Henrikk's Prisoner: A Very Spicy Dark

MM Vampire Romance Darcy Fayton

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Henrikk's Prisoner
(Book 2 of Henrikk's Short Stories)

Darcy Fayton
Copyright © 2024 by Darcy Fayton

All rights reserved.

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
 Contents

Content Warnings
1. GAMES
2. USED
3. TEACHING A LESSON
4. FORTITUDE
Read the next book
 Content Warnings

Dear pet,
This is Book 2 of Henrikk's Short Story Series. But you knew that already, didn't you?
This one contains more of the things you like. It's dark, depraved, and spicy, delving deeper into Asher and Henrikk's unusual
relationship in Wintermaw Keep.
Please note, however, that these chapters contain SA. There will be more emotional and heartfelt moments later in this
series, with just a dash of redemption, and I hope you will find a little humour along the way. BUT for the time being, the
characters are in a dark place.
For a more extensive list of content warnings, please refer to the start of Book 1.
As always, your mental health matters. If you find this content triggering, it's okay to put the book down and read something
else. Truly.
Sending love to all my loyal pets,
Darcy.
Optional Housekeeping:
Add it to your Goodreads shelf
Follow me on instagram @darcyfaytonauthor
Author website: linktr.ee/darcyfayton
 CHAPTER 1

GAMES

Asher

THE HUBBUB OF THE crowded faded as the guards hauled Asher away through the darkened halls. The toes of his boots
scuffed the polished wood as the guards dragged him round a corner.
Out of sight of the King and court, the guards untied him and allowed him to pull up his trousers before marching him through
the deserted foyer.
Up ahead, a ghostly white marble staircase awaited, new and out of place amongst the timber. The rustic castle exuded a
quiet strength, with stone walls that were framed with thick beams that had stood the test of time.
Wintermaw Keep had been the home of the royal wolf family before Henrikk took over. The Vampire King was determined
to transform his new home, imposing a vision of grandeur and luxury, which extended the castle up into the sky. His
commissioned renovations were still underway, but he had already added several floors and towers to the ancient structure.
The circular marble staircase led them up.
Henrikk’s suite was somewhere at the very top of the exhausting, endless flight of stairs. It was probably why the guard
allowed him to walk on his own two feet. They still kept a firm grip on his arms, but there was no need.
Asher had no intention of running. His fate had been tied to Henrikk’s since the moment they’d met. Even if Henrikk did not
realise it.
They climbed higher through the Keep, passing hundreds of mirrors and pieces of modern artwork with gaudy, splashy
colours, which in some places overlaid the wolf family tree tapestries that Henrikk hadn’t bothered to burn.
The juxtaposition of old and new was disorientating, and Asher couldn’t decide if the new constructions and decor were
ingenious or disturbing.
When it came to Henrikk, it was usually both.
The highest floor had several guards stationed at each door—he recognised each face of the men who’d served under his
command, and he knew them well enough to spot the pity they tried to hide. The floors and walls gleamed with glossy white
marble streaked with grey, and crystal chandeliers hung slightly askew as if the ceiling was off-kilter. Henrikk’s door was
painted pure white like a dove but was trimmed with stark red. The colours suited him, Asher thought grimly.
He was looking forward to sitting down. His ass was sore where Henrikk had taken him forcefully, and every step he took
hurt. His chest felt hollow, his mind a confused mess of emotions. He’d expected Henrikk to punish him, but the actual mode of
punishment had shocked him, reaching a new level of depravity even for Henrikk.
It broke his heart. He’d long since buried the idea of a relationship between himself and Henrikk, whether a rekindled
friendship or something more.
But it was only over the past few months that Asher had noticed drastic changes to Henrikk’s personality. Before, he’d
simply been charismatic and driven, his carelessness sometimes bordering on callousness, as was sometimes the case with
ambitious people. Asher had slowly watched his friend deviate from the leader he could have been to the terrifying autocrat
he’d become. It pained him to see Henrikk squander this opportunity to do good, and Asher’s heart was heavy with the
knowledge that he’d helped such a man come to power. But despite all the cruelty he’d witnessed and the harsh orders he’d
carried out, he couldn’t make himself leave.
And Henrikk was the reason why.
Asher nurtured a tiny ember of hope that things would be different, given time. Now that Henrikk was king and had the
kingdoms under his control, surely he could temper his methods in the interest of promoting prosperity and peace.
He hoped he wasn’t lying to himself.
The guards opened the red-trimmed door and pushed Asher inside a sitting room.
Asher scanned the room quickly and gave a low scoff. Henrikk’s suite was new, and Asher hadn’t been inside before, but it
was utterly predictable. The furnishings were sparse but regal. Everything felt sterile, and the air smelled of fresh paint and
bleach. The wall had an ornate carving of a fireplace that was pure decoration, and the room was cold enough to chill him to
the bone, even through his fur-lined winter uniform. The windows were barred, even though they were high up on the wall.
Does Henrikk frequently keep prisoners?
There was no evidence of it that Asher could see, but he wouldn’t put it past Henrikk.
One of the guards made to shut the door, but Asher called out, “Wait.”
The guard hesitated, his eyes darting to Asher’s face before dropping back down, a pink tinge appearing on his cheeks.
He’s embarrassed for me.
Asher’s chest tightened. Lifting his chin, he said in an impassive voice, “I’ll require my writing box to finish an important
letter for the treasurer.”
It was bullshit, of course, but his portable desk, with its sloping surface and drawers, contained more than just parchment
and quills. There was a gold-nibbed pen in a hidden compartment that he’d received from Henrikk himself.
It was a potential weapon—a rather fitting one if he could get his hands on it.
The guard looked conflicted. “I’m not sure I can do that, sir.”
“Do not forget the ink pot,” Asher said sternly, half-turning away, as though he had every confidence the guard would comply
with his request. How far did the weight of his authority go now that Henrikk had knocked him down several pegs?
“I’ll…ask,” the guard said reluctantly. “You are to stay here in the king’s suite, no exceptions.” He shut the door with a snap.
Asher bowed his head and sighed.
It was worth a try.
Pulling his fur collar closer around his neck, he explored the room, trying to ignore the dampness in his trousers, both in the
crotch and oozing from his rear.
He still couldn’t believe what Henrikk had done to him. It was horrific and surreal, like a terrible nightmare that couldn’t
possibly be true.
There had been a time, years ago, when he’d yearned for Henrikk’s touch. To think of him in a way that was romantic. To
desire him.
But he’d never imagined anything like the spectacle in the Throne Room. His secret sexual fantasies with Henrikk had not
involved something so intense.
In recent years, Asher hadn’t thought of Henrikk as anything but his superior commander and—even more recently—king.
The assault had brought the past surging back to his mind. A past he didn’t want to think about.
Couldn’t think about.
Asher crossed the room to the only other door—this one grey and gilt with gold.
No sooner had he touched the handle than it burnt him. He gasped in pain and snatched his hand back, staring at the reddened
skin of his palm. He tested the door surface, but it was as cool as the rest of the room.
He tried the doorknob again in various ways: with the back of his hand; whilst holding a cloth; he even lay down and tried
twisting it with his feet out of sheer desperation. Each time, it was his palms that burned.
After sustaining several red burn marks, he gave up and continued to explore the room. It was larger than it needed to be for
the amount of furniture there was, and there was a limited supply of potential weapons. The armchairs had sturdy legs, but they
were too heavy to wield effectively, and of course, the false fireplace had no poker or shovel.
He spent half an hour trying to loosen one of the legs of a turned chair, without any luck. Breaking the chair could loosen a
leg, but as Asher hoisted it up high, he hesitated.
What was he going to do with a makeshift club?
Kill Henrikk?
That was the point, of course.
But he didn’t have it in him to do that in cold blood. In self-defence, maybe, but what then? He’d be a dead man for
murdering the king.
Feeling deflated, Asher set the chair down and circled the room one more time. Finding nothing of interest that could help
him escape, he sank into an armchair and winced. The upholstery was plush, and he might have been quite comfortable had he
worn clean clothes...and had the king not destroyed his ass.
Suddenly, the white door swung open, revealing Henrikk. He eyed Asher guardedly before his face contorted into a
condescending expression, his thin lips twitching in a smirk, his pale grey eyes glimmering.
His eyes used to be blue, like mine, Asher thought to himself.
Henrikk spoke. “Making yourself at home, I see.”
Asher did not stand. He saw no advantage in it. Henrikk would retaliate against anything he perceived as a challenge.
Making a dash for the door would never work—there were too many vampire guards in Wintermaw, and he was unarmed.
Besides, the sight of Henrikk did not frighten him like it should have. Asher’s stomach twisted, and every hair on his body
raised as chills ran down his spine, but he did not feel compelled to run.
Whatever Henrikk wanted, Asher would face him head-on. Just like he always had.
Henrikk stepped into the room, plucking at the fingertips of his purple velvet gloves as he painstakingly removed them. His
matching cape brushed the tiles behind him. He’d evidently changed somewhere else in the castle because the trousers he’d
worn in the Throne Room were gone; in their place, black and silver robes pooled at his feet.
The door shut behind him with a resounding click.
“We’re all alone,” Henrikk chuckled, clutching his gloves in one hand. He leant against the wall where the mantel should
have been: there was just a thin ledge jutting out of the wall, barely wide enough for the glass tealight holder that Asher had
already itemised as a potential weapon. “Whatever shall we do with our time?”
Henrikk’s lazy drawl did not fool him. The vampire never leant or slouched, or so much as let a hint of informality into his
posture. He always remained rigid, every moment and movement calculated and deliberate. But he was making a show of
looking relaxed now, which meant he was nervous.
Useful information.
“You’ve changed your clothes,” Asher noted in his deep voice, “But evidently not here in your suite.”
A flash of annoyance flickered to life on Henrikk’s face before he smoothed it away. “I’ve relocated to another suite that
better suits my needs.”
“And give up the royal suite?” Asher asked, speaking with a candidness he hadn’t used with Henrikk in years.
Henrikk’s eye twitched before he gestured fluidly at the sparse room. “It is no small sacrifice, to be sure. But I wished to
free up this space for you, my dear prisoner. The highest room in the tallest tower.”
It was obviously a lie; there had been no time to clear out the room, and Asher was positive that Henrikk would not have
given up his new royal suite unless he’d been forced to.
Asher cocked his head at Henrikk. “Does it have something to do with the burning door handles? Is that why you moved?”
“Perhaps,” Henrikk sniffed, tossing his gloves behind him. They landed neatly on a black-and-white checked coffee table
that Asher had already discovered was mysteriously immovable as if stuck to the floor. “A game?”
Asher frowned. “A game?”
“Chess,” Henrikk said, taking hold of a chair’s top rail and turning it elegantly to face the table before seating himself. He
produced a pouch and emptied dozens of clinking chess pieces onto the table. “See if I can’t take you down in other ways.”
The implication hit Asher like a jab, reminding him of their earlier encounter. The way Henrikk had moved against him, hips
slamming forward repeatedly.
His heavy breathing.
The groan he gave as he orgasmed, the sound mingling with Asher’s own strangled cries.
His mouth was dry, and Asher rose from his chair purely to mask his speechlessness. But he didn’t move closer.
Henrikk must have read something on his face because his lips curled ever so slightly. “Come now, I won’t bite.”
Asher’s feet felt like lead as he crossed the room.
“Nah-ah-ah!” Henrikk chided when Asher reached for a chair. He pointed at the floor before the coffee table. “Kneel for
me.”
It was Asher’s turn to smile.
Such a cheap tactic even for you, Henrikk.
Asher ignored the king’s instruction and dragged a chair over, letting it scrape noisily against the tiles before seating himself.
Henrikk’s features were carefully composed, but his eyes were livid. He took hold of two pawns—one black, one white—
and placed his hands behind his back. A second later, he extended his closed fists to Asher. “Left, or right?”
“I’m sure they both contain the black pawn, knowing you.”
The sting worked; Henrikk was many things, but he was not a cheater, and the insult made his jaw flex before he managed a
smile. “Tell you what…” He opened both hands and let the black and white pawns clatter onto the glassy table. “You may go
first.” Henrikk began flicking the white pieces across the table at him.
Asher watched them roll but made no move to set up his side of the board. “You don’t mind being black?”
“I don’t need an advantage to beat you.” Henrikk quickly set his pawns in a row, left to right, before meticulously positioning
the more valuable pieces in the row closest to him. He took his time positioning the queen on her own colour just so, and Asher
wondered why he did not fuss similarly with the king. Henrikk shot him a disapproving look. “What are you waiting for? Set up
your pieces.”
 “I do not wish to play.”
Henrikk froze. “Excuse me?”
Not used to disobedience, Henrikk?
Asher crossed his hands on the table and leant across it. “I am not interested in your games, Henrikk.”
The king’s eyes sharpened, and Asher swore he saw fire contained within them. “You do not have the option to opt out,” he
spat.
Asher changed the subject. “Why does the door burn me when I try to open it?”
“Set up your pieces, General.”
Thought I wasn’t a general anymore.
“Does it burn you too?” Asher asked. “Is that why you had to move out?”
“I will not warn you again.”
Asher repressed a smile. Henrikk was not easily goaded, and those who dared generally ceased breathing shortly after.
The cost to make Henrikk sweat was high, but Asher had nothing to lose. He felt reckless and bold, even though Henrikk had
given him every reason to fear him.
Had hurt him, humiliated him, demoted him.
Perhaps it was simply blind curiosity to see whether Henrikk would go so far as to kill him.
Asher didn’t believe he would, but a couple of hours ago, he would not have fathomed Henrikk capable of taking him from
behind publicly to prove a point.
And here we are. Facing off over a chessboard.
It would have been comical had he not sensed the simmering rage Henrikk was hiding. Had Asher not known him so well, he
would have missed the subtle signs. Henrikk was perfectly composed as he reached across the table and set up Asher’s pieces.
He was overcompensating, positioning each one gently as though he were a patient man.
Asher watched in silence.
Henrikk leant back, self-assurance radiating from him. “Your move. Begin.”
Asher’s hand hovered over the pieces. He could practically see the veins on Henrikk’s forehead throbbing as he waited.
Asher touched a pawn with the tip of his finger, making a show of considering moving it before moving to touch a knight.
“No, we’re playing with touch-move rules,” Henrikk tsked. “You must move the piece you touched.”
“I did not realise we were playing by that rule,” Asher said innocently, touching several other pieces.
“Of course we’re playing with that rule. When have we not?”
So, you remember.
A tense pause.
The silence stretched as Asher pretended to deliberate.
Henrikk stretched his neck impatiently, but his voice was perfectly cordial as he said, “You must move that pawn. One
square, or two.”
“Hmm.”
Asher waited as long as he dared for a crack to form in Henrikk’s facade, tipping the knight to teeter at an angle.
“Is there a reason you’re having so much difficulty with a simple task, General?”
There it is.
Asher gave an exaggerated sigh. “But I wanted to move the horse.”
“Knight,” corrected Henrikk indignantly.
“My apologies.” Asher reached for a pawn.
“Wrong one. You touched the one on D2 before.” Henrikk was fully composed now, as if he realised what Asher was doing.
Asher slid the first pawn he’d touched forward two squares and sat back.
Henrikk instantly seized a black pawn and moved it to attack.
Typical.
Asher captured Henrikk’s pawn and set it aside.
A few moves later, Henrikk had positional advantage, his pieces posing a greater threat.
He grinned triumphantly at Asher. “You’ve exposed yourself.”
True, Asher thought, but I don’t intend to finish this game.
It was very different to play when one had no intention of winning. It allowed a player to take risky moves—like
antagonising the Vampire King when he was a mere prisoner.
“I wonder what your mother would say if she saw us now,” Asher commented.
Henrikk dropped the knight he’d picked up. “What?”
“She disapproved of your games, as I recall.”
Henrikk rose slowly, the epitome of perfect composure. Then, in a flash of movement, he swiped his arm across the table and
sent the chess pieces scattering. “Do not mention my mother,” he hissed.
 Asher stared up at him, resisting the urge to place a comforting hand on his arm. “I was fond of her too.”
“Do not speak about her!” he shouted.
The door opened, and a concerned guard popped his head in. “Your Majesty, is everything—”
“Get out!” Henrikk barked, drawing a shaky breath.
The guard quickly shut the door.
Within seconds, the king’s anger abated. It was fascinating to watch the way he compartmentalised his emotions, bottling up
the anger and storing it away. Shoulders relaxed, then stiffened, then rolled; fists clenched and unclenched; slender fingers
tensed before interlacing on the table surface; blazing eyes cooled until he regarded Asher as if he were nothing; thin lips came
down to hide bared fangs, the corners twitching slightly to prove he was unfazed.
It was like watching a bird of prey try to appear benign.
Or like watching a complicated man reassemble himself into something…equally puzzling.
As if his outburst had never happened.
“I thought you didn’t want to play games, General,” Henrikk said in a singsong voice.
“This has never been a game for me,” Asher said gravely. “I am not a toy that you can discard.”
“Indeed?” Henrikk lifted his chin, expertly hiding his conflicted emotions. “Well, we shall see about that.”
He pivoted and strode from the room.
“Henrikk,” Asher called after him.
The king didn’t break his stride, his cape and robes billowing behind him as he reached the door and swung it open.
“Henrikk,” Asher called again.
This time, Henrikk stopped and looked back, his eyes cold and unimpressed as he waited.
Asher threw caution to the wind. “Besides toying with me, do you know why you came to see me?”
Surprised flitted across Henrikk’s face, followed by confusion.
He doesn’t know.
For the first time in a long time, Henrikk looked a little… Frightened.
They stared at each other for what felt like hours, Henrikk silhouetted against the mage lights illuminating the hallway, whilst
Asher was still seated, the black king he’d saved from falling earlier clutched tight in his hand. His own king—the white one—
lay on the floor with the others. There had not been time to save both.
Asher broke the silence. “Not everyone wants to play these games, Henrikk.”
“Regardless, I shall make everyone play them all the same.”
The response was sinister in its simplicity. It made Asher shudder, but it didn’t fool his mind. He squared his shoulders.
“I’ve realised something about you, Henrikk. If life is truly a game, then you’re neither black nor white. You’re the grey
pieces.”
Henrikk looked alarmed for all of two seconds, and for a shining moment, Asher saw a glimpse of the man he used to be.
Then his eyes narrowed, and he was the king again. “Don’t get too comfortable, old friend. I’ll be back for you.”
And this time, you will make me kneel, Asher thought sadly as the door shut.
He buried his face in his hands, counting the minutes until Henrikk returned for revenge.
 CHAPTER 2

USED

Henrikk

HOW DARE HE BRING up my mother?

How dare he?
How dare he.
Henrikk reined in his anger long enough to escape the royal suite. He’d already been forced to abandon it after that
insufferable witch had tampered with it before escaping. He’d put Asher in there as punishment, but maybe that was a mistake.
Perhaps, imprisoning Asher in the first place had been a mistake.
Do not question yourself. There is not a mistake you can make that you cannot twist to serve you.
Bitter resentment seeped through his veins like poison. It overrode his logic, and by the time he reached the grand guest room
he now occupied, he was boiling over.
“Have General Asher fed, showered, and prepared for me,” he instructed his valet, Robin, who so far had not disappointed
him in any significant way.
“Very well, Your Majesty. I shall see to his needs at once.”
It is my needs you are seeing to, Henrikk thought silently, tearing off his cape as he crossed the large room in six brisk
strides.
He barely took in a word uttered by the servants attending him as he faced his vast walk-in wardrobe. He needed something
special, something magnificent to mark this auspicious moment.
He pursed his lips as he considered a robe of long flowing velvet, black as the darkest sky.
“That might do,” he mused.
What does one wear to mark the night he fucks the smug smile off his treacherous general’s face?
“The c-collar is studded with rubies,” a servant in his early twenties stammered, turning the fabric. “Would Your Majesty
care to try it on?”
“Bring me matching shoes,” Henrikk demanded, extending his arms so the servant could undress him. “The red ones with the
pointed toes.”
“They will complement your ensemble perfectly, Your Majesty,” the servant assured him with a respectful bow.
“I hope so,” Henrikk said softly, staring at his reflection as the midnight-black robe fell into place.
At his comment, the servants exchanged a look behind him, but he didn’t reprimand them.
He didn’t quite feel like himself.
He was a little…
Out of sorts.
He dined alone on his eastward-facing balcony. He didn’t like facing the sun as it set—too harsh on the eyes—and this angle
gave him a view of the Capital as the golden light washed it of the filth that resided there. Vampires had begun to move into the
vacated apartments and houses, but the common areas were still crawling with wolves. There was nothing to be done about
that, not whilst the vampire population was still dwindling.
 He sat stiff-backed on the wrought-iron chair.
As the dying light slinked away and shadows reclaimed the Capital, he allowed himself the quiet luxury of leaning back in
his chair as he sipped his wine.
Come nightfall, he made the journey to Asher’s prison—because the suite belonged to Asher now, and Henrikk would ensure
he lived out the rest of his days there.
As the familiar white door came into view, a strange nervousness fluttered in his stomach, and he couldn’t help but wonder if
Asher would like his red shoes.
 CHAPTER 3

TEACHING A LESSON

Asher

GUARDS ARRIVED IN THE late afternoon and took Asher to a bathing room on the floor below. There was no opportunity to
relax in the hot water as they hurried him to wash, but he felt better once he was dressed in a clean set of dark clothes: a
maroon shirt, dark woollen jumper in a soft knit, charcoal grey trousers, a pair of silk socks, and polished slip-on gentlemen’s
shoes.
The guards then took him to the castle’s healer, who reset his nose. The crunching sound was almost as bad as the pain was
and left him reeling. Asher hardly noticed the sting of antiseptic on the cut on his arm. An ointment was applied, one that
smelled of seaweed and had magical properties. It was expensive, according to the healer, who gave Asher a pointed look
before applying it. At least Henrikk was not sparing any expense for his wellbeing.
Back in the royal suite, a tray of hot food and a jug of water awaited him on the coffee table. The chess pieces had been
cleared away, and the bag was nowhere to be found.
Guess that rules out playing chess against myself.
Asher suspected it was intentional: he was to play on Henrikk’s terms, or not at all.
He poured himself a glass of water, now wishing that he hadn’t drunk the bath water, but he’d been parched after hours of no
food or water.
He sat down to eat. Not knowing if this would be his last meal, he ate everything on his plate: steak, mashed potatoes, baked
vegetables, all presented elegantly. There was even a dark sauce—something finer than gravy with a sharp tang—and the
utensils’ handles were encrusted with gemstones.
It was a fine meal, and that roused his suspicions even more.
Would Henrikk poison him?
Asher ate cautiously—a tiny bite of each food, a sip of water, and then waited.
Nothing happened except that his stomach gurgled hungrily, demanding more.
He repeated this step, allowing another half hour—he could only estimate time by the sinking sun. Once twilight faded to
dusk, he lost his only reference.
By that stage, he was starving, and he sat down and ate faster than he ought to have, wolfing down his food.
No sooner had he finished than the door opened without warning and Henrikk strode in. New robes, new shoes…same air of
superiority. The hungry gleam in his eyes made Asher regret eating so quickly as his mind raced to guess Henrikk’s plans.
“General…I see you trusted the food not to be poisoned.”
“I wasn’t entirely sure,” Asher admitted, watching warily as two guards followed Henrikk into the room.
“Put him over there, by the fireplace,” Henrikk instructed. “On his knees.”
Asher’s stomach lurched as the guards seized him by the arms and hauled him to his feet. It was the same guards as earlier,
but they were rougher now as they forced him to kneel.
His shins hit the tiles painfully, and he struggled out of habit, managing to wring his arm free from one guard’s hold before
the other smacked him in the jaw.
 He went still, but he scowled at Henrikk as he ordered the guards to tie his hands behind his back.
Henrikk produced a tealight candle and lit it before placing it in the glass holder on the mantel.
An armchair was dragged close, and Henrikk sank into it, crossing his legs elegantly as Asher was made to face him.
“That will do,” Henrikk said, shooing the guards away. They left, shutting the door and plunging the room into near-darkness.
The glow of the candle made shadows dance across Henrikk’s face, adding severity to the sharp lines of his jaw, pointed chin
and nose, and prominent cheekbones.
“What are you doing?” Asher asked, his voice strained with apprehension.
“Teaching you a lesson after your disappointing display of chess playing earlier.” Henrikk cocked his head, his tone dripping
with disdain. “See if we can’t find a better use for your mouth than backchat. And if you don’t know what to do, I will teach
you that, too.”
Asher’s throat went dry as Henrikk untied the sash of his black velvet robes.
“You want me to…You expect me to…”
The king tittered. “Don’t play the shy maiden, Asher. I know you’ve fantasised about this for years. Well, here’s your
chance…” Henrikk’s robes parted, revealing a sliver of ghostly pale skin. Asher’s gaze trailed down his long, lean leg—his
thigh, his knee, his taut muscled calves—lingering on Henrikk’s blood-red shoes. They were sleek and narrow, with tight
buckles and sharp, cruel points. He couldn’t imagine them being comfortable to walk in and wondered how many servants it
had taken to force Henrikk’s feet into them.
Asher felt dizzy, nausea creeping up his throat. He sat back on his heels, jerking his wrists apart violently in the hope of
snapping the rope, but they were bound tight.
“You have ten seconds to express your gratitude for this opportunity and begin,” Henrikk informed, resting his arms on the
armchair. “One…”
This isn’t real. This can’t be happening…
“Two…”
Henrikk’s counting echoed in Asher’s mind as he stared at the vampire’s long, sinuous fingers. They reminded him of a
crawling spider as they curled over the edge of the armrest.
“...Nine,” Henrikk warned.
“It doesn’t have to be like this,” Asher said, panic setting in.
Henrikk’s nostrils flared dangerously, and he paused a moment before saying, “Ten.”
Asher pressed his lips together, brow furrowing as he repeated, “It doesn’t have to be like this with us.”
“There is no ‘us’,” Henrikk said coolly, rummaging inside his robes. “There is only your very limited capacity to be useful to
me.”
“There used to be an ‘us’,” Asher said quietly.
Henrikk ignored him as he produced a lip retractor—the kind that covered the teeth and prevented the wearer from biting
down. “I see we must do this the hard way. Although truth be told, I wouldn’t have trusted you not to bite me.”
“I wouldn’t do that.”
Henrikk ignored that, too, and opened his robes. He was completely naked underneath.
Asher’s eyes widened as he absorbed Henrikk’s magnificence. Every inch of him screamed raw power, from chiselled
abdominal muscles to defined collarbone. His chest was broad, his long torso tapering to narrow hips.
He was too thin, in Asher’s opinion, his physical condition outmatching that of the most disciplined soldier.
And his manhood…
Asher couldn’t help but stare. He’d never seen it, not like this: large, thick, and fully erect with defined veins and a bulging
head shiny with precum.
He’d only ever seen it once. That had been a long time ago when he and Henrikk had stripped out of their military uniform
after weeks of marching to bathe in a lake. That time didn’t count—though he’d wondered if Henrikk had caught him looking.
Wondered if that was why Henrikk had spent so much time on the lake’s floating dock.
To tempt me.
Or taunt.
Asher hadn’t minded the chance to steal glimpses at a naked Henrikk, but the futile hope it had ignited had tormented him in
the weeks that had followed. To see someone he wanted so desperately, always within reach but impossible to attain, had been
maddening.
The past vanished as Henrikk leant forward in his chair and gripped Asher’s hair.
He cried out in pain, and Henrikk seized the opportunity to push the retractor into his open mouth.
Asher wrenched his head away, but the damage was already done: his mouth was pried open by the device. He couldn’t
close together, speak, or even breathe properly; his lips stretched apart as his tongue wagged uselessly. His attempt to beseech
Henrikk resulted in a garbled mix of incoherent words.
“There now, that’s better,” Henrikk smirked, keeping a tight hold of Asher’s hair as he rose to his feet. He jerked Asher’s
head back more, so his neck arched, and he was forced to meet his gaze. “Let’s see if you can take this like a man.”
Tears stung Asher’s eyes, a droplet of drool already trailing down his chin as he panted for air past the gag.
“My goodness, General, we haven’t even started yet,” Henrikk admonished. “Do compose yourself.”
Asher had no time to do that as Henrikk positioned himself to stand directly in front of him. Cruel fingers twisted his hair as
Henrikk fisted his large cock, pumping it twice before aiming it in his face.
“Here is my generous offer: one last chance to redeem yourself,” Henrikk mused. His voice turned sharp. “Onto my cock.
Now.”
Asher stared helplessly, eyes blurring with tears as Henrikk’s grip threatened to tear the hair from his scalp.
If Henrikk hadn’t gagged him, this would be so different. Even if everything else had played out exactly the same, if he
wasn’t wearing this vile contraption in his mouth, and if his hands were unbound, he probably would have leant forward of his
own free will and taken Henrikk in his mouth.
I could do that.
He would start by kissing the tip. Lickg the length slowly, reverently. He would suck until his jaw ached, and stroke and
squeeze Henrikk’s balls the way he’d dreamt of countless times.
And it would feel good for them both.
He would picture a younger Henrikk, one whose cleverness had not come at the expense of others. And he would remember
the torturous longing he’d felt each night as he quietly stroked himself, trying to stem the fire coursing through his veins as he
dreamt of pleasuring Henrikk in every way. Imagined kneeling before him under different circumstances.
Had even dared to imagine Henrikk doing the same to him.
This is not the man I fell in love with.
Reality crashed into him in agonising waves, and he blinked up at Henrikk, swathed in shadows, the sharp contours of his
face flickering with candlelight.
Are you still in there, Henrikk?
He searched the king’s eyes, hoping to find some trace of him.
Henrikk’s eyes flashed with alarm, and he snarled. “Eyes. Down.”
Asher did not break his stare, and after a prolonged moment, Henrikk snapped his hips forward and took his mouth.
Asher gagged as Henrikk’s cock slammed into his throat, his muscles convulsing as he tried to pull away.
Henrikk held him in place by his hair, muscled midriff pressed against Asher’s forehead as he convulsed over his cock.
Asher’s vision flashed white and swam with stars as he repeatedly gagged, the bile climbing higher and higher up his throat.
He tried to lean away, to back away, but it was no use. Had his arms been free, he could have pushed Henrikk away.
The king’s loose robes hung around him like a curtain, entrapping him in a dark cocoon.
I can’t breathe.
Barely a wisp of air was able to come through his nose, his mouth and throat full of Henrikk’s massive cock.
I can’t breathe.
Suddenly, Henrikk released his hair and pulled out, wrenching his robes free and taking a step back.
Asher gave a strangled gasp and fell forward, his face and chest slamming against the floor, his hands still tied behind his
back.
Henrikk was speaking, but Asher couldn’t hear him over his own wheezing.
The king seized his shoulder and dragged him back into a kneeling position. “Again.”
Asher was still collecting his breath when Henrikk took hold of his hair—blond, just like Henrikk’s—and drove back into
him with piston-like force.
He flinched at the impact against his throat, unable to use his lips or tongue to slow or block Henrikk’s assault as he kept
thrusting. His mouth was levered open and vulnerable to every inch of Henrikk’s length, and a gurgling sound came from Asher
as he retched.
The king released him again, this time shoving him to the floor himself.
“Pathetic,” Henrikk snapped, standing over him.
It was all Asher could do not to vomit. He was trembling as queasiness threatened to overwhelm him. His muscles tensed
involuntarily, his throat constricted, and his abdominal muscles contracted as if he were being squeezed from the inside out. A
feeling of light-headedness had come over him, and he shut his eyes, fearing the moment when Henrikk would drag him up and
impale his throat again.
But the king left him on the ground, half-lying on his side, his left cheek wet from his own drool.
A rhythmic, repetitive noise met Asher’s ears, accompanied by the rough rustle of fabric. Henrikk was panting, and as the
minutes wore on, his breathing grew heavier amidst a fapping sound.
Knowing what he would see, Asher resigned himself to opening his eyes. He didn’t even have to lift his gaze. There,
reflected in the glossy red shoes, was the image of Henrikk glaring down at him with contempt as he masturbated.
Asher wished he could speak.
 Of all the emotions coursing through him, the strongest of all was grief. He would have told Henrikk that it was all right, and
told him again and again that it didn’t have to be this way. That it could be so much better.
I'll prove it. Let me show you. That’s what he would say to the king.
Henrikk’s arm shot out to support himself on the mantel, a low moan entering his harsh breathing and resonating through
Asher’s core.
He swivelled his head so he could peer up at Henrikk directly, basking in the sight of him as he neared his orgasm.
The king startled when he caught Asher staring, fear and anger mixing in his expression. “Eyes. Back. Down!”
Asher kept his eyes fixed on him.
I forgive you.
That was what he most wanted to say. The words were both unlikely and meaningful in a way he could not understand. He
only knew that he meant them.
And that he wanted to help Henrikk out of the lonely, soulless nightmare he’d carved for himself.
Henrikk sped up, his hand pumping his cock faster as he aimed it at Asher’s face. “Look away,” he panted.
No.
Suddenly, Henrikk’s body twitched forward violently, and he gave a harsh groan as he came, jets of cream cum shooting
through the air and splattering on Asher’s face.
His eyes flew shut as wet droplets sprayed his skin. When he opened them a few seconds later, sticky film clung to his
eyelashes, and Henrikk was stepping close.
He’d barely registered what was happening before Henrikk was tilting his head back and shoving his cock in his mouth.
Thick cum sprayed his tongue, his palate, his cheeks, and the back of his throat.
“How do I taste, General?” Henrikk mocked, threading his hands almost lovingly in his hair and rocking back and forth in
gentle thrusts. “Is it everything you dreamed it would be?”
With you on your knees? It’s a start.
Henrikk gave his head a sharp shake. “Swallow.”
An impossible task with Henrikk’s cock still down his throat, but Asher tried, Henrikk’s cum pooling at the back of his
throat. He tried again to swallow but without much success.
Henrikk, however, seemed satisfied. He made a triumphant noise and snatched the gag from his mouth. He patted Asher’s
cheek as he swallowed the load of cum and gulped for air. “That will do for now, General.” He released Asher’s hair but did
not stand. Instead, a strange expression crossed his face, and his hand trailed along Asher’s waist to his crotch.
Suddenly, Henrikk grabbed him through his trousers, making a shock of pleasure jolt through him.
He hadn’t even realised he’d hardened, but he was at full mast, his erection straining against his trousers. When had he
become aroused?
“Did you enjoy that, old friend?” Henrikk hissed.
“I…No, I didn’t—” his voice cut off in a strained cry as Henrikk shifted his grip to cup his balls and squeeze them.
“Do you like being kept here as a plaything for your king?”
Confusing waves of desire and pain were coursing through him as Henrikk squeezed his balls over and over. Asher gritted
his teeth and forced his mind to focus. “I think you require more than a mere plaything to fill the void in your life. This…” He
faltered, licking his lips. “We could be so much more.”
Henrikk’s hand dropped. “Need I remind you that there is no we?”
“I could do so much more for you.”
Henrikk’s eyes narrowed. “There is nothing else I need of you except to do as you are told and take my cock when I have
need of you.” He rose and began tying the sash of his robes.
Asher struggled back into a kneeling position. “So, you admit that you have ‘need’ of me?”
It was the wrong thing to say. Henrikk’s expression hardened, and he stepped back into Asher’s space.
“Oh yes. I admit that I need a body to use, one that will not break too easily and last several uses. After tonight’s woeful
effort, I’m not convinced you’re worth the trouble, but we’ll see how long you last next time.”
Despite his hands being tied behind his back, Asher managed to rise to his feet slowly and face Henrikk. He wasn’t as tall as
the king, but he was broader and more muscled. He’d always admired Henrikk’s long, slender fingers; perfect for playing the
piano.
He wondered if Henrikk still played—did he remember how?
The memory of a faraway melody tugged at his heartstrings, filling him with determination as he stared at Henrikk. “I will
last.”
Henrikk gave a sceptical scoff. “We shall see, won’t we? Tomorrow…and the day after…and the day after that.” He turned
to leave.
Asher called after him, ignoring the urge to ask to be untied. “I’m not giving up on you, Henrikk. I know you’re still in there.”
Henrikk stumbled slightly but did not break stride until he reached the door.
 And then he was gone, leaving Asher alone in complete darkness—the single candle had gone out, and not even the moon
shone any light on him.
 CHAPTER 4

FORTITUDE

Asher

ASHER SHOUTED THROUGH THE door, beseeching the guards to have the decency to untie him, but his request was
ignored.
Giving up, he shuffled through the pitch-black room until his knees knocked the coffee table where the jug of water was. He
was so thirsty, and Henrikk’s cum clung to his mouth like mucous. No matter how many times Asher swallowed, he could not
get rid of the taste.
He tried but failed to drink from the jug, almost spilling the precious water in the process before admitting defeat.
Cursing under his breath, Asher tried to sleep. The floor was too cold, so he settled for sitting in an armchair with his feet
propped up on another. It was far from comfortable, but he managed to doze until dawn when the guards arrived with breakfast.
Without a word, they untied him, and it was becoming increasingly apparent that they had strict instructions from Henrikk on
every aspect of his imprisonment.
After breakfast, the guards took him to the bathing chamber again. Asher was provided with a clean set of clothes, this time a
set of robes not unlike what Henrikk had worn, but red.
Henrikk’s favourite colour.
And mine.
The colour of fire and passion.
Of love.
Of all the destruction Henrikk had wreaked.
Red was the colour of the heated tension Asher felt between himself and Henrikk.
Back in his room, Asher paced back and forth, trying to occupy his mind with old marching drills. He expected Henrikk to
return that evening, to inflict what on him he was not ready to think about.
And so, it took him completely by surprise when Henrikk arrived at midday, followed by several guards hauling in a simple
wooden table. At his orders, the guards gagged Asher with cloth and bent him over the desk, securing his hands with cords to
the far table legs.
What the fuck?
Asher tried not to be predictable—that would play into Henrikk’s amusement—but he couldn’t stop himself from yelling in
protest, his words garbled from the gag.
“Do be quiet,” Henrikk said as the guards left. “This will be a regular occurrence, so you may as well get used to it.”
Asher’s heart thundered in his chest as Henrikk hiked his robes up high, roughly spread his ass cheeks, and without using so
much as spit for lubrication, entered his ass. Raw, and dry.
Asher screwed his eyes shut and tried to take it in silence, but he whimpered and grunted each time Henrikk drove into him,
pain exploding in his ass and the edge of the table digging into the tops of his thighs.
“I bet you imagined this too,” Henrikk gloated, gripping his hips and ploughing into him in deep, steady thrusts. “I never
thought you’d be such an easy fuck.”
 Asher snapped, roaring in anger against the gag as he tried to buck Henrikk off. It was impossible with the restraints around
his wrists, keeping him stretched over the table with arms splayed.
Henrikk cackled and pulled the gag free. “Fine. Let’s hear it. What exactly did you just say?”
“I said you needed the help of your guards to restrain me,” Asher spat. “There’s nothing ‘easy’ about that.”
“And that is the word that set you off, is it?” Henrikk mused, continuing to pulse inside him as if they were having a pleasant
conversation over cards. “That I would think of you as ‘easy’?” He clicked his tongue. “You mustn’t wear your heart on your
sleeve, General Asher. You’ll get hurt.”
“I’d rather get hurt by you than feel nothing for you at all.” His tone trembled with accusation, and he wondered if Henrikk
read his deepest fear:
That you feel nothing at all for me.
That I was wrong about you.
Asher tried to ignore the fear, but it was difficult to maintain faith when the very man he wanted was brutally raping him over
a table in a room that was as cold as death.
Henrikk laughed and sped up, each hard pound making Asher wince as he was speared by Henrikk’s cock over and over
again. He didn’t know what was worse, the penetrating soreness he felt each time Henrikk bottomed out in his ass, or the dry
friction of his un-lubed girth dragging against his sphincter.
“At least I have the courage to tell you how I feel,” Asher added.
Henrikk’s laughter died, and he froze, still wedged deep inside. “And what is it you feel for me, beyond your unwavering
loyalty and reverence, General?”
Asher remained facing forward. “You’re not ready to hear it.”
Henrikk gave another laugh, this one shrill and ringing oddly. “Well, just in case you change your mind and become talkative
again…” He pushed the gag back into Asher’s mouth and tightened it so the fabric cut his cheeks. “Now, see if you can be a
good soldier and be quiet while I finish fucking you.”
Asher stayed silent as Henrikk took him.
He promised himself he wouldn’t make a sound.
But Henrikk fucked him hard and fast, each jerking thrust rougher than the last.
The pain had reached a new level, the impacts growing unbearable, but it was the bulging erection in Asher’s pants that
made him cry.
When Henrikk noticed the tears tracking down his face, he wiped them with his palms and groaned. “Poor Asher. There,
there.” A pause. “You know…Nothing makes me harder than making a grown man cry.”
Without warning, he slammed into Asher, repeating the savage thrust for several long minutes until he came, blowing his load
deep inside his ass.
“Fuck!” they exclaimed together, Henrikk’s cry stretching for several long seconds as he shuddered and groaned.
Henrikk removed the gag and pulled out almost instantly.
“Did you…?” Asher began.
He heard footsteps, and then the door slammed.
It took him a moment to realise that Henrikk had left, and far too long to realise that he wasn’t coming back.
What felt like two or three hours later, guards entered to untie Asher from the table and take him to bathe and change.
Asher didn’t dare enjoy the small luxuries. He was starting to associate those things with Henrikk’s visits.
Sure enough, the king arrived that evening. Asher had half hoped Henrikk would try to play chess with him again, but he was
disappointed. The king had him tied to the table in the same manner, gagged and helpless, and took him again. Afterwards, he
left without a word, leaving Asher trembling with sore muscles, ass, and an aching erection.
At least the guards came in immediately afterwards to untie him.
The pattern repeated the next day at midday, and again in the evening.
And the day after that.
Each time, Henrikk regarded him as little more than a piece of meat. A body to be used, nothing more.
By the fifth day, a bed had been brought into the room. It was much more comfortable for sleeping, but Asher quickly learnt
to hate it. It was where Henrikk had taken to fucking him, but that was not why he hated it.
No, it was the bed’s vastness he couldn’t stand, and how utterly lonely he felt each time Henrikk left him there. There were a
couple of occasions where Henrikk had mocked him, delivering snide parting words when he finished before leaving.
But as the days flitted by, Henrikk changed. He seemed guarded, his expression unreadable, and each time he finished with
Asher, he left without saying a word.
It made Asher miss the insults as he lay on the cold bed, the damp sheets smelling of him and Henrikk. His chest ached with
sorrow, his throat tight with emotions, and his hard cock throbbed so much it hurt. Henrikk had not touched him there again, not
since the first time when he’d grabbed him through his trousers.
Asher wished he would.
 Lust and longing drove him insane, as did the unrequited feelings he’d almost professed to Henrikk.
Asher tried to jerk off, but he could never make himself get there. He tried to think of Henrikk, however, the man was such an
enigma that it was hard to imagine him capable of caring for anyone but himself.
But Henrikk did care.
Why else did he torment them both each time he entered the suite? He had no shortage of potential bed partners, so why did
he come here?
If he’d solely wanted to punish Asher, he’d long since achieved that. Nothing hurt more than to be so close to the man he’d
pined over, and yet be treated like nothing.
The days flitted by. Asher kept track of them by scratching marks on the bedpost with his fangs, but he was losing motivation.
It had been at least two weeks, and at least twice a day, Henrikk would come and rut him from behind like a beast.
He never spoke to Asher and had taken to sending in the guards first to pre-emptively gag and tie him before entering. It
meant that Asher rarely saw him, only heard the rustle of clothes and the sound of heavy panting. Even Henrikk’s groans were
restrained, as if he didn’t want Asher to hear.
He only came in for the time it took to have sex with Asher, which was sometimes quick and, at other times, a long ordeal.
No words were ever exchanged, although Asher would have spoken to him if he could have.
Afterwards, Henrikk always abandoned him to the room’s oppressiveness. He left it to the guards to ungag him.
On the evening of the thirtieth day, something changed. The door opened, but no guards came in to tie Asher down.
Instead, Henrikk arrived with a smile, dressed in his finest.
Asher was standing by the window. It was better than waiting on the bed. That was an indignity he could not allow himself,
even when Henrikk left him so sore he’d struggled to stand. He never complained, but he wished Henrikk would ask him how
he was.
So that he could lie and say that he was fine.
At least Henrikk had started to use lubricant again, a purpose-made gel that made the experience almost pleasurable. Asher
didn’t know the reason for the change, but he was begrudgingly grateful.
Asher tilted his head at Henrikk expectantly, waiting for an order to go to lay on the bed.
Wondering if he’d comply.
But Henrikk nodded at the coffee table and produced the bag of chess pieces from his robes. “A game?”
Asher swallowed and did not move, not even as Henrikk seated himself with an enviable gracefulness.
“A game of what?”
Henrikk’s gaze darted to him, his eyes twinkling with approval. “Something new. It’s high time we changed things up. I
wouldn’t want you to grow bored of me.”
They were not talking about chess.
Asher steeled himself and began the long walk over, trying not to wince with each of the seven steps it took to reach the other
chair. A small groan escaped him as he lowered himself to sit. He hoped Henrikk hadn’t noticed.
“Comfortable?” the king asked.
“Yes.” It was the only word he could bring himself to say, even though he was bursting with a thousand thoughts that had
plagued him last night. He blinked blearily at the pieces as Henrikk set them up. Black, white; they all looked the same to him.
Or maybe he no longer cared. “What is this new game you propose?”
“I have a special opportunity for my finest general,” Henrikk said. “But since he failed, I will give you a chance to win
instead.”
Asher didn’t so much as bristle at the dig. He absorbed it. Welcomed it, even. “What is the prize for winning?”
Henrikk smirked as he leant over to straighten one of Asher’s pieces, his hand brushing his accidentally. “I assure you,
General Asher, that the thrill of victory is more than sufficient a prize. The only question is…do you want to play?”
I’m tired of games.
He opened his mouth to tell Henrikk that, feeling defeated and hollow, but as he caught sight of the glimmer in the king’s
eyes, he was struck by the expression there.
Henrikk looked…alive.
Mischief brightened his eyes, and he looked genuinely excited, leaning in conspiratorially as if preparing to share a secret
with Asher.
It made him want to lean in as well.
Maybe, their hands would brush again.
Which was why he nodded resolutely before asking, “How exactly do I win this…new game?”
“It’s rather straightforward,” Henrikk said coyly, his fingers walking across the tops of Asher’s pawns. He flashed Asher a
cunning smile. “All you need to do is kill me.”
 Read the next book

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 Excerpt:

None of the guards had followed him, and it was a surreal feeling to arrive on the top floor and find the landing
deserted.
His skin prickled, and Asher glanced behind him nervously, half-expecting to see Henrikk sneaking up behind him
with a wicked knife.
There was no one there.
He let out a long breath and walked along the corridor to the royal suite. The soles of his shoes were thinner than
the soldier boots he’d spend most of his life in, and he could feel the soft carpet runner beneath his feet. It was surreal,
this small taste in freedom.
It even smelt fresh and new.
Asher halted and glanced down at the ornate green rug. He frowned as realisation set in.
It was new. There had definitely not been a rug here earlier, which means that someone—and he knew who—had
brought it here.
The subtle change made him uneasy, and he entered his room.
It looked the same.
But it didn’t feel right. Again, it was the smell that alerted Asher, although vampires’ scent was little better than a
humans. Still, he did not need the heightened senses of a wolf shifter to know that Henrikk had been in here, too.
His cologne hung in the air, dark and spicy, and smelling of leather. It was a silent warning.
Asher laid the weapons on the bed, glancing around suspiciously.
Something had changed in here too, but it took Asher a while to figure out what.

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The canal is deserted. The music-boats have long since put out their
lanterns and tied up for the night. The lighters at the Dogana
opposite lie still and motionless, their crews asleep under the mats
stretched on the decks. Away up in the blue swims the silver moon,
attended by an escort of clouds hovering close about her. Towering
above you rises the great dome of the Salute, silent, majestic, every
statue, cross, and scroll bathed in the glory of her light.
Suddenly, as you hang over your balcony, the soft night embracing
you, the odor of oleanders filling the air, you hear the quick
movement of a flute borne on the night wind from away up the Iron
Bridge. Nearer it comes, nearer, the clear, bird-like notes floating
over the still canal and the deserted city. You lean forward and catch
the spring and rhythm of the two gondoliers as they glide past,
keeping time to the thrill of the melody. You catch, too, the abandon
and charm of it all. He is standing over her, his head uncovered, the
moonlight glinting on the uplifted reed at his lips. She lies on the
cushions beneath him, throat and shoulders bare, a light scarf about
her head. It is only a glimpse, but it lingers in your memory for years,
—you on the balcony and alone.
Out they go,—out into the wide lagoon,—out into the soft night,
under the glory of the radiant stars. Fainter and fainter falls the
music, dimmer and dimmer pales the speck with its wake of silver.
Then all is still!
 The Riverside Press
CAMBRIDGE, MASSACHUSETTS, U. S. A.
ELECTROTYPED AND PRINTED BY
H. O. HOUGHTON AND CO.
 FOOTNOTE:
[1] Misteri di Venezia, di Edmondo Lundy.
 TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been
standardized.
Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.
*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GONDOLA
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