Page 25 of Kneel with the King
“Yeah. I noticed that.”
King shrugs. “He’s just protective of Walter. He can see right through people’s motivations, so you have to play this perfectly for this to work.”
I narrow my eyes. “You’re very invested in something that has nothing to do with you.” Suddenly, it occurs to me that there’s probably averyobvious reason King is at this retreat. “Wait, are you trying to acquire Walter as a client?”
King’s mirthful expression drops, turning serious. “You really don’t trust me, do you?” Sighing, he pulls something from my pocket and tosses it at me.
Black silk.
My blindfold.
“Come with me.”
I stare down at the silk, heart pounding. “What? Why?”
“I want to try something.”
“Is this a scheduled activity?”
“No.”
“Then why?—”
“I don’t want your mouth right now, Asher. I want your trust.”
The words hit harder than I expected them to.
It’s not the demand. It’s theaudacityof it. That he says it like he knows he’s going to own it—like he knows I’ll give it to him.
Maybe I have, even a tiny bit. Because the truth is, I let him touch me earlier.
And I would’ve let him kiss me, too.
I pick up the blindfold. It shouldn’t feel like surrender, but it does. After quickly stepping into my boots, I tie it in place, and the darkness is total. I hear movement. The soft scrape of his boots on the ice. The jangle of keys. Then, his voice—a low, sensual purr.
“Come here.”
I walk over to where I think he is, knowing full well he could push me into the freezing water again if he wanted to.
He could drown me and leave me for dead—no one is around.
But he doesn’t touch me.
Instead, he speaks, barely above a whisper. “Left foot forward.”
I obey.
Playing with the King’s Fire
Asher
He guidesme step by step. One word at a time. Just enough silence between each word to make me think his eyes don’t leave me.
A minute passes, then five. The ground goes from hard ice to soft snow, and I suspect we’re now on solid ground—a path, probably.
King guides me to the left twice, grabbing onto my elbow as we make our way off the path, onto what feels like dirt with soft snow packed on top. It smells like decaying leaves and wet earth, and though I can’t see anything, my senses tell me we’re weaving between tall trees. This is definitely not the retreat trail.
It’s somewhere quieter—somewhere we’re not supposed to be.
