15. Henri
Chapter fifteen
Henri
H enri woke before the skyline had shifted from gray to gold, eyes opening to the familiar hush of the penthouse.
The low hum of air circulation and the faint tick of the kitchen clock.
No alarm was needed. His body rose from sleep at the same time it always had here, conditioned by years of repetition.
Coffee first. Always.
Henri padded barefoot into the kitchen, checking the machine out of habit. The timer light was off, the reservoir was draining, and the familiar drip-and-hiss of brewing coffee filled the air. He reached for three mugs from the cabinet—then froze.
The machine could only brew two cups at once, each with different settings. He’d set it last night for Marc’s coffee—light sugar, no cream—and his own, black, strong. But there were three of them now.
Henri’s hands trembled as he calculated the timing. Two minutes left on this cycle. Another three to brew David’s cup. Five minutes total if he moved fast enough.
Would Marc come down before then?
Details matter. Everything matters.
Marc’s voice echoed in his head, sharp and disappointed. Henri hadn’t adjusted. Hadn’t planned for three people in the sorry, exhausted state he’d been in the previous night. The machine was already brewing, already committed to its programmed cycle.
When it finished its cycle with a final gurgle, Henri’s hands flew, dumping the used grounds, refilling the reservoir, and jamming a new pod into place.
He set it to regular—medium strength, no additions.
He had no idea how David took his coffee, and there was no time to guess.
David could adjust it himself if needed.
The machine hummed to life again. Henri watched the dark liquid stream into the third mug, willing it to move faster. The minutes crawled by. He began plating breakfast with one eye on the coffeemaker, his movements quick and efficient, though not quite as precise as usual.
Marc’s toast was cut into perfect triangles, the eggs were soft but not runny, and the orange juice was poured exactly to the etched line on the glass.
The coffeemaker was still dripping.
Henri pulled up the order app on his phone, his fingers shaking as he scrolled quickly until he found a model that could handle four cups at once, each with its own brew settings.
Same-day delivery. He hit purchase, the quiet confirmation chime barely registering as he turned back to watch the painfully slow drip of David’s coffee.
Come on. Come on.
He heard David’s footsteps before he saw him, slower than they had been yesterday.
The faint hitch in his step wasn’t dramatic, but Henri’s trained eye caught it immediately, along with the guarded way he lowered himself onto a stool at the counter.
When his T-shirt hem rode up, Henri saw the constellation of bruises along his hipbone.
Henri had worn those marks for years. Five-finger shadows that bloomed overnight, reminders of Marc’s ownership pressed into his skin.
But he’d worn Michael’s marks too. Different ones, made with a different intent.
Michael’s mouth had left traces of worship, not possession.
Gentle bite marks that made Henri smile when he caught sight of them in mirrors.
The memory slid in sharp and uninvited: Michael’s teeth on his throat, the whispered “mine” that had felt like a gift instead of a claim.
Henri crushed the memory before it could take root. That life was over.
“I can help,” David said, reaching for one of the plates. He added a generous spoonful of hash browns beside Marc’s eggs, movements eager to please.
Henri’s body moved before his mind caught up, crossing the space, plucking the spoon from David’s hand, and scraping the food back into the serving dish. “Not for him,” he murmured, low enough not to carry. “Just eggs and toast.”
David blinked, puzzled but quick to adjust. Henri saw himself in that immediate compliance. The way David’s shoulders automatically shifted to match Henri’s posture, the careful stillness that meant: I’m listening, I’ll learn.
Every slip was a potential landmine.
The coffee machine clicked off just as Marc entered, barefoot but immaculate in navy lounge pants and a fitted shirt. Henri spoke before Marc could notice any flaw, the words a reflex born from years of preemptive damage control.
“A new coffee machine will arrive today. Four cups at once. Tomorrow breakfast will be ready all at the same time.”
Marc’s brow lifted almost imperceptibly. “Good.”
David looked between them, confusion flickering over his features, but Henri didn’t explain. He set Marc’s coffee at his right hand with the orange juice beside it, then took his own seat. David’s cup waited near his plate.
It happened fast. David reached for his coffee just as Marc lifted his, his elbow brushing Marc’s arm. Dark liquid splashed across the front of Marc’s pristine white shirt.
David’s face drained of color. “Shit, I’m—”
Henri was moving before the apology finished, paper towels in hand, his body responding to crisis with practiced efficiency.
He pressed them into Marc’s free palm, then turned for the glass staircase at a near run, taking the steps two at a time to the master suite.
A minute later, he returned with a fresh shirt.
Marc’s fingers were clamped around David’s chin.
Henri flinched, his own jaw aching in phantom sympathy. He expected the escalation. The violent upward jerk of Marc’s hand, the crack of palm against cheek, the humiliation that always followed mistakes. His body tensed, ready to witness David’s first real lesson in consequences.
But Marc’s grip stayed steady, controlled. His voice was low and deliberate. “Do you understand?”
David tried to nod, but Marc’s grip held him still. “Use your voice.”
“Yes,” David whispered.
Marc released him with something that almost looked like tenderness, turning to Henri without a ripple of tension, and accepting the clean shirt, stripping there at the table. Henri took the ruined one to the laundry, his hands shaking slightly as he held the fabric.
The wrongness of it burned in his throat.
He’d made that same mistake before, more than once, during their teens, at university.
Every time, Marc had upended the mug over his head, the scald burning his scalp and skin, coffee running down his face, while Marc’s hand cracked across his cheek.
There had never been a quiet correction.
Never patience. Never that gentle release.
Marc’s restraint with David felt like watching someone else’s life, some alternate version where Marc had learned kindness.
The thought made Henri’s skin crawl.
They finished the meal in brittle silence, and when the plates were cleared, Marc moved to the couch, turning on the television. David followed automatically, and Marc pulled him in close, his arm draped across David’s shoulders like it belonged there.
Henri stayed in the kitchen, clearing plates, rinsing them, and stacking them neatly in the dishwasher.
Every movement was precise, a product of ingrained muscle memory.
The familiar routine should have been soothing, but instead it felt like performance art.
Playing the role of the perfect domestic while his replacement was being groomed on the couch.
When the last glass was in place, he stepped into the living room and froze.
David’s head rested in Marc’s lap, his lips wrapped loosely around Marc’s cock, the slow, steady motion less about urgency than possession.
Marc wasn’t even watching him. His eyes were on the television across the room, attention half on whatever show was playing, half on the lazy rhythm of David’s mouth.
One hand idly stroked through David’s hair, the other cradled the back of his neck in a grip that could almost pass for tenderness.
David’s eyes were closed, jaw relaxed, his whole body angled toward Marc like he belonged there.
He wasn’t just servicing Marc. He was settled there, comfortable.
Henri knew what it was to kneel between Marc’s legs.
He’d done it countless times, always on his knees on hard floors, always with Marc’s hand fisted brutally in his hair, always with the threat of choking if he didn’t perform perfectly.
Never like this. Never lying comfortably on soft cushions.
Never with Marc’s gaze softened like that, never with the gentling stroke of fingers that looked like love.
The serenity on David’s face was worse than fear would have been. Fear could be overcome. But this looked like contentment. Like David was learning to find peace in it.
“I’m going to check work emails,” Henri said finally, his voice carefully neutral.
Marc didn’t look at him. “Do not message Michael or Gabriel. I’ll know.”
Henri’s reply came easily, too easily, sliding back into old patterns of speech without conscious thought. “Understood.”
He hated how natural the word felt on his tongue.
The office was cool and still, with the faint scent of polished wood settling around him.
Henri buried himself in sorting emails, but the normalcy of corporate communication felt surreal.
Messages about quarterly reports and board meetings, as if he were still the same person who’d left London just days ago.
His assistant asking about Monday’s schedule. A client requesting a follow-up call.
He typed careful, professional responses, maintaining the facade of his CFO persona while his world crumbled in the next room. The cognitive dissonance was nauseating. Pretending everything was normal while watching his replacement being trained.
Because that’s what David was, wasn’t it?