Page 11 of Henrikk’s Secret

Asher toppled sideways off his chair.

Henrikk lunged, hitting the floor hard as he caught Asher, protecting his head even as his own knocked against the ground.

Henrikk’s ears roared with his own silent screams, and then he gasped for air, too panicked to cry as he clutched at Asher’s body, rocking them both back and forth.

As people flooded the room, servants and guards milling about like insignificant flies, the only person who existed for him was Asher.

“I love you,” Henrikk cried, holding Asher’s cheeks and willing for his eyes to open. “I love you. I’m sorry I never said it. I’m sorry for everything.” He pressed a hard kiss to Asher’s forehead.

Don’t leave me! every part of him screamed.

“I love you,” he repeated.

His hands trembled, but a firm hand steadied his.

The hand of a guard, or a healer? Someone who dared inform him that Asher was gone?

Enraged, Henrikk’s eyes flew open, but it was Asher’s hand on his, steady even as Henrikk’s shook.

The smile Asher gave was heart-stoppingly beautiful, and for a shining second, Henrikk believed everything would be all right.

That Asher had tricked him, pretending to take the poison so that Henrikk would confess his love.

“It took death for you to admit it,” Asher murmured, eyelashes fluttering as he squeezed Henrikk’s hand.

And then his eyes shut, and his grip grew weak. How many times had Asher tried to guide him along the righteous path? And how many times had Henrikk ignored him? He’d dragged the reluctant general down dark, twisted paths, tempting evil, and leaving bloodshed and misery in their wake. There had been little to stop him because, selfishly, he’d known that Asher would follow him, always.

Would never abandon him.

“Do not abandon me now!” Henrikk gasped.

Asher’s hand fell. Henrikk tried to seize it, but the general’s limp arm was heavier than he expected, and it slipped from his grasp.

Asher was dying.

Regret filled him for the pain he’d caused Asher, and his heart bled out as if his beloved’s wounds were his own.

Chapter 2

SPLIT DECISION

Henrikk

It was too late to fix his mistake. That was the wild fear ravaging Henrikk’s insides as he stormed up the white staircase, climbing higher and higher until he reached his old suite.

There were guards at his heels, but he barked an order for them to stay outside as he burst inside the room and slammed the door shut behind him.

His attention turned to the other door—the grey one that was gilded with gold.

Barbara (who else?) had sealed it, and Henrikk hadn’t bothered trying to open it until now. Even if the witch had escaped this way, she was long gone. Besides, breaking the door’s seal would be a waste of his own magic, and he refused to pander to the witch’s cheek by indulging in whatever havoc she’d wreaked.

But everything had changed; Asher’s only hope lay beyond that door.

Henrikk inhaled a deep breath, forcing himself to calm his racing heart. He concentrated on the thrum of blood pulsing through him, the rush of air in his lungs, the jittering of his hands, and the twitch of his fingers. He tried to control his body. Only then would he be able to harness the magical energy swirling around his essence.

Alas, it was no use. The magic was not truly his, and it was impossible to command in his agitated state. Dark magic could not be tamed, and it would not serve a master it did not respect. It recoiled from his fear; the harder he tried to grasp it, the more it eluded him.

He needed to focus on clearing his mind, but all he could think of was Asher, eerily still and stiff as a board on the cleared dining table where healers had examined him. Asher’s breathing had been so shallow that Henrikk feared he was already dead. When a healer declared that he was still alive, Henrikk had collapsed to his knees with relief.