Page 5 of Kneel with the King
“That’s suspicious. It’s almost like you planned this. Like you’re using this retreat to get under my skin even more.”
“If I had, we’d have separate beds. I’m not a sadist.”
“Debatable.”
“Trust me. Not into sadism. Too pleasure-focused to fuck with pain.” He gives me the ghost of a smile, then carefully places a folded black sweater into a drawer. It’s almost unsettling how normal he is in this space, like he belongs anywhere he chooses to stand. Like nothing sticks to him, not even scandal. “My date got caught in the storm. He’s sad to be missing it.”
He.
I shrug off that factoid and roll my shoulders.
“You don’t strike me as the retreat type,” I say, stepping farther in, eyeing the room. “Bit earthy for your tastes, no? In fact, do you even own clothing that isn’t black?”
He ignores my barb. “I’m here to make deals. Just like you,” he replies smoothly. “People make emotional decisions when they’re vulnerable.”
“So this is a hunt?”
He finally meets my eyes. “Isn’t it always?”
I open my mouth, close it, then scrub a hand down my face. My skin feels too tight. I haven’t had enough coffee or sleep to manage this.
“Why me?” I ask. “Why’d you really volunteer to couple up with me?”
He tilts his head, just slightly. “Because you looked desperate, and I needed an in. It’s mutually beneficial.”
I stare at him. That half-truth again, delivered like a compliment. There’s more beneath it—I can feel it.
I just don’t know what it is yet.
I grab the welcome packet off the bed and flip to the schedule, skimming.
THURSDAY AM - CHECK IN
THURSDAY 3:30 PM - EMOTIONAL SURRENDER WORKSHOP
I close the booklet with a snap. “Jesus Christ. What the hell is an emotional surrender workshop?”
King raises an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of a little trust exercise? NottheAsher Harrison,” he adds in mock surprise.
“I’m afraid of a group circle jerk where someone inevitably cries about their dog.”
He chuckles under his breath, then moves to the window. “You know, if you weren’t so determined to dislike me, you might enjoy this.”
“If you weren’t so determined to play the long game, I might believe that. But I don’t trust you. I don’t trustthis,” I add, gesturing between us.
He turns, rests a shoulder against the bathroom doorframe, casual and contained. “You think this is part of some game? Why?”
“Because it is.”
His gaze sharpens. “Then you should be careful, Asher. Because that means you’re playing too.”
I look away first. Not because I’m intimidated. But because something about his voice—the way it dips, dangerously low and too close—feels like a thread I don’t want to pull.
I toss the packet onto the bed. “We’re not a couple. We just have to give off the illusion that we are.”
“And look convincing doing it.”
I scoff. “We won’t.”
