Page 19 of Henrikk’s Masquerade

Asher’s voice murmured in his ear. “Don’t worry, Henrikk. I shall finish both of us.”

“Finish…both of us?” he gasped, his mind scrambling to understand Asher’s meaning.

Because he couldn’t possibly mean…

He had to be referring to killing him.

A knife to the gut. A slice of the throat. A punctured heart. Or several stab wounds, to bleed him out slowly.

Death. That was the objective.

But Asher did not kill him. He hauled him backwards through the endless maze, round corners and through corridors.

Henrikk was panicking too much to try and make sense of the reflections, unable to comprehend that the pitiful vampire taken captive was him.

The rustle of fabric, soft velvet on his skin. Cold air chilled him, but Asher’s body warmed him.

They were outside on the balcony.

Asher swivelled them around so that Henrikk was facing the balustrade.

For a second, Henrikk thought Asher was going to push him over the edge. It would have been a relief that the general was going to follow through on his promise, except the fall might not be enough to kill him, not unless he landed on his neck. They were not very far up.

His stomach twisted, but before he could protest, Asher spoke, his voice gentle, his breath warm in his ear.

“I love you, Henrikk, you fucking idiot. You must know that I love you. Let me show you. Let me love you.”

Henrikk’s fear of death vanished as fear of the alternative—of living, and worse, of losing control, of being used, of being made to feel emotions beyond his reckoning compounded.

And the worst fear of all: the fear of feeling love.

The bow remained around his neck, the tension taut. Asher pressed himself close…too close. Something rigid pressed against his ass.

The man is aroused, Henrikk realised.

He couldn’t breathe. His muscles tensed, his heart pounded in his chest, his body wild and erratic, ready to flee. But Asher held him tightly, pushing him against the bannister so the hard stone pressed into his stomach.

And suddenly, the greatest betrayal of all. Not a knife. Not a blow to the back of the head. Not even strangulation.

A caress. A gentle touch of Asher’s strong, masculine hands as they brushed the side of his cheek.

Who knew a touch so soft could tear his soul wide open?

He broke.

Every hard part of him fell away, like a fort of iron and stone held together by string.

Like a fucking house of cards, he collapsed.

And there was nothing there.

Nothing to salvage.

Nothing to love.

Asher would see that the person he’d loved for so many years had long departed, and the person left to kill only held the memory of goodness.

For the first time in his life, Henrikk wept.