Page 7 of Henrikk’s Secret

Do not love me, Asher. Love the memory of me if you must. But let the monster in me go.

His cock swelled to epic proportions, aching with lust and need. Henrikk pounded Asher several more times before finishing hard, slamming into him until he was balls deep and roaring his release.

A cataclysm of sensations tore through him as he came, leaving him gasping for air and drained of energy. He shuddered as he shot jets of cum into Asher’s ass, his vision flashing blinding white with pain and bliss as if the afterlife itself was greeting him. In the aftermath, his courage deserted him, the excitement that had been the driving force behind his motives dissipating in an instant.

A chilling horror seized him as he stared down at Asher’s bent head, sculpted neck, and hunched shoulders.

What have I done?

Another line crossed, more irreversible than the last.

It was terrible, but this was the victory he’d wanted: There was no way Asher could love him now. Whatever had been between them had been broken forever. No relationship was inexhaustible. Not that between a king and his subject, or a husband and wife. Not even that of a mother and child.

So what hope was there for a tenuous, fragile relationship such as theirs? Held together by a fine thread that Henrikk had tried to cut many, many times?

For some reason, Asher had always found a reason to hold on.

Asher was still bent over the table, unmoving except for the rise of his shoulders as he panted.

Henrikk stumbled back several steps, wanting to snatch at a chair, a shelf, the wall, anything that would help stop his world from spinning out of control and crashing violently against the stone floor.

The general drew a ragged breath, head still bowed. “This…is the last time I let you do this to me,” he growled.

Henrikk stared, unable to look away as Asher tried to rise from the table, his powerful arms shaking.

What.

Have.

I.

Done?!

Asher failed to stand. Or perhaps, he gave up trying because he slid down, slumping on the floor ungracefully.

Henrikk stepped closer and gazed down, fighting the urge to help him up. “Look at me.”

Slowly, Asher lifted his gaze.

By the time their eyes met, Henrikk had drawn himself to his full height, a cold sneer in place. His vulnerability hidden. “Well? Don’t just sit there. Get up.”

Monster, a whispering echo travelled through him. Evil.

A tiny voice inside him wanted to protest ‘I’m not,’ which drew a bitter laugh from his throat.

Asher’s demeanour crumpled at the sound of that laugh. He didn’t speak a word, but his sad eyes shuttered as he stared at Henrikk with a look of condemnation and betrayal.

That was when Henrikk knew that he’d won. Not just the battle, but the entire fucking war for Asher’s heart. He hadn’t won it fairly. Asher had given it freely, and Henrikk had torn it from his chest and destroyed it. It was very likely that Asher would never love again. That he would be unable to trust anyone again—and even if he managed it, he would have no love left to give.

Because Henrikk had taken it all.

The victory tasted like ash in his mouth, sharp and acrid on his tongue and stinging the back of his throat as he swallowed.

I need a drink.

There was only one drink that could rid him of this terrible taste of wickedness forever. He would have to drink it quickly—before the full revulsion of what he’d done to Asher caused him to double over and vomit his insides up.

And Asher just…stared with those sad eyes.