Page 82 of Kneel with the King
King Uncovered
Asher
I glareat King as the doctor stitches his knee up. It’s a surface wound—three stitches and he’s good to go. No concussion—I made them check… twice. In fact, I’ve been pacing and hovering the entire time since the medical team followed me back twenty minutes after I left King on the trail. He looked so… defeated. He was shivering—probably in shock, or perhaps it was just his body cooling off from the skiing—and something inside of my chest softened as they lifted him onto a stretcher.
The anger I had felt so potently earlier just sort of… dissipated.
Once they apply antibiotic ointment and dress the wound, the nurses help me lift him up. He’s fine putting weight on his injured leg, but he walks with a limp as we exit the medical room. Ava is there, too, and she takes in the way I watch him carefully.
There’s a knowing smirk resting on her lips, and I don’t like the look of it.
King doesn’t say anything as we walk down the path to our suite side by side. His limp is pronounced, and I slow my pace to match his without thinking. The sun is setting outside, casting long amber streaks through the pine trees. It gives everything agolden glow, and something inside of my chest eases just a little bit.
He’s okay.
For a second, I thought…
It doesn’t matter.
Once we’re back in the room, he sighs and collapses onto the bed like his bones are made of sand. He looks exhausted. Not just physically, but emotionally—drained in a way I haven’t seen from him.
I hover for a moment, unsure. Then I toss my gloves onto the dresser and sit at the edge of the bed, facing away from him.
“You should’ve been more careful,” I say quietly. “You could’ve killed yourself.”
King shifts behind me. “Unfortunately for you, I am alive and well.”
“Don’t joke about it. You hit your head and you’re lucky you don’t have a concussion.”
“You sound worried, Harrison,” he muses, his tone light.
I turn to face him slowly. “I was worried.”
His mouth parts like he’s about to say something—something cutting, or soft, or self-deprecating—but nothing comes out. Instead, he just watches me. His eyes scan my face like he’s trying to decipher the tension in the room.
“I thought you never wanted to see me again after this week?” he asks, almost as if he doesn’t want to hear the answer.
The anger from earlier sparks inside my chest. “I didn’t mean— You almost killed yourself!” I say, my voice a little too loud.
“You think I wanted to fall down that mountain?” he says, voice hardening. “You think that was part of my master plan?”
“I think you can be careless. In life. At work. With me. You act like everything will just work out. Like there are no repercussions to your actions.”
He sits up straighter, jaw clenched. “And you’re so different, right? Go ahead and pretend you’re above it all, but the truth is you’re addicted to the power struggle just like me.” Climbing out of bed, he stands and glares down at me. “It’s why we’re so good at our jobs.”
I stand and walk over to him so that I’m right in front of him. “Fuck you,” I snap.
“Say it again,” he breathes, the cinnamon smell of him wrapping around me like a cloak. “Go ahead. Hate me.”
“I do.” My voice shakes. “I fucking hate you.”
I don’t know who moves first. Maybe we both do—but my hands are in his hair, his mouth crashes against mine, and the air between us combusts. His hands pull me down and we fall back onto the bed, mouths colliding, teeth clashing, tongues sliding in the kind of kiss that feels like he’s trying to punish me and ruin me for anyone else.
I straddle him, grinding down hard, both of us fully clothed but past the point of caring. His hands grip my ass, anchoring me in place, and I bite his lip because I want to mark him. Because I want to make him feel even a fraction of the pain he’s made me feel.
“I still hate you,” I growl against his mouth.
“Good,” he rasps. “Use it.”
