Page 94 of A Mistake of Worth
David’s hands moved over his body with the same methodical care he’d shown with Henri’s hair. Shoulders, back, arms. Each touch steady and intentional. He didn’t linger where he shouldn’t, didn’t make this into anything it wasn’t.
When David’s hands moved lower, washing between Henri’s legs, Henri heard him make a small sound. Quickly stifled, but unmistakable. Horror at what had been done, not at Henri himself.
“I’m sorry,” David whispered, his touch becoming even more gentle. “I’m so sorry.”
It should have been humiliating. Henri had been bathed before. Sometimes roughly, sometimes with the dispassionate efficiency of someone cleaning a tool. But this felt different. Steady. Intentional. David didn’t flinch from the damage he found, just worked around it with careful attention.
“You should get away from here. Away from him,” Henri said quietly, the words almost lost in the sound of water. “Before it’s too late.”
David’s hands paused. “Marc wouldn’t do this to me. This was his father’s deal, his father’s contact. Marc doesn’t...”
Henri barked a laugh. The sound turned into a coughing fit that seized his chest, made his ribs ache. He doubled over, one hand still braced against the tile, the other pressed to his mouth until the spasm passed.
They fell into silence. David’s hands resumed their work, moving through the motions with careful efficiency.
Henri caught his reflection in the glass, then David’s face behind him. The uncertainty was there, brief but unmistakable, before David looked away and focused on finishing his task.
Henri tried to say more, to warn him properly, but the words wouldn’t come. His throat closed, his vision blurred, and suddenly he wasn’t in his bathroom anymore but in Michael’s shower, Michael’s hands in his hair, Michael’s mouth on his neck.
“You’re so beautiful. So perfect.”
Not because Henri was performing perfectly, not because he was being good or useful or obedient. Just because Michael wanted him, all of him, broken pieces and all.
Henri pressed his forehead against the tile and broke apart.
The tears came silent and fast, mixing with the shower spray. He’d cried more in the past two weeks than he had in years. London had unlocked something in him, some capacity for feeling that Marc had spent decades carefully pruning away. Now it was a wound that wouldn’t close, bleeding emotion at the worst possible moments.
David stood there uncertain, his hands hovering near Henri’s shoulders but not quite touching.
“I need to...” David’s voice was quiet, carefully controlled. “I need to clean you internally. You’re bleeding and you won’t be able to reach properly.”
The humiliation of it crashed over Henri. This was somehow worse than everything else. Worse than being used, worse than being left bound and bleeding. Having David see this, having to be cleaned like an infant who couldn’t manage basic hygiene.
“Just do it,” Henri said flatly.
David’s touch was as clinical as he could make it, but Henri felt every moment of the violation anyway. The pain flared sharp and immediate, making his breath hiss between his teeth. He braced harder against the tile, fingers pressing white against thegrout. Not David’s fault. Just the reality of what this was. More bright red swirled down the drain, mixing with the water and soap, more than there had been before. Henri watched it spiral away, his mind trying to float somewhere above his body, away from the burning ache that radiated through his pelvis with each careful, necessary touch.
He forced himself to stay present, to feel every second of this. David was already struggling. If Henri disappeared into his head, David would have to bring him back, and Henri knew from experience that it could take time. Could be difficult. Could leave both of them worse off. So Henri pressed his forehead harder against the cool tile and breathed through it, counting each inhale and exhale, staying anchored in the pain.
When David stepped out of the shower, Henri could see through the water streaming down from the showerhead that David was crying. Silent tears tracking down his face even as he tried to compose himself, grabbing a towel and turning away.
Henri felt nothing for him. Not sympathy, not gratitude, not even the mild irritation he might have expected. Just a vast emptiness where emotions should be. Maybe later he’d care that David was upset. Maybe later he’d find the energy to comfort him or thank him or acknowledge what he’d done.
Right now, Henri had nothing left to give.
The painkillers were starting to work, blurring the sharp edges of everything. Henri stayed under the spray a few minutes longer, letting the heat soak into his bones, then turned off the water and stepped carefully out of the shower.
He reached for a towel, but lifting his arms above his shoulders sent sharp protests through his damaged muscles. His wrists burned where the rope had torn skin, and his shoulders screamed from hours locked in unnatural positions. He managed to pat at his chest and stomach, but his back, his legs, everything else remained wet and dripping.
David returned, dressed again in simple clothes, his face carefully blank though his eyes were still red. He took the towel from Henri’s hands without a word and began drying him with gentle efficiency. Henri stood there and let him, too exhausted to protest, too grateful for the help to feel the humiliation he knew he should.
When David finished, he set the towel aside and reached for the jar of Smooth cream on the counter. His expression had shifted back to that professional neutrality, the mask of someone performing a necessary medical task.
“Stay facing me,” David said quietly.
He began at Henri’s neck, working the cream into the fingerprint bruises there with careful attention. Henri caught sight of them in the mirror and was momentarily startled by how dark they were, how clearly they showed the shape of hands that had gripped too tight. David moved to his collarbone, where more bruises bloomed purple and yellow, then down his arms to his wrists where the rope burns were angry and raw.
Henri watched David’s face as he worked, cataloging each small flinch, each tightening of his jaw when he discovered new damage. There were bruises Henri hadn’t even registered through the haze of pain. His ribs. His hips. The inside of his forearms where he’d been held down.
