Page 19 of Kneel with the King
Like it’s a souvenir.
I don’t know why that gets to me, but it does. He wanted me to see him do it.
A minute later, when he stands up from the table, he does it unhurriedly.
“Come on,” he says softly, brushing past me. “Wouldn’t want to be late for our next round of public intimacy.”
I swallow hard. My legs move before my brain catches up, and, for a second, I wonder why I’m so damn eager to follow his orders.
King of All the Lines I Shouldn’t Cross
King
He still eatslike he’s afraid someone’s watching. Even now, as we walk back to our suite, I can picture it with such clarity.
The tense line of his shoulders, the way he gripped the fork, how his eyes stayed downcast.
He didn’t taste his food at all. He endured it, bit by small bit, swallow by forced swallow.
Then again, he was always a survivor.
That part hasn’t changed.
But the rest of him? God, he’s almost unrecognizable.
Back then, he was brighter. Louder. Thirty-seven and untouchable. He wore his expertise like a tailored suit—effortless and exuding the kind of power I craved after leaving home. Asher was a man who knew he had gravity and expected the world to orbit around him, instead of the other way around. And people did—the whole office orbited around him. He was a man in his prime.
Smug. Charismatic. And when he smiled? It was kinetic.Addictive.It made you want another, and another.
I was nineteen, and I would’ve followed him anywhere.
And I did. Right into a mistake I’ve never forgotten.
One kiss at the work Christmas party.
One hand on my jaw.
One soft, breathless moan.
Then—one termination.
I still don’t know exactly what he said, but the next day I was let go and he never spoke to me again. He just discarded me like I didn’t mean anything.
But it cost meeverything.
So no, I don’t want his apology.
I want his fuckingunraveling.
I thought today would be the beginning. I chose the retreat on purpose, knowing he would be here. And the scallops on the prix fixe menu? Glorious. My choice of three mains, and of course I chose the shellfish. His least favorite food. I used to watch him pick them out of catered lunches like they were poison.
I remembered.
And he ate every bite in front of me, jaw locked, throat bobbing. He didn’t protest. Didn’t excuse himself. He just sat there and took it, like I wasn’t watching every second of it and cataloging his every discomfort.
It should’ve felt good, but it didn’t.
Because it was too easy.
