Page 17 of Kneel with the King
King wipes his mouth with his napkin, then leans back in his chair. “You’re different,” he says suddenly.
My brow furrows. “What?”
“Nothing,” he says, too quickly. “Just remembering something.”
I narrow my eyes. “You say that like we’ve met before.”
He tilts his head, unreadable. He looks at me again. For a second, his hard expression softens. Something twists in my gut.
“You don’t like scallops, do you?”
I blink. “What?”
“I remembered, after the food arrived.” He takes a long drink. “But you ate them anyway.”
I stare at him. How the hell did he know that?
“How do you?—”
“It doesn’t matter.”
He sets his glass down and looks at me. “You need to speak up when you don’t like something, Harrison.” His tone is neutral, but the words cut right through me.
“Thanks for the tip,” I retort caustically.
“Easy, boy,” he murmurs, eyeing my collar. His eyes twinkle with mirth.Fucker.He’s enjoying messing with me. “Wouldn’t want Walter to think we’re fighting.”
I look over at Walter, and he’s watching us. I give him a quick nod before turning back to King.
He places both hands on the table. I know what’s coming before he opens his mouth.
“Hold my hands,” he murmurs, low enough that only I can hear him.
I narrow my eyes but comply—because Walter’s still looking, and I don’t exactly have the luxury of peeling away from the performance now.
His fingers close around mine, steady and unyielding. That same heated jolt pulses through me, and I shift, uncomfortable in my own skin. The collar digs into the flesh of my neck, and instead of enjoying the feeling like I did earlier, it suddenly feels oppressive and…too fucking much.
I just need to get laid. That’s all this is.
“Smile,” he says, his voice quiet but firm. His grip tightens just enough to cause me to wince. “You look like you’re plotting my murder.”
“‘Murder’ is excessive,” I mutter. “I might be plotting some casual incapacitation, sure. Perhaps some minor flesh wounds, but I don’t want to go to jail. I’m too pretty for that. Ask me how I know.”
His lips curve, slow and sharp. That twinkle in his eye returns, like he knows I didn’t mean to bring up my ex-felon twin.
He leans in slightly, his grip still on the verge of almost hurting. “Hmm.”
I glare. “What?”
His thumbs trace small circles on the backs of my hands. It’s too casual to be affectionate, yet too calculated not to mean something.
Games.He’s playing games. And I hate that I don’t know the rules.
“I’m impressed,” he says finally, his tone unreadable. “You’re better at this game than I gave you credit for.” He pauses, only continuing once he’s lowered his voice. “But I should’ve guessed.You’ve got that defiant streak… the kind that talks the talk but only plays tough until someone pushes back in the right way.”
My breath catches.
He doesn’t smile. Instead, he just studies me. And for some reason, that rattles me more than anything he’s said.
