Page 35 of Kneel with the King
And I already don’t.
I know without a doubt that I just made a very stupid mistake.
“Shit—fuck,” he sputters, pacing the bathroom. “Go home, Ambrose,” he says. “This never happened, okay?”
He unlocks the door and leaves, not looking back.
And I don’t follow.
I stay in that dim little bathroom for another ten minutes, willing my heart to stop racing.
It wasn’tjusta kiss.
It was my first.
And he acted like it broke him.
I don’t sleep when I get home. I just lie in bed, staring at the ceiling. Every second replays in my head on a loop—his breath against my mouth, his fingers on my jaw, the feel of his cock, the long, thick length I felt with my hands, the way his entire body tensed like he was bracing for impact.
Like touching me was something shameful.
The sun comes up and paints my ceiling pale and gray.
And just as my alarm buzzes, my phone dings.
Subject: Internship Status Update
From: Human Resources
Message: Effective immediately, your internship with Waycross Holdings has been terminated. Your manager will ensure your timekeeping has been updated for your final paycheck. For any questions, please utilize the employee portal.
That’s it—no reason. No contact. Like I meant nothing. Which… I guess I didn’t.
I know Asher is behind it.
However, I remember the way he looked at me. The way he kissed me like he’d been starving for it. Like I was a secret he wanted to bury under his skin.
I wasn’t nothing.
I was hismistake.
One he couldn’t stand to look at in the morning.
And that’s the part that sticks—that’s the part that festers.
That’s the part that grows.
King’s Ransom
Asher
Despite almost dying of hypothermia,I finally make my way back to the retreat. I grab a to-go coffee and lounge around in the heated lobby so that I can avoid King back at our suite. When half an hour has passed, I request a key for our suite and make my way back, hoping I’ll have some time alone. Pressing the wooden key card to the door, it clicks open, and relief washes over me when I realize King’s gone already.
I slam the door behind me harder than I meant to; the wood groans, and the frame rattles.
But I don’t care.
I’m still fuming. The suite smells like him, something spicy, like cinnamon. Probably his bodywash. The room is warm, and there’s a low fire burning in the fireplace. Outside, snow begins to fall softly, flakes brushing against the large windows. It’s too quiet—too still for the chaos boiling under my skin.
