Page 72 of Kneel with the King
King’s gaze meets mine—steady, unreadable, and dark with something I can’t quite name. Satisfaction, maybe. Or hunger.
Perhaps both.
“Ah,” he says, giving Walter an easy smile. “Touchy subject for this one,” he adds, reaching out for my hand.
My throat is dry. “Well, yeah. You’re acquiring Fuse,” I say, shaking slightly.
He doesn’t blink. “As you know,sweetheart,technically a parent company is acquiring Fuse. I just expedited the paperwork.”
The words hit like a gut punch.
I’m going to kill him. I’ve never had murderous thoughts like this, never felt blind fucking rage like this. Sweat sticks to my back as I send every awful thought through my eyes, directed at King.
It’s infuriating, though. He only squeezes my hand and gives me a placid smile, like he can’t feel the thousands of daggers I’m mentally sending him through my eyes.
“Excuse me, boys. I promised Jacques I wouldn’t be late to our therapy session.” Standing, Walter claps me on the back.“Lovely catching up with you, Asher.” Shaking King’s hand, he nods once. “Call me once things settle down with the acquisition, okay? I’d love to hear more about what the two of you can do as a team.”
As Walter walks away, I snatch my hand away from King, struggling to keep my voice level. I want to project anger, but I know my expression looks betrayed. I know, because King’s brow furrows as he takes me in.
“Why? Why did you do it?”
“You can’t be surprised,” he says quickly, brushing it off.
“Are you ever going to stop fucking me over?” I ask, my voice breaking on the last word.
Something shadows behind King’s eyes at that, but it’s quickly replaced by a sharp smile. He leans forward, darkened eyes boring into mine.
“You did always say I wanted to fuck you over. I figured I’d do it properly this time.”
I stand too fast, and the chair scrapes loudly against the hardwood floor. King doesn’t move. He just tilts his head, watching me like he’s waiting to see which part of me breaks first.
“You think this is funny?” I hiss. “You think this is a game?”
“I think,” King says coolly, “that if you’re going to kneel for me at night, you shouldn’t be surprised when I take the floor out from under you in the morning.”
My breath hitches. “Fuck you.”
I turn and walk out before I do something stupid.
How the King Was Made
King
The chairsin the therapy lounge are made for comfort, which is good because Asher hasn’t looked at or spoken to me since we got here. I lean back on one side of the couch, left arm stretched out lazily across the back like this is just another boardroom negotiation. All the way on the other side of me, Asher sits like he’s on trial for murder, jaw clenched, spine too straight, like the tension is the only thing holding him upright.
Like he might fall apart at any second.
Just as I’m about to make a joke about the cheerful-looking plant next to the couch, the door opens, and in walks a woman with long, dark hair and down-sloped, kind eyes.
“Hello, Mr. King and Mr. Harrison. I’m Marina, and I’ll be your marriage and family therapist for today. It’s lovely to meet you both,” she says calmly, smiling as she sits down in a chair across from us, clipboard resting lightly on her knees. “Before we dive into communication styles, I’d love to better understand the stories that shaped you both. Your histories. Especially the ones you’re afraid to say out loud.”
Asher scoffs, looking away. “That’s vague as hell.”
I glance sideways. “Scared, sweetheart?”
He ignores me. Marina waits patiently.
So I speak first. “My full name is Ambrose King. I’m the oldest of five siblings. Grew up in a religious cult in upstate New York.”
