Page 7 of Kneel with the King
Step.
“You’ve been doing your homework. How’d you know about Ari?”
He prowls closer like a lion approaching its prey. “People talk. You and I have a lot of mutual contacts. And, well, I’ve been paying attention.”
My throat feels tight. I hate that he said her name. I hate that he’s right. And I hate that some part of me doesn’t want to correct him. He’s only a couple of feet away from me now, and his physical presence is large—not just his body, but his persona. Hispower.
“What else do you think you know about me?” I ask, folding my arms, every nerve frayed.
He takes a breath, slow and precise as he steps into my space. I’m tall, just shy of six-foot-five, and though we’re nearly the same height I feel like I’m looking up at him when he speaks.
“I know you haven’t taken more than a long weekend in two years. That you moved from San Diego to New York because they wouldn’t have opened the East Coast division without you.” He steps even closer, and I’m forced to take a step back. “That you rebuilt your client base from scratch.”
I wipe my sweaty palms on my thighs as I attempt to keep my breathing even.
“I know what it looks like when someone’s trying not to burn out. And failing.”
There it is. I feel it under my ribs. I hate that he sees it so clearly.
“Are you going to psychoanalyze everyone at this retreat, or just me?”
He smirks, a faint smile making his lips pull up. “Just you. You’re much more interesting than everyone else.”
I want to scoff, but I don’t. Because part of me—a stupid, dangerous part—likes hearing that. Even if it’s a lie. Even if it’s bait. Even if I know he’s setting some kind of trap I can’t see yet.
He walks past me to the kitchenette, fills one of the branded glasses with filtered water, then turns back to face me.
“Your brother—the one who was in the news a couple of years ago?” he asks, voice neutral. I freeze. My mouth drops open, and my fists curl at my sides.How the hell does he know about Maddox?King flicks his eyes down my body once, assessing, and then he shrugs. “Didn’t take much to connect the dots. You two look exactly alike.”
My stomach tightens. The media attention. The fallout. The fact that Maddox’s face is still floating around in corners of the internet I avoid like land mines.
I don’t answer. I don’t owe him that.
King just nods, like he didn’t expect me to respond. Like he only asked to see what I’d do.
And we’re not even twenty minutes into this shit show.
I grab my laptop from the bag, sink into the chair by the window, and flip it open just to have something between us. Numbers and strategy. Excel formulas. Corporate emails. Somethingrealand familiar.
My personal phone dings with a text. I open the notification without processing the sender, and half a second later, I’m met with a photo of my nephew. Big blue eyes. Light brown hair. The same golden complexion as Ari.
“Cute kid. Is he yours?” King is behind me, and I lock my screen, sliding it in my back pocket again.
I scoff. “I’m surprised you don’t already know.” King smirks, but he doesn’t respond—which is only slightly unsettling. I look away as I answer his question. “He’s my nephew.”
King makes an intrigued sound. “He has your eyes.”
Of course he does. Maddox and I are identical. It hits like a punch every time I see my nephew, because I wonder if that’s what my kid would have looked like.
Just as I send off an email response, someone knocks on the door. I set my laptop off to the side and quickly answer, hoping and praying for any kind of distraction.
A man wearing a white tunic clad with the retreat logo is standing on the other side, holding a large, white mesh mag.
“Hello, Mr. Harrison. I’m just here to collect your digital devices. Please place your phones and laptops in the bag,” he says, like this is a normal request.
I blink. “Excuse me?”
He smiles. “We securely store all devices during your stay. For your well-being, clarity, and optimal neurological recalibration.”
