11. Henri #2
Henri glanced around desperately. The London street was busy with evening foot traffic, but no one was paying attention to two well-dressed men having what looked like a normal conversation.
His own car service would be arriving any minute—he could see a black BMW turning the corner, probably his ride back to Michael’s.
“No,” Henri said, surprising himself with the steadiness of his own voice. “My car is here. I’m going home.”
Marc’s eyebrows rose slightly, as if Henri had said something amusing. “Home? Is that what you’re calling it now?”
He reached for the rear door handle. “Before you run off, I thought you might like to see who’s been keeping me company in your absence.”
He opened the LuxDrive’s door.
Inside, pressed against the far window, sat a young man Henri recognized but couldn’t immediately place.
Brown hair, nervous eyes, wearing a button-down shirt that looked expensive but ill-fitting.
The boy—because that’s what he was, really, maybe nineteen or twenty—was sitting very still, very straight, the way people sat when they were trying not to draw attention.
Henri’s memory clicked into place. “David?”
David Mitchell. The HR intern from the VP lunch. Sweet kid, eager to please.
“You remember,” Marc said pleasantly. “I was so pleased when David called, looking for you after you left PDC. Apparently, you made quite an impression during that lunch. He was hoping for some career guidance.”
Marc’s hand rested on the door frame, casual but blocking any escape route. “Of course, your phone has been... unreachable. So he called the apartment landline instead. I was happy to take the message personally.”
David’s eyes met Henri’s for just a moment before darting away. There was something desperate in that brief glance, something that made Henri’s chest tighten with familiar dread.
“Marc,” Henri said carefully, “he’s just a kid. An intern. He doesn’t have anything to do with this.”
“Doesn’t he?” Marc tilted his head with false curiosity. “You seemed quite taken with him at that lunch. Patricia was kind enough to share the details when I asked. How you made him blush, how charming you were. How you touched him.”
His voice dropped lower, more dangerous. “I thought it only fair that David get the full Henri Rohan experience.”
Henri’s car pulled up to the curb.
“That’s my ride,” Henri said.
“Cancel it.”
“I can’t just—”
“Henri.” Marc’s voice cut through. “Get in the car. Now. Or David and I will have to continue our conversation without you.”
He leaned down slightly, speaking directly to the boy in the backseat. “You’d prefer Henri came along, wouldn’t you, David?”
David nodded quickly. Henri could see his hands shaking.
“Please,” David said quietly, his voice barely audible. “Please, Mr. Rohan.”
The word ‘ please ’ hit Henri hard. How many times had he said it himself, in that same desperate tone, hoping someone would help him?
Henri closed his eyes for a moment, then opened the car app and canceled the ride.
When Henri turned back, Marc was smiling. “Good choice. Always so reasonable, Henri. It’s one of your best qualities.”
Henri got into the car, sliding in beside David. The boy pressed himself harder against the window, as if trying to disappear entirely. Up close, Henri could see the telltale signs—the carefully controlled breathing, the rigid posture, the way David’s fingers gripped the edge of the seat.
“Where are we going?” Henri asked as Marc settled into the seat beside him. “I don’t have my things with me. They’re at Michael’s.”
“I know where they are.” Marc’s smile was all teeth. “We’ll make a quick stop. Drew’s already coordinating with our pilot at Farnborough.”
Henri’s heart sank. Drew—Marc’s personal security, six feet of muscle and loyalty wrapped in expensive suits. If Drew was here, then this wasn’t some impulsive decision. Marc had planned this, had resources in place, had been watching and waiting.
The car’s autopilot engaged smoothly as they pulled into London traffic. Marc settled back in his seat, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
Marc held out his hand. “Phone.”
Henri’s fingers tightened around the device in his pocket. His lifeline. His connection to Michael, to everything he’d built here.
“Henri.”
Slowly, Henri pulled it out and placed it in Marc’s palm. Marc turned it over once, then powered it down. The screen went black.
“You won’t be needing this,” Marc said, slipping it into his jacket pocket.
“How?” Henri asked quietly.
“How what?”
“How did you know where to find me? How are you even here?”
Marc’s laugh was soft, almost fond. “Oh, Henri. Did you really think I wouldn’t keep track of my most valuable asset? I’ve known your schedule better than you have. Every meeting, every dinner, every night spent playing house.”
Henri felt the words settle over him. “You’ve been watching me.”
“I’ve been taking care of you,” Marc corrected. “Making sure you were safe. Making sure you didn’t get any permanent ideas about your temporary freedom.”
The car glided through London’s evening traffic with eerie silence. Henri stared out the window at the city he’d begun to think of as refuge, at the streets he’d walked with Michael, at the life he’d been building one small choice at a time.
“The acquisition is almost complete,” Henri said desperately. “Gabriel needs me to finish—”
“Gabriel will understand,” Marc said dismissively. “Family emergencies happen. I’m sure he’ll manage without you.”
They turned onto Michael’s street, and Henri’s chest tightened. Just hours ago, he’d left this morning thinking about what to make for dinner, whether they should watch that new series Michael had mentioned, what it would feel like to sleep in Michael’s arms again.
Now he was about to walk into that warm, safe space and pack up the life he’d been building.
They pulled up in front of the townhouse. Through the front window, Henri could see warm light in the living room where they’d spent so many evenings together.
“Remember,” Marc said softly, his hand finding Henri’s knee in a grip that looked casual but felt like iron, “David’s comfort depends on your cooperation. I’d hate for him to have an unpleasant evening because you decided to be difficult.”
Henri looked at David, who was staring at his hands, shoulders hunched. Just a kid who’d wanted career advice and had somehow fallen into Marc’s web.
“I understand,” Henri said.
“Good boy.” Marc’s fingers squeezed once before releasing him. He opened his door and stepped out, then leaned against the frame, waiting.
Henri got out of the car on unsteady legs, his keys heavy in his hand. Marc closed the door behind him with a soft click. Drew materialized from the shadows near Michael’s front door—tall, broad, wearing the kind of suit that looked expensive but was really armor.
“Mr. Rohan,” Drew nodded respectfully. “Shall we get your things?”
Henri looked back at the Helion one more time. Marc stood beside it, arms crossed, watching. Inside the car, David sat frozen.
Henri unlocked Michael’s front door and stepped inside what had been, for three weeks, the closest thing to home he’d ever known.
Together, they packed Henri’s things. They were all clean, unworn since Henri had taken to wearing Michael’s clothes almost exclusively.
At the door, Henri hesitated. “Can I leave a note?”
Drew’s jaw tightened. “Fine. Keep it short.”
Henri scribbled fast.
He folded it, propped it on the kitchen counter—too short, too rushed, but it was the best he could do under Drew’s impatient watch. A poor substitute for a real goodbye. He hovered for a beat longer than he should have, then forced himself to turn away.
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.
“Do you like them?” Marc asked again, tone almost idle. “The lace suits him, don’t you think? I had them specially made.”
Henri said nothing. Couldn’t.
Marc’s hand moved again, slow and proprietary. Not cruel. Not yet. Just enough to make Henri feel it, secondhand. Enough to remind him who held the power in this car.
“Henri used to freeze just like this,” Marc murmured, as if David weren’t even there. “The first time I had him strip, he cried. Silently, of course. Always so well-trained. So polite.”
David didn’t move. His face was blank—no fight, no resistance. Just quiet acceptance.
Henri gritted his teeth. “Please stop.”
Marc only smiled, still stroking the edge of the lace. “Why? He’s not complaining.”
Henri forced himself to look at David’s stillness, the way his hands dug into his own thighs, white-knuckled.
He wasn’t complaining.
Because he didn’t think he was allowed to.
“You’ve made your point,” Henri said. His voice was hoarse. “You don’t need to—”
“But I do.” Marc’s hand stilled. “See, Henri, if I wanted to punish you, I’d make you suffer. But that’s not what you fear anymore, is it?”
Henri closed his eyes.
“No. What scares you now is that I could ruin something innocent. That I could break someone who doesn’t even understand they’re being broken. That I could make you watch.”
Henri turned away, chest burning.
He hated him.
He hated how calm Marc was. How he spoke with the ease of someone explaining a recipe. As if none of this mattered. As if David weren’t shaking in his lap.
As if Henri hadn’t once believed that Marc’s version of love was the only one that counted.
Marc leaned in close, his lips near Henri’s ear. “You still belong to me, Henri. And so does he. Everything you touch, I can claim.”
Henri’s voice broke through the quiet, thin and shaking. “Why him?”
Marc didn’t answer right away.
He adjusted David’s shirt, then finally spoke—soft, almost bored. “Wasn’t it you who flirted with him first? You smiled. You touched him. You made him feel seen. Just enough to light the match.”
He turned his head, smiled, as if the whole thing amused him. “I’m just finishing what you started.”