Page 50 of Kneel with the King
When she pulls back, my eyes find Spencer glaring at me.
Instinctively, I take a step back. “I’ll see you around, Ava.”
“And, Asher? Your secret is safe with me,” she adds over her shoulder, Spencer following close behind her like a giant, scary bouncer.
I have a couple of hours until the trust hike scheduled for the afternoon, so I decide to go back to the suite to relax, take a nap,something.
Lucky for me, King isn’t there when I let myself into the room.
Collapsing onto the bed, I close my eyes and fall asleep a minute later.
The trail is narrow, icy in places, and unforgiving. We hike in pairs—silent, breathing hard, white puffs coming out of everyone’s mouth, surrounded by couples murmuring affirmations and compliments. It’s less cold now than it was this morning. The sun has burned through the clouds, and the snow is melting in places. King walks just behind me. Close enough that I can feel the heat of him every time I stumble.
“You okay, Harrison?” he murmurs at one point, when I catch myself on a low branch.
“Don’t talk to me.”
He just hums.
Half an hour in, we reach the cliff.
A sheer, twenty-foot rock face framed by pine trees comes into view. Harnesses hang from a metal rack beside the base. The instructors begin handing them out and pairing people up.
“Basic belay climb,” one of them says. “Your partner spots you, checks your knots, walks you up the rope.”
“Great,” I mutter. “Strap me in and call it foreplay.”
King’s already holding a harness, and Ihatethat he just assumes I’m the one who will go first in whatever the fuck this exercise is.
He raises an eyebrow. “I always knew you had a thing for knots.”
I discard my jacket on the ground and snatch the gear from his hands before he can say anything else. But my fingers shake as I clip the loops in place. He notices, eyebrows arching and a slow, arrogant smile curving his mouth.
“You’re tying it wrong,” he says, stepping closer.
“I know how to harness myself.”
“Clearly.”
And then, without asking, he drops to one knee.
My breath stalls.
He tightens the straps over my thighs slowly, methodically, like he’s done this before. Like it’s not simply securing climbing gear.
It’s just a power play.
His knuckles brush sensitive skin. He’s too close. His head is right at my waist.
“All you need to do is ask for help,” he murmurs, tugging a strap into place with a sharp snap.
“Next time, ask.”
I flinch at the memory just as he looks up, eyes gleaming.
“All set.”
“’Kay.”
