Page 21 of Kneel with the King
I’ll never forget the way he responded to me putting it on him.
I should know better, but then again, I am not a good man, and I’m not here for any kind of ethical reason. In my world, a collar is a declaration—a consensual way of submitting.
And I let him cross that line—sitting silent, immoral… predatory.
I let the moment stretch, just a little longer than necessary. Then I offer the one breadcrumb I have.
“Davenport’s schedule says he’ll be at the cold plunge tomorrow morning. Partners included.”
He doesn’t hide his interest. “Good. Maybe I can get five minutes with him before I freeze to death.”
“You’ll get more than that.” I glance at him over my shoulder. “Trust me.”
He laughs, but it has an incredulous edge. “Trust you?” I can see the tension ripple underneath his skin. I wonder if he knows how readable he is—if he realizes how much he gives away in the pauses between his words. “I’d trust Charles Manson before you.”
He lies back into the bed, tucking himself in. The firelight casts him in gold and shadow. I don’t reply, don’t speak or move.
Because silence is its own kind of dominance.
Eventually, he exhales and closes his eyes. I stay by the fire, eyes half lidded, watching it catch and flicker.
By the time I’m done getting ready for bed, he’s on his side, fast asleep.
Not for long.
The first step is simple—earn his trust.
Because trust is the softest point of entry. And once it’s open? He won’t see the knife coming.
That’s where you break a man clean.
After all, betrayal always cuts deeper when you hand them the blade first.
Ice King
Asher
I waketo the faintest click of a door opening.
For one suspended second, I freeze, not remembering where I am. Taking in the smell of an open fire, the feel of soft, flannel sheets, and the cozy suite, it all comes crashing back in a single moment of dark-fueled adrenaline.
“Get up.” King’s voice is low. I don’t move, unsure of what time it is. I try to locate my phone and watch before remembering that they’ve been taken away. “Now, Harrison.”
“What the hell is this?” I mutter, dragging on a sweater and pants as King tosses my jacket at me.
He doesn’t answer—he’s already out the door.
Of course he is.
I slip into my boots and pull my jacket on before following him out into the early morning.
Ten minutes later, I’m waist-deep in a frozen lake, wondering if hypothermia counts as a workplace injury. If there was ever a more effective torture method than plunging into a frozen lake, I haven’t met it. Everything hurts. My skin burns like acid the second the frozen water touches my skin, even through the thick wet suit I found waiting for me at the edge of the lake. My body shudders violently as I plunge down to my neck, and I suddenlycan’t breathe. It feels like a million tiny daggers pierce my skin simultaneously.
I’m going to die—here, on a frozen lake, as King plunges into the hole next to me without even a grimace.
Fucking sadist.
“You get used to it,” King says, chuckling with Walter and Jacques, who drop into their own nearby hole a second later. Several others around us follow suit, each couple getting their own area, but I’m hardly paying attention.
