henrihadlosttrackof how long he’d been alone.
Time seemed to move differently when pain was your only tracker, each minute stretching into an eternity of endurance. The ropes had chewed through the skin at his wrists hours ago, maybe longer. Stretched above his head, his arms were bound to the headboard, shoulders locked in positions they weren’t meant to hold. One ankle was still strapped to the bed frame; the other had been freed at some point by the Bosnian. Hours of being forced open had left his thighs trembling, every nerve throbbing with deep, bone-level pain.
Nearly two weeks had passed since he’d returned to PDC. Nearly two weeks of falling back into old patterns, old routines, old uses that his body remembered even when his mind tried to resist. The first few days, Marc had been almost gentle, testing Henri’s responses, observing how deeply London had changed him, recalibrating his control to account for the three weeks offreedom. Then the calls had started. Olivier’s associates needed attention. Business partners required entertaining, reassuring, rewarding for their continued loyalty to the Saint-Clair empire.
Henri was currency again. Payment rendered in flesh.
The playroom reeked. Sweat, blood, latex, and the expensive cologne the Bosnian had worn. Something sharp and woody that would probably linger in Henri’s memory for months. Henri could still feel the ghost weight of him, the careless roughness of someone young enough to think brutality was passion. The cold press of his gold signet ring had left its own bruise on Henri’s hip. A family crest ground into skin.
He’d been here before. Different accents, different cologne, same ropes, same aftermath. The patterns repeated with such regularity that Henri could almost predict them now.
The son of a slumlord from The Hill. Another one of Olivier’s contacts seeking favor or sealing deals. Another transaction where Henri served as part of the currency being exchanged, his body the collateral that sealed agreements made in boardrooms he’d never see.
He’d stopped struggling an hour ago. Maybe two. The ropes were tight but not sophisticated. He could have been free in minutes if his hands weren’t numb, if his shoulders weren’t screaming, if he had anything left to fight with. Instead, every twist scraped hemp against torn skin, every movement a reminder of his complete helplessness.
The sheets beneath him were damp with more than sweat. He could smell himself. Blood, fear, the evidence of what had been done to him. His mind floated somewhere above the pain, disconnected in the way he’d learned to manage when endurance was the only option left.
He stared at the ceiling, at the recessed lighting Marc had installed. The lights were on their lowest setting, yet even thatdim glow felt too bright, making his eyes ache. Dimmable. Controllable. Like everything else in this room.
The door whispered open, and Henri tensed, every nerve firing at once.
No. Not again. He couldn’t. His body had nothing left to give.
“Please,” he rasped, his voice hoarse. “Please, I can’t...”
The Bosnian. It had to be him, back for more. What was his name? Had the man even said? Henri couldn’t remember. Couldn’t think past the panic clawing up his throat.
“I have Marc’s permission.”
David’s voice.
Relief surged through Henri so violently it left him shaking. Not the Bosnian. Not another round. David. The words stunned Henri into silence, his mind struggling to process what he’d heard. David stepped into view, his face pale but determined.
“What?”
“Marc said I could help you.” David was already moving toward the light panel on the wall. The recessed lighting brightened immediately, flooding the room with harsh white light.
Henri flinched back, squeezing his eyes shut against the sudden glare. Pain lanced through his skull.
“Sorry, sorry.” David quickly adjusted the dimmer, bringing the lights down to a more bearable level. Still brighter than they had been, but no longer blinding.
He crossed to the bed and began working on the knots at Henri’s wrists, his fingers quick but careful. “He went out with the man. To some bar in Fourth Cat. He told me to come help you once they left.”
Marc had never sent help. Never helped. Henri had always been left to manage his own aftermath, to clean himself up and present himself perfect and unblemished by morning. That Marchad given permission for this, had acknowledged that Henri might need care, was almost harder to process than the pain.
Unless it was a test. Unless David was here to report back on Henri’s condition, his compliance, his gratitude.
Henri’s mind raced, trying to find the trap. What was Marc testing? His willingness to accept help? His ability to maintain composure even now? Whether he’d break down in front of David, show weakness, prove he needed to be managed more carefully?
But there was nothing Henri could do. No performance that would satisfy whatever Marc was measuring. He was too broken, too raw, too exhausted to calculate the right response. If this was a test, he’d already failed it by flinching at the light, by begging before he knew who’d opened the door.
The uncertainty gnawed at him worse than the rope burns.
