Page 2 of Henrikk’s Masquerade

The kiss.

It was the answer to everything: the solution to all the questions that had plagued his heart; the culmination of all the moments they’d shared together, from lying in muddy trenches to wearing the finest silks in palaces.

The kiss had changed everything.

Just as Asher knew it would. It excused everything that had been and forgave all that had not. That one simple touch of Henrikk’s lips awakened Asher, causing hope to seep into the depths of his soul as Henrikk’s breath mingled with his.

It was the promise of something Asher had long given up dreaming of, a desire that seemed so fanciful that the mere thought of it brought him shame: Henrikk’s love.

But the kiss was a trap, and the drug coating the king’s lips had quickly incapacitated him.

And then…

And then Henrikk had taken advantage of him. Pulled his trousers down and pushed inside.

Just because he could.

The sting of Henrikk’s deceit and betrayal had hurt more than the thrusts of his cock, and Asher felt his heart shrink smaller with each blow.

I don’t know how much more I can take.

But there was nowhere else for him to go.

Nowhere is safe.

That was the thought pulsing through him as Henrikk fucked him slowly. If the king could find him in the deserted Garden Room, he could find him anywhere in the castle.

Unless I escape.

The possibility of leaving Wintermaw hardly occurred to him. It was unthinkable.

Asher took a step towards the Garden Room’s exit and hissed in pain.

His rear was extremely sore, more than it ever had after Henrikk’s frequent violations. It served as a reminder of where Henrikk had invaded him, delivering blow after blow as the ghostly shadows of plants and trees in the Garden room stretched.

And he didn’t use any lubricant, the bastard. Would it have killed him to at least wet his dick with saliva?

“I might actually have to fucking kill you, Henrikk,” Asher grumbled, trudging across the room. Every muscle ached, and not just from Henrikk’s mistreatment of him.

The room was poorly insulated, and the howling wind had whistled inside through crevices to chill him to the bone as he lay sedated. He’d been lying here in a state of undress for at least a few hours, judging by the way the dark grey sky had finally succumbed to black.

There was powdery snow sparkling on the window ledge, he noticed absently. He might have appreciated it more if he wasn’t so damn cold.

Asher exited to the Gallery. It was deserted, too, but as he trudged through the castle, he passed several noble women decked out in jewellery, elaborate dresses, and feathered masks, giggling as they fanned themselves.

The masquerade ball, he remembered faintly. That would be starting soon, and Henrikk expected him to be there.

Well, he can expect away.

Asher reached the ghostly-white staircase and began the arduous trek up to the royal suite. He had the freedom to go where he pleased now, but there seemed little point in setting up a new base when Henrikk’s spies clearly reported back his movements.

Besides, he’d left his trove of weapons up there, which he was supposed to be utilising to kill Henrikk.

And then there was the bed.

He had mixed feelings about the massive four-poster. It was far too large for a single man, but it was the bed he’d shared with Henrikk, brief as those visits were. The time Henrikk stayed after finishing inside him before pushing off never spanned more than a few seconds. Even so, Asher clung to those precious moments like a lifeline—morsels of Henrikk’s companionship were better than nothing.

Because he had nothing else in his life.