17. Henri
Chapter seventeen
Henri
H enri had lost track of 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 of freedom.
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 that dim 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 Marc had 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.
When David freed Henri’s wrists, he paused, staring at the raw, bleeding skin where the hemp had chewed through.
His jaw tightened as his eyes traveled down Henri’s body, taking in the mottled bruises spreading across his chest and ribs, the fingerprints darkening on his hips.
Then his gaze dropped lower, between Henri’s still spread thighs, and his breath caught.
“Jesus, you’re bleeding. You’re...”
“I know.” Henri’s voice was flat, emotionless. He’d felt the tearing, the wet warmth that meant substantial damage. “Just finish.”
David’s face went white, but he didn’t stop working.
He moved to the ankle restraint, his fingers fumbling slightly as he worked the knots free.
When the last rope fell away, Henri tried to push himself up and nearly collapsed.
His free leg wouldn’t support him, the one that had been bound, cramping violently.
His vision whited out at the edges as blood rushed to limbs that had been immobilized too long.
David caught him before he could hit the floor, stumbling under Henri’s weight. “Shit, okay, I’ve got you. I’ve got...” His hands fumbled for purchase under Henri’s arms, feet sliding on the hardwood as he tried to brace himself.
Henri was nearly a head taller, and David struggled to keep them both upright. “Just give me a second.”
Henri forced his legs to take some of his weight, gritting his teeth against the cramps that seized his muscles. Each attempt to stand properly sent fresh waves of pain through his pelvis and thighs. He leaned heavily on David, hating his own weakness but unable to do anything about it.
“Come on,” David said, his voice tight with effort. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
The walk to Henri’s bedroom felt endless.
They had to cross the entire second floor, making their way down the long hallway that connected the playroom to Henri’s private suite.
David half-carried, half-dragged him, adjusting his grip every few steps as Henri’s legs gave out.
Each step was agony, muscles screaming in protest, his vision swimming with each jarring movement.
When they finally reached Henri’s bedroom, the windows stood open to the night air.
The city sprawled below, Porte du Coeur’s lights twinkling across the darkness in patterns Henri normally found beautiful.
Now they just blurred in his vision, smearing into streaks of gold and white that made his head pound.
David wrestled him into the en-suite bath, and by the time he got Henri onto the shower bench, both of them were breathing hard. Henri was shaking so hard his teeth chattered. David braced his hands on his knees for a moment, catching his breath.
“Okay,” David said, straightening. “Okay.”
David turned on the water, angling the main showerhead away from Henri while he adjusted the temperature. He held his hand under the spray, waiting as steam began to rise, then made a small adjustment before redirecting the water toward Henri.
“Do you want me to stay?”
Henri let the spray pound against him, washing away the worst of what had been done to him. The heat was a mercy; it loosened the knots of pain in his muscles, dulled the shivers that had nothing to do with cold.
The water turned pink around his feet, then deeper shades of red as it ran down his legs.
Henri watched as it flowed and spiraled around the drain, mesmerized by the patterns it made.
Rivulets branching and merging, diluting from crimson to rose to pale pink before disappearing.
Round and round, carrying pieces of him away with each rotation.
He couldn’t look away from it, couldn’t stop tracking each swirl and eddy as though the motion itself held some answer he desperately needed.
When he glanced up, remembering David had spoken, he found David gone, and Henri was grateful for the solitude.
He leaned against the wall, letting the spray beat against his neck and chest where fingerprint bruises were already darkening.
The Bosnian. Henri still couldn’t remember his name.
He’d been careless, grabbing too hard, leaving evidence.
The marks would heal. They always did. But that didn’t erase the fact that they’d been made.
When David returned, he carried a glass of water, prescription painkillers, and the familiar jar of Smooth cream. Henri recognized the pills, something strong from Marc’s medicine cabinet. He swallowed them without question. Unconsciousness would be a gift at this point.