Page 1 of Henrikk’s Masquerade

Chapter 1

COSTUMES

Asher

It was late afternoon when the sedative finally wore off. The Garden Room had grown dark and grey in the fading light, and Asher felt cold and stiff as he struggled to his feet. His insides were incredibly sore, which was evidence of the treatment King Henrikk had administered.

The attack had taken him by surprise. Henrikk had somehow found him, drugged him, and forcefully fucked him right here in the deep shadows of the bay laurel.

Having to contend with Henrikk was the last thing Asher had expected when he’d entered the Garden Room. The dim grove in the room’s far corner was thick with lush vegetation, and its solitude had made it seem like a safe place to have a meal. Now, Asher’s food plate lay broken nearby, his hand axe was wedged into the thick tree, and his mental disarray was in a similar state to his clothes.

As was becoming routine, Henrikk had left him in a worse state than he’d found him: his jumper was torn from Henrikk’s knife, and his trousers were sticky from cum—his, and Henrikk’s. Asher hoisted them up and refastened his belt with shaking fingers.

He swallowed hard as he remembered the way Henrikk had touched him. The way he’d stroked his cock. Not briefly, not accidentally, and not just to tease him…

But purposefully, grasping it with intention, pumping him for minutes on end until Asher’s body was riveted with desire, and he came so fucking hard that he thought he would die. Until pure, indescribable pleasure had engulfed him, and he’d spilled his load where he lay.

It was the first time Asher had reached fulfilment since their first encounter in the Throne Room before the whole court. Here, in the private shadows of the trees, bushes, and stone walls, Asher had felt just as self-conscious as he had all those weeks ago before his peers. Because Henrikk’s scrutiny was worth a thousand prying eyes. The king unnerved him, confused him, and challenged him, and Asher found it addictive.

Every touch, every stroke, every squeeze that Henrikk’s beautiful, slender hands had applied to his manhood had been torturous bliss. Asher had melted beneath Henrikk’s attention, and sedative or not, he lay in a shivering heap once the king was done.

It was quiet now, and Asher was alone again.

It was not the same deathly silence that had filled the room when Henrikk had first entered, stalking him through the room as Asher lay in wait. There was no peaceful feeling of contentment, which he might have felt had Henrikk stayed to hold him in the aftermath of their pleasure.

No, there was an emptiness to the room now, the dank musty smell of plants the only sign of life. Asher had lain on the floor for what felt like hours as drugged sleep tugged at him. His soft breathing had fogged the air, and he’d barely had the energy to curl up into a ball for warmth as he waited for the drug to pass through his system. With each second that passed, he’d felt Henrikk’s absence keenly.

Finally, he had the strength to stand. To straighten his clothes. To smooth his blond hair, his scalp stinging where Henrikk had gripped handfuls of it. Asher seized the axe by its handle and ripped it free of the tree.

The axe chop had been ‘a warning’. That’s what he’d told Henrikk after he’d swung the axe mere inches from his head. It had been an effective way to send a message. Brute strength was something that Henrikk could understand. Surely, seeing the blade flash before the tip of his nose would jolt something in Henrikk. Asher had wanted to remind the king of just how close he was to the death he courted. He’d hoped it would inspire Henrikk to rethink his actions and choose life—a good life.

A life with me.

Even now, his heart beat hopefully.

At the very least, it should have ended the bizarre game he was inflicting upon them both, one where there were no winners.

Ending the game was the only victory Asher was interested in. And by swinging the axe, Asher thought he’d won. That he’d proved to Henrikk that while he was capable of killing him, he simply didn’t want to.

But the king hadn’t learnt.

As always, Henrikk had been one step ahead, and the kiss—

He felt an unpleasant jolt at the memory of Henrikk leaning in, the way he’d had to tip his head at an angle due to his height.

Our first kiss.

It was soft, simple, and tender, making Asher’s stomach fill with butterflies as warm elation rushed through him.

Yes, finally, he’d thought as the hard, thin, cruel lips he’d dreamt about had coaxed his mouth open ever so slightly. Those hard lips, as it turned out, were more than capable of being gentle.

Asher’s chest had swollen with hope, and all of his thoughts and doubts were immediately suspended.

This. This was what he’d wanted. What he’d craved for so long. Even after he’d finally accepted that Henrikk didn’t think of him that way—and never would—Asher hadn’t stopped wanting him.

Henrikk was a deeply flawed man, but he was also strong, clever, commanding, and astonishingly complicated. Asher had spent years trying to figure him out, only to concede that the inner workings of his mind were an unsolvable mystery.

But the kiss…