Page 80 of Kneel with the King
The trail narrows as we pass the ridge, trees thickening and the snow untouched except for the faint grooves ahead of us. It’s quiet, but not peaceful. It reminds me of our walk earlier, the air tense and thick with something opaque.
There are too many thoughts unspoken scraping along the edges of our silence.
Asher stays a few yards ahead, skis slicing cleanly through the snow. He’s good at this. He’s good at most things. It shouldn’t surprise me—he’s built like an athlete, and his mannerisms are graceful and efficient. Even here, his body ismagnificent. Even here, underneath all of the layers, I admire how his muscular thighs move him across the snow with hardly a huff. He’s in good shape, and suddenly my mind is filled with more of these kinds of adventures.
Jogging with him in Central Park.
Kickboxing on Thursday nights.
Weekends camping and fishing in the Catskills.
Maybe I should focus on the rhythm of my own movement, but I’m too busy watching the way his sculpted shoulders tighten every time I draw near.
I open my mouth to say something to keep him from getting too far, and then the ground shifts.
One second, I’m gliding along the edge of the trail. The next, the snow beneath my ski collapses, a hidden patch of ice sending my balance into chaos.
There’s a sharp crack as my pole bends, then it’s a blur of white and pain.
I hit the ground hard. Shoulder first, then ribs. My leg twists wrong beneath me and a jagged, blinding throb pulses through my knee.
“Fuck!” The cry rips out of me before I can stop it. It echoes like a gunshot through the trees.
My skis scatter. One flies off, along with the pole lost somewhere in the drifts. Something knocks the back of my skull. The world tilts, and a second later, I’m flat on my back, staring up at a perfect blue sky and wondering how the hell everything hurts at once.
“Ow,” I manage through clenched teeth.
Asher drops to his knees beside me in the snow, face pale beneath the flush of cold. “Jesus, what happened?” His hands hover, unsure where to touch. “Are you?—”
“My knee,” I grunt. “I—fell wrong.”
He doesn’t move for a second. Just stares at me, wide-eyed, before dragging his gaze to my knee.
“Okay,” he says finally, breath fogging between us. “Okay, just—don’t move. I’ll call for help.”
But he doesn’t get up. He’s frozen there, jaw tight, his hands trembling slightly as they finally settle against my chest. He checks my breathing, my pulse… like he’s afraid of what he might find.
“I’m not going to die. I’m fine,” I lie, trying to get oxygen into my lungs despite having it all knocked out of me. “Just twisted it.”
“You’re not fine,” he snaps, voice sharp with panic. “You’re bleeding.”
I glance down. A gash on my shin is leaking through the layer of my pants, the fabric torn to shreds, staining the snow beneath me.
“Oh.”
That’s when the pain spikes hard enough to make my vision go white, and the back of my head throbs and makes my vision go blurry.
“Asher,” I grit out, but he’s already tearing off his gloves, looking around for help.
The problem is, we’re several feet below everyone on the side of a mountain. Even if there were people behind us, they’d have to look over the edge to see us. He’ll have to either carry me up—I doubt I can put weight on my knee—or call for help.
“I never would’ve fallen if I wasn’t checking out your cute ass,” I admit, suddenly feeling giddy and slightly lightheaded.
Asher narrows his eyes. “Fuck. Did you hit your head? Do you have a concussion?”
“Maybe. Do I look like a doctor?” I ask, unable to contain my snarky tone.
“Good to know even a concussion and a broken leg doesn’t dull your assholery,” he mutters, standing up and looking down at me.
