Page 45 of Kneel with the King
“Why would I be jealous? What, was he flirting with you, too?”
My lips press together as I try not to smile. “Maybe he was.”
Asher’s hands curl at his sides. “Interesting.”
I’m enjoying this way too much.
He steps into my space like he wants to hit me or kiss me.
I don’t move. “You came here for Walter.”
“And? You already knew that.”
“I suspected. But now you’ve all but confirmed, so thank you for that.”
“You arrogant son of a?—”
“Why not just say it, Asher?” I say, voice calm but sharp. “You thought I was trying to steal your client again.” He inhales sharply, so I dig the blade in farther. Iwanta reaction. “Now that you know who I am, now that you can piece together why I stole Trent, does that change anything?” I ask, my voice a low purr. “Do you get it now?”
“You’re intentionally trying to fuck me over,” he mutters, eyes sparkling with fury as if this is the first time he’s coming to this realization.
“And yet you keep letting me.”
That’s when he shoves me—hard.
My coffee spills. The mug clatters to the ground, shattering. We’re barely two feet from the buffet table, and everyone turns to stare at us.
“Darling, you should really be more careful,” I murmur, speaking a little too loudly.
Grabbing his hand, I mutter an apology to one of the retreat workers who’s already cleaning the mess up as I drag Asher into an empty room off a nearby hallway. The second the door snicks shut, we’re engulfed in near darkness—save for a flickering LED candle.
And a life-size statue of a man I think might be David Hasselhoff.
I don’t have the energy to laugh. Other than the freaky statue, it’s just us—just heat and breath and years of unresolved, bleeding tension. There are no millionaire clients or workers, no one else to diffuse the situation.
He glares at me, chest heaving. “You just can’t help it, can you? You take what you want no matter the consequences. Trent wasmine,” he seethes.
“You really think I’m trying to steal Walter?” I step in, voice low, the distance between us now barely measurable. He doesn’tanswer. Just breathes harder, eyes flicking to my mouth and back like he already knows I’ve won. “Or do you just hate the fact that I rile you up like this?” I ask.
Every muscle in his body tightens. “You don’t,” he lies.
I raise my chin, closing the gap. Our chests almost touch. “Then say it.”
“What?”
“Say you don’t want me.”
His lips part, but no words come. Because hecan’tsay it. Because it wouldn’t be true.
“Say you don’t enjoy wearing this,” I murmur, nearly whispering as my fingers trail along the collar around his neck. “Say you don’t love the idea of me telling you exactly what to do and exactly how to touch yourself, Asher.”
“I’m— I don’t,” he says, the words coming out in a sharp breath.
My fingers press in against the side of his neck, and I can feel his pulse beating frantically—can feel the way his breathing stutters when I squeeze just slightly.
“Liar.”
“What do you want from me?” he asks. “I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry for what happened ten years ago.”
