Page 22 of Kneel with the King
I might not have been awake fifteen minutes ago, but now I sure as hell am.
“The goal is one minute, but if you need to get out sooner, that’s fine. This is supposed to be invigorating, not life-threatening,” the Altura employee says, wearing a thick fleece coat and white beanie over his long hair. He walks between each hole approvingly, carrying a wooden walking stick.
“Yeah, ok-kay,” I mutter under my breath. “Pretty sure I’m going to d-die before the minute is u-up,” I add.
King snaps his eyes to mine, but he doesn’t say anything.
It feels like icicles are stabbing me in the chest, and with each inhale, it gets worse. I can’t feel my fingers and toes, and I certainly don’t feel the fucking endorphins and clarity we’re meant to get out of this.
One of the other couples makes a splash as they get out, audibly complaining. A few people use this as their cue to do the same, but I stay put.
“Feeling good?” King asks me, looking over at me. There’s something in his expression that I can’t quite make out.
I stare at him as my teeth chatter so hard I’m worried I’ll break one of them. “Yep. N-never b-been b-etter,” I tell him. It hurts to talk—to move. I idly tread water despite not being able to feel my arms or legs now.
Two more people get out, leaving just Walter, Jacques, King, and me in the lake. I close my eyes and imagine I’m sitting in a warm bath instead of a frozen lake, but I’ve never been good at meditation or visualization.
“One minute,” the employee says.
“Which one of us will make it longer, do you think?” King asks.
There’s a slight hitch in his voice. When I look over at him, I see him treading water with flared nostrils, taking short, quick breaths.
“Have you d-d-done this b-before?” I ask.
He smirks. “I have an ice bath at home. Helps with recovery time from working out.”
I roll my eyes. “Figures. H-how many m-minutes do you d-do?”
“Ten, usually.”
“Then I’m d-doing t-t-ten,” I tell him, biting the inside of my cheek as I clench my teeth together to keep them from chattering.
“Harrison,” King warns. “I’m used to this. I’ve worked up to ten minutes over the last couple of years. You haven’t. You’ll get hypothermia.”
I huff a breath, panting now. “I’ll b-be f-fine.”
King swims over, his movements steady and controlled. I glare at him when he stops just in front of me, eyes flicking between mine. In the pink, early morning light, his eyes look almost golden—softened somehow. But the way he studies me? It’s not soft at all.
It’s concerned.
“Walter and Jacques are watching us,” he murmurs, just loud enough for me to hear.
Then suddenly—his arm slides around my waist, pulling me in, chest to chest. I gasp, but it dies in my throat the moment our skin touches. He’s warm. Or maybe I’m just that fucking cold.
“W-what are y-you?—”
“Trust me,” he breathes. “And go with it.”
And then he leans in.
His breath brushes mine, and it’s not the freezing water that makes me dizzy. It’s him. His mouth is an inch away from mine, and my brain short-circuits. Everything else disappears. The lake. The people. The cold. I forget how to breathe.
His lips hover there—so close I can taste the warmth of them. I freeze, unable to move. Not from the water this time, but from something else. From heat, or panic. Or perhaps from the fact that if he kisses me, I don’t know what I’ll do.
I’m shivering too hard to move.
He doesn’t close the distance—he doesn’t have to.
