Page 56 of Kneel with the King
That was the easy part. But now?
Now, my thighs are trembling, and the only thing echoing in my head is the sound of Asher’s breath hitching just before he took me deep into the back of his throat.
He’s not the only one unraveling.
And that pisses me off.
He leftme. Ten years ago, he walked away and made me feel like a fucking ghost. And now he gets to kneel in front of me like none of it happened? Like I’m some itch he needs to scratch out of his system?
Fuck that.
Fuckhim.
I can’t forget why I’m here, even if I’m starting to enjoy his bratty presence.
Even if I’m starting to catalog the way the sun glints off his blue-gray eyes, or the way he seems to implicitly submit to me without even thinking about it.
The things I could get him to do?—
Fuck.
Focus, Ambrose.
I stop walking and drag a hand down my face, jaw tight, breath fogging the air.
This was supposed to be war—the quiet, elegant kind that fucked with him psychologically more than anything.
I was supposed to take everything he wanted and smile while doing it.
There was never any doubt in my mind that he could possibly want to acquire Walter. Why else would he be here? When I realized that, it was the cherry on top.
Asher’s latest shiny thing, ripe for the taking.
Just like the others.
Just like Trent Marchand.
So I made the reservation. I practiced the pitch. I laid the trap.
Then Asher came in his pants while on his knees for me—and it felt like somethingelse.
Not just power. Not just heat—it felt personal.
Which is dangerous.
Because I know what happens when things get personal.
My hand instinctively goes to the gravestone tattoo on my forearm.
One of five.
The oldest. The only one who got out of our small town and made something of myself.
I was thirteen when I first realized obedience wasn’t the same as love. They called it faith; I call itsurveillance. Do you know what it does to a kid? To grow up watched? Tracked? Punished for every breath that deviates from doctrine?
You either break…
Or you learn to command.
