Page 98 of Kneel with the King
Something shifted when he hurt himself skiing. When his body hit the snow and my heart stopped for a second too long. When I carried him and hated how scared I was, because scared means attached and attached means breakable. After that, it was like I’d stepped off a ledge, and now I’m waiting to land and there is no ground, just air and the sound of my own breathing and his hand finding the back of my neck in a way that I’ve come to crave, and?—
Nope. Abort.
Carefully, I slip my fingers under his wrist and lift. He murmurs something against my skin, his voice raspy from sleep, and I freeze. He settles again. I hold my breath until his evens out again, then I slide out from under him inch by inch. The mattress dips, but he doesn’t wake up.
What kind of person does it make me that relief and disappointment hit me at the same time?
I drag on clean boxers, then shove my legs into my sweats, the room still dark. My shirt from last night still smells like him. I stare at it for two seconds too long, then grab a clean one from my suitcase. Socks. Boots. The jacket I’d slung over an armchair.
I glance back once on my way out. King is sprawled on his stomach now, face half buried in the pillow, hair a wreck, the line of his muscular back long and tantalizing.
It looks ordinary. Like we could do it again tomorrow. Like I could maybe envision him in my California king bed back in the city, twisted in my dark gray sheets, waking up with his arm around my waist.
I close the door before that thought can grow bigger.
The air outside feels like a knife to the chest, the kind of cold that makes every nerve ending wake up. The sky is just starting to pale over the ridgeline of the trees, and there are still a few scattered stars above me. I shove my hands in my pockets and head toward the main lodge, boots crunching hard enough to drown out the echo of my own heartbeat.
Inside, the lobby is all crackling fire and expensive throw blankets. Someone’s got coffee going; the scent cuts through the air, energizing me and making me walk faster. There are only a few early risers—two women in matching fleece sweaters holding hands on the couch, a guy with a laptop, who clearly didn’t do the digital detox, and a staffer adjusting a bowl of tangerines.
I help myself to a triple espresso and sit down on an empty couch just outside the restaurant. Just as I take a sip of the coffee, someone says my name.
“Asher.”
I don’t have to turn to know it’s Ava. Her voice has that soft quality, kind and just a tad too quiet. She’s in leggings and a thick hoodie, hair in a messy bun, cheeks pink from the cold. She’s wearing running shoes and a puffer vest. Spencer is a shadow near the fireplace, arms folded, eyes sweeping the room like he’s memorizing threats.
Because I’m sure there are so many threats at this remote, five-star resort.
And yet, his cheeks are flushed too, and when my eyes wander to his shoes, I see that he’s wearing running shoes as well.
I nearly chuckle at the thought of him following her on runs. Then again, he’s built like a machine, so maybe he likes it.
“You’re up early,” she says, sliding onto the cushion beside me.
“Couldn’t sleep,” I lie. I slept like the dead. Or rather, I was dead and resurrected by a man’s mouth, but we don’t need to go there.
Her eyes do one of those slow scans—face, shoulders, hands. It’s disconcerting how much of Ari I see in her in moments like this. Not the face, exactly. Where Ari is all sharp angles, a honed weapon built to bite back, Ava is softer—quieter. The classic middle child, born between two rambunctious, wild women.
So, not the face, per se. But the way she calibrates and senses things. The way her eyes take in micro-shifts and emotional dodges.
Their father really did a number on them.
“You look… different today.”
“Older?” I joke. But it doesn’t land the way I want it to.
“Softer,” she says, not unkind. “Less… stressed?”
I stare into my cup. “Must be the cold.”
She lets that sit. She’s good at silence. I know the tactic—stay quiet, and people will fill the space with truth.
Not me.
I drink instead.
“Spencer said the ropes course was a win yesterday,” she offers. “He watched you two for a minute on the ridge. Said you moved like you’d practiced it together. I guess a lot of the other couples bickered and fought, but the two of you did really well.”
My mouth quirks. “Is he also a romance critic now?”
