7. Henri
Chapter seven
Henri
H enri stared at his banana pancakes, the scent of cinnamon and browned butter drifting up from the plate.
They were perfect, golden and fluffy, but each bite turned to paste in his mouth.
His phone sat dark and silent beside his plate, screen face down, but the messages from last night played on a loop behind his eyes.
Don’t forget the toy tomorrow, mon petit. I expect you to wear it all day.
Acknowledge my message.
Your silence will be punished appropriately.
He could still feel the pressure of the toy in his hand, the slick chill of the lube, the silent panic curling around his ribs as he stared at it the night before, willing it to vanish.
Michael sat beside him at the breakfast island, furiously typing on his laptop, a mug of coffee forgotten at his elbow. “Bloody hell, Rhys,” he muttered, jabbing at the keyboard. “How does he do GIS work on a thirteen-inch display? This is useless.”
A smile tugged at Henri’s mouth despite everything.
He watched Michael over the rim of his mug, something warm blooming in his chest. The messy hair, the mismatched flannel pajama pants, the absolute exasperation in his voice.
It should have felt jarring in a sleek townhouse, but instead it made Henri feel safe.
The moment could stretch out, normal and real.
But then his gaze drifted to the phone beside his plate. And to the toy upstairs in his bag.
He could just take it. Slip it into his pocket while Michael was distracted with his work. Get it in before the meeting. Marc would never know he hadn’t worn it the entire morning.
Except he would. Marc always knew.
Henri’s stomach turned. It would be easier to obey. To give in now, avoid the anger later.
Michael’s voice cut into his thoughts, gentle but firm. “What are you thinking about so hard?”
Henri jumped, his coffee sloshing dangerously in the mug. “Sorry, I—”
“Don’t apologize.” Michael’s eyes flicked up from the screen, concerned. “Tell me.”
Something in that voice made Henri shiver. Not because it was cold, but because it was steady. Certain.
“I was... I was thinking about taking the toy with me anyway,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.
Michael’s fingers stilled on the keyboard. He set his coffee down slowly, then turned fully in his seat to face Henri. His frown was slight, but it deepened the lines at the corner of his mouth.
“You’re not taking it,” he said.
Henri looked down at his coffee, fingers tightening around the mug.
“I haven’t...” Henri’s voice cracked, shame knotting low in his stomach. “I haven’t purposefully disobeyed him since I was seventeen.”
Michael’s expression tightened for a moment before he schooled it. “Tell me what happened.”
“I’d been invited to this café in the Fourth Cat. Some classmates were going, casual, just coffee. Marc said no, but I went anyway. He was supposed to be out of town, meeting clients with his father.” Henri’s gaze dropped to the steam curling from his coffee. “But he found out.”
Another pause. “He was furious. I missed three months of polo that season.”
His throat tightened unexpectedly. “That was years ago, but...” He swallowed.
“I haven’t ridden in months,” he added, softer.
His voice grew distant, wistful. “I used to live for it, you know? The way the horse springs beneath you, the split-second decisions, the feeling of being one with this powerful creature. It was my refuge. The only place I felt truly free.”
He swallowed hard. “I thought about joining a local field hunting club last year. Nothing serious, just weekend rides. I mentioned it to Marc, thinking he’d approve, it’s very respectable, upper-class.
But suddenly he decided riding was making my thighs too muscular.
Said it wasn’t good for my figure anymore.
” Henri’s laugh was hollow. “Marc prefers sleek forms on his partners. Riding was the last thing that was just mine. And he took that too.”
Michael’s voice was tight with barely controlled anger. “You should start riding again.”
Henri scoffed, a bitter sound. “You have no idea what Marc is capable of.”
“No,” Michael said. “I don’t think I do. Because you haven’t finished the story yet, have you?”
Henri’s face went pale. He was quiet for a long moment, then his voice came out flat and distant.
“He dislocated my shoulder.”
Michael’s tone sharpened slightly. “How?”
Henri hesitated, then glanced up briefly before returning his gaze to the coffee. “He made me sleep with my arms bound behind my back. Said I needed to remember my place.” His fingers flexed around the mug. “When he tied them, he yanked up. Hard. It popped.”
A beat passed.
“I’ve made other mistakes before that,” he continued, quicker now, as if he could outrun the silence. “And after. It’s how you learn the rules, isn’t it? By crossing them. Punishments... that’s how I learned where the lines were.”
Michael didn’t answer, and the silence made Henri defensive. “It wasn’t even the worst punishment,” he added, shaking his head. “Just the last time I disobeyed him. Publicly.”
Michael’s voice was deceptively neutral. “What do you mean publicly?”
Henri frowned faintly. “It was... I went into public. Without permission. That was the problem.”
“So he told you no, in public?”
“No.” Henri blinked, confused. “He told me no at home.”
“And the disobedience was...?”
“I went out. In public. Without him. Which embarrassed him publicly.”
Michael stared at him.
Henri looked away, heat creeping up his neck. “I know it doesn’t make sense to you.”
“Because it doesn’t make sense, Henri.”
“It makes sense to him.” Henri’s voice dropped. “Which means it has to make sense to me.”
“He deliberately dislocated your shoulder as punishment for having coffee with friends. And then he made you sleep that way.” Michael stated it flatly, his rage evident despite his calm tone.
“Well, I couldn’t sleep,” Henri laughed bitterly.
“Henri.” Michael’s voice gentled, though Henri could still hear the underlying anger. “Listen to what you’re saying. He hurt you for having coffee with friends. He’s taken away something you love. That’s not love. That’s not even friendship.”
Henri looked away. “You don’t understand. Marc... he needs structure. Rules. Without them, he spirals. And when I break them—”
“When you break them, he breaks you. He tortures you.”
Henri opened his mouth to protest, to explain.
But Michael cut him off. “What would you say if someone treated Jean the way Marc treats you?”
Henri flinched. “That’s different. Jean’s just a kid.”
“You were just a kid,” Michael said. “You were only seven when Marc started laying claim to you.”
Henri swallowed hard. “He didn’t start hurting me right away.”
That didn’t make it better, and they both knew it.
Michael reached out, fingers gentle as he turned Henri’s face back toward him. “None of this is normal, Henri. None of it is okay.”
Henri’s eyes burned. “I don’t know how to be anything else,” he whispered. “I don’t know who I am without him.”
Michael didn’t let go of his hand. “Then let me help you find out.”
Henri’s gaze flicked up, searching Michael’s face, trying to find disbelief or disgust or pity. There was none.
Michael gave his hand the smallest squeeze. “Starting with today,” he said. “You’re going into those meetings as yourself. No toy. No Marc. Just you, being brilliant at your job.”
Henri didn’t feel brilliant. He felt unstable, gripping the edge of the table to keep from falling. But something about the way Michael said it, as though it were a fact, not a hope, made him want to believe it.
Even if it was just for a day.
Michael shifted, his hand sliding from Henri’s cheek to cup the back of his neck. “I’ve arranged for a car service to take you to your meetings.”
“Oh, I have my rental at the Dorchester—”
“Leave the keys. I’ll have one of our admins pick it up and bring it here.” Michael’s tone brooked no argument. “When you finish each meeting, I want you to text me. Just to check in. Can you do that?”
Henri nodded slowly. “I can.”
“I wish I could be with you today, but I know you can do this.” Michael squeezed gently at the nape of his neck. “You’ve done it countless times before.”
“I have,” Henri said, his voice steadier. “I’ve handled client meetings, led town halls, managed my VPs...” A small smile touched his lips. “This is something I can do. I can, and I will.”
Michael kissed him. Deep, grounding, warm with the taste of banana pancakes and coffee. When they broke apart, he pressed his forehead to Henri’s. “Go shower and change. The car will be here in thirty minutes.”
Henri stood, lingering just long enough to squeeze Michael’s hand before heading upstairs.
By the time Michael appeared in the bedroom doorway, Henri had already dressed in his usual charcoal suit and crisp white shirt. He was buttoning the collar when Michael paused, then turned toward his closet.
“Wait,” Michael said. He pulled out a deep-blue silk shirt and held it up. “Wear this instead.”
Henri’s brows lifted as he stepped closer, reaching out to touch the fabric. It was soft, fine enough to make him hesitate. “It’s beautiful.”
“The color matches your eyes,” Michael said simply. “And I like the idea of you wearing something of mine.”
Henri flushed at the admission, but something in him relaxed. He began unbuttoning the white shirt without thinking. The silk was cool against his skin as he slipped it on, luxurious in a way that made him feel oddly exposed.
He paused in front of the mirror. The color did bring out his eyes, intensifying the pale blue until they nearly glowed. His complexion looked warmer by contrast. He looked striking.
Too striking.
Marc would’ve hated it.