Page 43 of Kneel with the King
“Right. Maybe it was all supposed to happen the way it did for Ari and Maddox to end up together.”
I grimace, thinking about how perfect they are together. “I guess.”
His hand comes to my shoulder, and the heat from earlier is still there, but it’s softened now.Settled. I turn to face him fully, his mouth parting like he’s about to say something else, but Ava walks back over to where we’re standing.
“Ambrose?” Ava says warmly, holding his green sweater. “Here. You left this next to your mat.”
My whole soul stumbles like it missed a step.
That name—Ambrose—hits my brain like a foreign word I’ve always known. It fractures and rebuilds itself in my chest—recognition not yet understood.
King thanks her, voice smooth. Ava smiles and walks off.
But I’m no longer standing in the studio—not really.
I’m standing on concrete in the dark, ten years ago, drunk on grief and nicotine, mouthing a name that feels all too familiar in the deep, dark crevices of my fucked-up mind.
Touching my lips.
Hard as a rock.
Freaking thefuckoutbecause I’d kissed the nineteen-year-old intern.
Plotting his downfall so that I never had to face that mistake again.
I twist to face him fully, and my voice is quieter than I mean it to be. “Ambrose?”
He doesn’t blink or flinch, but something in his jaw feathers—just for a second.
“Not now, Asher,” he says.
And it’s not the denial that undoes me. It’s the way he says my name like he’s been carrying it all these years.
Like he’s beenwaitingto use it.
I stare at him, and the rest of the world fades around me.
And suddenly, I remember everything.
King of Spades
King
I thoughtAsher’s realization would be dramatic. Something cinematic—storming off into the woods, voice raised, asking me if I was ever going to tell him that I’m Ambrose the intern from ten years ago.
Instead, he’slaughingwith Jacques a few feet away over brunch like nothing happened.
I sip my espresso, doing a terrible job pretending not to watch him.
Every few seconds, my eyes drift. I watch the way his eyes crinkle whenever he smiles. The way one hand is resting in his pocket casually. If I didn’t know how to read him well, I’d say he’s relaxed—but the crease between his brows and the light tapping of his foot on the ground give him away.
He may give off the illusion of being at ease, but I know the knowledge of what we did ten years ago is eating at him slowly.
Good.
I try to take in the rest of the lodge—the chatter, the snow-glazed windows, the soft clink of silverware—but it’s no use.
He doesn’t look at me once.
