Page 2 of Kneel with the King
“We’re checking in together,” King says to the receptionist.
He’s tall and composed. Straight spine, black coat over his arm, carrying a simple, black leather duffle bag. His shirtsleeves are rolled and there’s an antique watch glinting on his wrist—subtle, but expensive.
I’ve actually never met him in person. I’d only had the pleasure of seeing his headshot everywhere—including theForbesMost Powerful Under 30 list.
And, of course, we’d argued on the phone a fair amount.
Those dark eyes find mine, and something about his presence makes me want to avert my gaze. There’s something in his stare, like déjà vu, but with sharper edges that pull at my gut.
The feeling slips away before I can place it.
He’s broader than I realized. Wide-shouldered, cut in a way that says power more than vanity. The kind of build you earn,not just maintain. His shirt fits close enough to suggest he doesn’t need to prove anything.
His skin is warm-toned, sun-brushed. His hair, dark with a few lighter strands like he spends more time outside than his job should allow, is pushed back but already starting to fall forward. It’s styled but not polished, just like the rest of him. Sharp jaw, a day or two of scruff, and?—
Piercings. A few in one ear, subtle but definite. One at the cartilage, one lower down. And a thin, silver nose ring. Stylish, tasteful. A quiet rebellion tucked into an otherwise corporate uniform. I clock them and feel my mouth tighten.
Piercings. Of course.Kids these days.
Except he’s not a kid—not really.
There’s a stillness to him that makes me think there’s a lot more under the suit he keeps hidden—perhaps a dark secret or two. Something coiled and powerful. Like if he stood, he’d take up more space than the room allows.
I make sure my face doesn’t move. Not a twitch. Not a breath. But inside, everything spikes—blood pressure, temperature, heart rate.
I don’t know why he’s here, or why he’s not partnered up already.
And he’s saying I’m with him—like we somehow coordinated this.
The receptionist’s smile tightens just slightly. Not suspicious, but assessing, like she’s flipping through a mental checklist and we’re not ticking all the boxes.
She glances between us. “Just to confirm, you’re registering as a couple? We do ask all guests to sign the joint agreement—shared suite, shared schedule, full emotional transparency. Certain aspects of the retreat are very intimate. You understand, I’m sure.”
I open my mouth, ready to buy me some time to figure out what the fuck is going on.
But then King moves.
Without even looking at me, he steps closer and slips his arm around my shoulders, like he’s done it before.
Like it’snothing.
I go rigid. Every muscle tightens instinctively, a full-body flinch I hope the receptionist doesn’t clock.
“Of course we’re a couple,” he says smoothly, all warmth and civility, like he’s being asked to confirm a dinner reservation. “Just had a little travel chaos and I wasn’t sure I’d make it in time. You know how it is.”
He gives her the kind of smile people bend around, and even I have to admit, the man has a shit ton of charisma.
She melts on cue. “Of course,” she chirps, already typing again. “Happens all the time. Welcome to Altura Retreat. You’ll both be in suite eleven. Key cards are inside your welcome packet. Before you go, we’ll just need both of you to sign the waiver and consent form.”
Waiver? Why the hell do I need a waiver?
I don’t move. My brain is trying to catch up to itself. There’s a buzzing in my skull like I’m about to be electrocuted.
King looks at me then, like he’s waiting for me to out us.
But if I have to spend a week sharing a room with this jerk, then so be it. I need to get to know Walter Davenport, and hopefully bring him on as a client. It’s the work of my entire lifetime, all culminating in this one, exclusive retreat where I’ll have access to the one man who could make or break the next decade of my career.
The only way that’s happening is if I play nice, keep my mouth shut, and survive this goddamn retreat.
