Page 20 of Kneel with the King
No resistance. No heat. No fight.Nothing.
He gave me the power—just handed it over. I expected a fight. A roll of his eyes. He always was a brat, and I was desperate to bring that side of him back to the surface.
But he’s exhausted, empty, and rapidly unraveling. Nothing but a frayed wire, sparking whenever things don’t go his way.
And that’s exactly how I want him.
Not just to make him pay for what he did a decade ago—though he will.
It’s clear he doesn’t remember me, given I put on about a hundred pounds of muscle, grew my hair out, and kept my face hidden behind a shadow of dark scruff.
I don’t want to just own him, I want to rewire him.
To crawl inside the soft, vulnerable places he doesn’t know how to lock away anymore.
Not because he deserves it—but because I’ve decided hedoesn’t.
The version of him I knew back then would’ve been furious. Loud. Sharp-tongued and too proud to back down.
This man?
He just sat there and took it. Let me decide. Let me lead.
He’s still doing it, even now. Following me down the path to our suite. He hasn’t figured it out yet, but I’m sure he will soon.
Especially with what I have planned.
When we get back to the suite, it’s early. Just past seven. But I can tell by the way Asher walks over to the bed that he’s exhausted.
“I’ll take the couch,” I say automatically.
“There isn’t a couch,” Asher mutters, already irritable.
I glance at the narrow bench beside the fireplace. “Then you can take it. Be my guest.”
His glare could light the damn place on fire. “Funny.”
“Do you need me to build you a pillow fort?” I ask, taking my coat off before undoing the buttons on my shirt with calm, measured fingers.
“Oooh, don’t tempt me with a good time.”
There’s that bite again—sarcasm laced with something more fragile. I ignore it, slipping my shirt from my shoulders and folding it over the armchair. With a smirk, I reach for my belt, reveling in the way I see him stiffen in my peripheral vision. I slowly slide my belt off. Casual. At ease. Like I’m not aware of every single molecule of tension radiating from him.
He grabs some clothes and disappears into the bathroom with too much urgency, like he’s fleeing the room. I hear the water run. Then, a few minutes later, silence. He’s probably glaring at himself in the mirror, working up the will to be civil. Or murderous. Either way, I’ve seen the signs before.
I turn to the fireplace, take up the poker, and stir the flames until they grow into a healthy fire.
He comes back quieter and wearing plaid pajamas.
“The bed is huge. I’m not going to bite, Harrison,” I say without turning. “We both need a good night’s sleep.” I attempt to keep my voice soft and unthreatening.
“Right,” he answers as he eyes the bed warily.
He sits down on the edge like it’s a land mine, and I watch as he removes the collar from around his neck. The leather slides free as he sets it on the table next to the bed, and I feel its absence more than I probably should.
He wore it like he didn’t know what it meant—like he had no idea of the significance of accepting a collar from someone, even if it was just an exercise in surrender.
But… something about his body knew.
