Page 8 of Kneel with the King
“I have work,” I say flatly. “Clients. Deadlines. Emails.”
“Participation requires full presence,” he says. “Digital detox was part of the waiver. No exceptions, even for executive-tier guests.”
I clench my jaw. My firm had approved this week off, and it had all been cleared through corporate. I’d even turned on my autoresponder and all urgent inquiries would be rerouted to my assistant. But still… I had hedged on some downtime where I could get caught up on deadlines.
“Okay, fine.” I slide my work phone into the bag. Slowly. Like it’s the last piece of armor I have. Then, walking over to my laptop, I slide that into the bag as well.
King does the same, and I swear I see him smirk underneath that collected and unfazed facade.
“What about personal phones?” I ask, reaching into my back pocket. I don’t use it that often, but still. “What if someone needs me? Family? Friends?”
“Do they?” King asks.
I turn to face him, and he gives me a long, skeptical look.
I don’t answer.
Because the truth is… no.
Not really.
No one’s waiting for me to check in. No one’s tracking my location. If I vanished for a week, no one would notice.
What a depressing fucking thought.
“Personal devices are optional, but we encourage everyone to have a full digital detox.”
Before I can reply, King steps forward and pops his personal phone into the bag. Clenching my jaw, I do the same.
Not gonna let him one-up me.
My smartwatch is still on my wrist, and the man looks at it pointedly. “That, too.”
I open my mouth—to argue, maybe. Or stall. I use my smartwatch to track my sleep, my activity, my steps… it’s the last vestige of normalcy.
But King steps forward and reaches for my hand. “Come on, sweetheart.” I recoil at his term of endearment before he continues. “You heard the man. Full digital detox.”
And unclasps the watchhimself.
Slow. Careful. The metal slides over my skin like it doesn’t want to leave.
His fingers brush my pulse point, and I flinch. It sends a ripple of discomfort through me, and my jaw tightens.
I hate how close he is—how gently he does it, like that makes it better.
“Wasn’t that hard,” he murmurs. “Was it?”
I look down at my bare wrist.
My stomach twists. This all feels… premeditated.
The retreat employee nods. “You’ll get everything back on departure.”
And just like that, he turns and leaves us to fend for ourselves.
“Take a few minutes to unpack. I’ll meet you in the lobby,” King says without another word. He grabs his coat and leaves me alone in the suite.
I look around the room, tapping my fingers against my thighs.
