Page 53 of Kneel with the King
Instead, I follow him.
King walks ahead of me like he owns the place, like I’m not burning alive behind him. His coat swings with each step—like he didn’t press his hand against my thigh earlier to fix my harness. Like he didn’t hold my life in his hands and whisper things he knew would rattle me.
He’s leading me somewhere. I know it. He’s not looking back, but he knows I’m following him.
I don’t stop.
The trees thin. The path narrows. Then there’s a cabin—one of the smaller, private wellness rooms tucked behind the main lodge. King pushes the door open and steps inside like he has a key. Maybe he does.
I follow. The door clicks shut behind me.
The room is small, warm, and dimly lit. There’s a fireplace. A yoga mat. Two folded towels. We shouldn’t be in here, but I also know I don’t want Walter or Jacques to witness how I’m about to tear into him.
He turns to face me, crossing his arms.
“You’re following me,” he says simply.
“You planned this.”
His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Of course I did.”
“You’re trying to fuck with my head.”
He steps closer. “It’s working.”
“You’re such a smug, controlling piece of shit.” I pant, nostrils flaring when I see the way his eyes flash with something akin to anger. Knowing my words are affecting him is addicting, and my whole body hums with satisfaction. I keep going. “What is wrong with you? You’re psychotic. And the worst part is, you want people to think you’re wholly unaffected.” I let out a cruel laugh as his expression falters, and something dark passes behind his eyes. “That night ten years ago? I hardly remember it. All of this is for nothing.”
His jaw feathers, but that’s the only indication that I’m breaking into his hard shell.
“Are you done?” he asks, eyes glinting with rage.
“No, I’m not. I want to know what you want from me. I want to knowwhyyou’ve taken it upon yourself to make my life a living hell. I said I was sorry for what happened in San Diego.” My hands press against his chest. “Get. The. Fuck. Over. It.” I shove him harder with each word, but he doesn’t move.
What the fuck do I have to do tobreak throughto him? To wound him?
Looking down at where my hands rest against his chest, he tilts his head and laughs.
Bastard.
Fuckingbastard.
I’m hot and cold all at once, and I want to scream. I want to crack him open, see if there’s anything soft underneath the marble, because if there is, I want to break it. Burn it. Whatever it is that I have to do to make him feel as untethered as I feel every second in his presence.
“You know what I think?” I hiss. “You’ve spent ten years trying to prove I didn’t break you. But if youreallydidn’t care, you wouldn’t be here. You wouldn’t need to play whatever game you think you’re playing. And you definitely wouldn’t be stalking me across frozen trails just to watch me fall apart.”
He goes still.
I step closer. “You’re not invincible. You’reobsessed.”
His nostrils flare. “You think I came here to prove something to you?”
“I think you came here because you couldn’t stand that I forgot you.”
That does it. He shoves me, just once, but hard enough to stagger me back a step.
“Fuck you,” he snaps. His voice breaks on it. Just slightly. Just enough.
He turns away, but I see it. The shift. The storm brewing under his skin, the flash of something real in his face, something pained, cracked open for just a second before he can slam the door shut again.
