Page 44 of Henrikk’s Secret

Asher straightened and stretched his back— an incidentally glorious sight as he was shirtless, his broad chest and carved muscles slicked with sweat. “She can try. Although, she has not been able to, yet.”

Henrikk froze. “Dargotika’s trying to break into your mind?”

“On a daily basis. Sometimes during the night when I’m dreaming. It’s given me splitting headaches.”

Henrikk hadn’t realised. He’d attributed Asher’s weary features and sour temperament to his unhappiness at being on the island. It hadn’t occurred to him that the dragon could force entry into their minds from this distance. “You haven’t even met her, yet.”

“Not yet,” Asher said.

“I hope you never do.” Henrikk hesitated, wanting to ask Asher one more time for the truth about Barbara’s escape. The guarded look of resolve on Asher’s face made him think better of it. Instead, he laid the weapon on the wooden platform Asher was building. Every facet of the jewelled sword gleamed and sparkled in the lantern light, making for a mesmerising sight.

It was a surreal moment, lending an air of promise and mystery to the scene. The gentle water lapped at his feet; cooler now than it was during the day. He breathed in deeply, enjoying the fresh midnight air as it awakened his senses.

He turned to leave.

“Wait,” Asher said, examining the blade intently. “That design is…unusual. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Weapon-smithing was not a topic that interested Henrikk greatly, but pretending to look at the blade was an excellent excuse to step close to Asher and peer over his shoulder. The pommel was indeed unusual in design. The curved blade might have been vampiric in style, but when Asher tilted it in the lantern’s light, it reflected a mother-of-pearl-like sheen of intricate swirls.

“Carburisation, perhaps?”

Henrikk shrugged. He didn’t know what that was. But he liked that Asher had asked him.

The general was even more fascinated by the pommel. The handle had raised, vine-like threads of gold twisting around it.

“Not vampiric, and definitely not wolven,” Asher said.

“Dwarven?” Henrikk offered distractedly, his pulse quickening with excitement at Asher’s proximity. The general’s magnificent chest radiated heat, and his masculine scent of sweat and sawdust mixed with ocean spray was intoxicating. He wanted to touch Asher.

“No, definitely not,” Asher said.

“What?” Henrikk asked, tearing his gaze away from Asher’s glistening abs.

Asher only had eyes for the weapon. “Not dwarven.”

“Ah. No, you’re probably right…” Henrikk tilted his head on the pretext of gazing at the weapon, which coincidentally brought his cheek just that bit closer to Asher’s. He could almost feel the vampire’s bristles against his bare jaw. Unlike Asher, who looked ruggedly handsome with a short beard, he’d made brave attempts to keep himself clean-shaven. Feeling bold, Henrikk traced the pommel that Asher was gripping, following a thread of gold around and around, accidentally brushing Asher’s hands. He felt a delighted jolt shiver up his spine at the touch. “Elven, perhaps?”

“Perhaps,” Asher whispered. It was a warm night, but his muscled arms were dotted with goosebumps.

A long moment passed, their breaths gentle as they stood close enough to kiss, standing almost cheek-to-cheek as they stared at the dirk. Asher wasn’t moving away. He was still angry at Henrikk, and yet, he didn’t pull away, and the prospect of all that could happen was both thrilling and terrifying at the same time.

An image flashed in his mind of Asher bending him over the wooden structure he was making and taking him from behind. Letting Asher take control was…not a horrible fantasy. Henrikk had ruled his life by staying in control, but he’d never quite appreciated how much he relied on Asher’s steady presence to achieve that.

He heard Asher swallow, though the general tried to suppress it.

Henrikk felt himself hardening and wondered if Asher was aroused too. Either way, he could now conclude that stealing the sword had been an excellent idea. If the dragon discovered its absence and barbequed him tomorrow, it would still have been worth it.

“Take it,” Asher said huskily.

Now it was Henrikk’s skin that erupted in goosebumps. “What?”

Asher cleared his throat. “The sword. You should take it back to Dargotika’s cavern. I assume that’s where you got this from? Because I didn’t see it amongst your supplies.”

He stepped away, and disappointment crushed Henrikk. His other self would have grabbed Asher and dragged him back. Would have tied him down and punished him for his indifference, for daring to reject him. How many times would he have had to fuck Asher to make him love him again? The old Henrikk would have stopped at nothing to regain Asher’s obedience, even if it meant crushing him.

But the new Henrikk could not bear the thought of hurting Asher any more than he already had. This new Henrikk was on the knife’s edge of sanity with heartache and would have died at Asher’s feet just to have the man gaze at him with love and longing one last time.

Sadly, Asher did not look at him that way anymore. In fact, he rarely looked at him at all. Strange to think that Asher had loved him of all people back in their world, but here, stranded on an island with just the two of them, the general preferred to be alone rather than endure Henrikk’s company. Seeing Asher go about his days being perfectly self-sufficient and ‘fine’ was killing him.