Page 12 of Kneel with the King
Just as Iset my empty drink down, King stands up and nods toward the door of the lounge. We’re the last ones here, and I hadn’t realized how quiet the space had gotten.
“You ready for the workshop?” he asks.
I look down at my wrist, forgetting that I surrendered my watch. A second later, King turns his arm, and the soft glint of his vintage analog watch catches the light. I blink at the time—almost three-thirty.
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I mutter.
We head out of the lounge and into the main building, where we’re thankfully spared from the snowstorm raging outside. As we walk down the curved hallway, I rack my brain. Emotional wellness? Emotional regulation? What the hell kind of workshop is this again?
I’m too distracted to remember.
My mind is already drifting forward to Tuesday’s coffee date, and what I need to do to stay in Walter Davenport’s orbit until then. The man practically handed me a golden key. Now I just have to prove I deserve to use it.
No pressure or anything.
We step into what looks like a bohemian yoga studio. Soft, amber lighting. Floating muslin curtains. A faint smell of sandalwood and something herbal. And worse—blankets.
Blankets mean sitting. Possibly on the floor.
I start to get the sinking feeling I’m not going to like whatever kind of workshop this is.
There are twelve couples in total. King and I are the last to arrive and, of course, our spot is front and center.
Perfect.
I sigh and kick off my shoes, already resenting every single thing about this.
King slips out of his boots beside me. I glance down and do a double take at his socks. Bright purple. Withcats.
He catches me staring. One brow lifts.
“You wear a thirty-thousand-dollar watch and pair it with cat socks?” I ask, unable to stop myself.
He shrugs. “Balance.”
We step onto the pair of wool blankets folded like yoga mats. I lower myself stiffly onto mine, knees creaking. King, naturally, sits like he was born to meditate—cross-legged, back straight, hands resting loosely on his thighs.
In front of each pair is a small tray with two objects: a blindfold and what looks, unmistakably, like a collar.
Nope.
The instructor is tall and thin, and of course he’s wearing linen and wool from head to toe. He claps his hands twice, and the cacophonous chatter in the room stops.
“Welcome to Emotional Surrender,” he says warmly. “This is one of our most powerful couples exercises. Today, we’re going to explore what it means to truly let go. To trust. To surrender.”
The couples around us shift, some more excited than others. I sit very, very still.
The instructor picks up a collar from the demonstration tray in front of him. It’s simple leather, with a gold buckle and a brass ring.
“In a past life, I used to train dogs,” he begins, voice slow and hypnotic. “And what I learned is that animals give their full selves over when they trust you. There’s no halfway. When they wear a collar, they are letting you guide them. And don’t be mistaken… it’s not because they’re weak, but because they feel safe with you. And it’s not something you can fake.”
Jesus Christ.
“When we wear the collar during this retreat,” he continues, holding it up like a sacred object during church worship, “it means we are surrendering to our partner’s guidance. We give them permission to lead, to decide, and to take care of us. That, friends, takes strength. And deep trust.”
I shift uncomfortably. Out of the corner of my eye, I see King watching me.
“One of you will wear the collar for the duration of the retreat,” the instructor says, gesturing toward the trays. “The other will guide. For the rest of this week, one partner must surrender.”
