Kneel with the King (Midnight #3)

1. King of the Jungle

King of the Jungle

Asher

Brooklyn

Sorry, babe. Something came up and I can’t make it. Have fun at the retreat! xoxoxo kisses hugs

I stare at the text for a full thirty seconds, waiting for the punchline, but of course there isn’t one.

It’s just there, sitting on my screen like an afterthought, like dragging yourself up a mountain only to be told the summit’s closed for weather…

sorry, no refunds, good luck on the way back down.

I don’t move. The driver’s already pulled away from the luxury resort, and the frozen gravel crunches under my boots as I stand here with a duffel bag and a suitcase, a pair of sunglasses I now regret on the bridge of my nose. I can’t see shit without my prescription lenses and I can’t think .

What the hell am I supposed to do now?

Brooklyn was supposed to come. All she had to do was smile, nod, be charming, laugh at the right things, and make it look like I’m supposed to be here.

She was supposed to make it look like I belong at a couples-only retreat for the most successful business titans in the country, hosted by a man I’ve been trying to get in front of for three goddamn months.

I just needed to be perceived as stable, settled, successful . That’s all.

But now I’m alone.

And alone doesn’t get me past the check-in table, which I walk up to a minute later.

The woman behind it is glowing. Not metaphorically—actually glowing.

Like she’s been bathed in turmeric and inner peace and probably a little too much of that shimmery stuff women like to wear.

Her hair is silver-blonde, and her white tunic is ironed and professional, and she gives me an overly compassionate smile as her eyes flick over my shoulder, searching for my partner for the week.

“Welcome to Altura Retreat. Name?”

“Asher Harrison,” I tell her, looking around for any familiar faces.

“Thank you. How was your journey?” she asks, tapping a tablet with perfectly manicured nails.

I shrug. Long. Tedious. And possibly all for nothing.

“Fine.”

“Wonderful. We have you registered for a suite in the Sekhmet Pathway, correct?”

I nod, dazed. “Yeah. Yes. I had a—I was supposed to meet my—” I pause, swallow the word girlfriend like it’s going to burn on the way down. “Is it possible to participate as a solo person? My partner got held up.”

She tilts her head. “Unfortunately, this particular retreat is exclusively for couples only.”

I open my mouth, ready to spin something. She had a delayed flight, a missed connection, a mysterious stomach bug… something. I’ll make it sound plausible. I have to be here this week.

But then a voice cuts clean through the afternoon.

“He’s with me.”

It’s low—calm. Polished, somehow.

I blink and turn around, and when I see his face, recognition lands like a slap.

You’ve got to be kidding me.

Mr. King—no first name that I know of. Everyone just calls him ‘King’—like he came prepackaged with a crown. The name alone is so arrogant it makes my teeth ache.

He’s a wunderkind. A boardroom shark in designer boots, tattoos, and a reputation that precedes him.

I’ve never worked with him directly, but I do know he’s young. Not even thirty and already untouchable. He doesn’t need decades of experience under his belt, because he has a presence that wows everyone he meets.

Unfortunately, I’ve been on the receiving end of his ruthlessness. He poached one of my legacy clients a year ago—sank an entire department I’d built from the ground up just to rebuild it under his name, at his firm.

Fucking asshole.

“We’re checking in together,” King says to the receptionist.

He’s tall and composed. Straight spine, black coat over his arm, carrying a simple, black leather duffle bag. His shirtsleeves are rolled and there’s an antique watch glinting on his wrist—subtle, but expensive.

I’ve actually never met him in person. I’d only had the pleasure of seeing his headshot everywhere—including the Forbes Most Powerful Under 30 list.

And, of course, we’d argued on the phone a fair amount.

Those dark eyes find mine, and something about his presence makes me want to avert my gaze. There’s something in his stare, like déjà vu, but with sharper edges that pull at my gut.

The feeling slips away before I can place it.

He’s broader than I realized. Wide-shouldered, cut in a way that says power more than vanity. The kind of build you earn, not just maintain. His shirt fits close enough to suggest he doesn’t need to prove anything.

His skin is warm-toned, sun-brushed. His hair, dark with a few lighter strands like he spends more time outside than his job should allow, is pushed back but already starting to fall forward. It’s styled but not polished, just like the rest of him. Sharp jaw, a day or two of scruff, and?—

Piercings. A few in one ear, subtle but definite. One at the cartilage, one lower down. And a thin, silver nose ring. Stylish, tasteful. A quiet rebellion tucked into an otherwise corporate uniform. I clock them and feel my mouth tighten.

Piercings . Of course. Kids these days.

Except he’s not a kid—not really.

There’s a stillness to him that makes me think there’s a lot more under the suit he keeps hidden—perhaps a dark secret or two. Something coiled and powerful. Like if he stood, he’d take up more space than the room allows.

I make sure my face doesn’t move. Not a twitch. Not a breath. But inside, everything spikes—blood pressure, temperature, heart rate.

I don’t know why he’s here, or why he’s not partnered up already.

And he’s saying I’m with him—like we somehow coordinated this.

The receptionist’s smile tightens just slightly. Not suspicious, but assessing, like she’s flipping through a mental checklist and we’re not ticking all the boxes.

She glances between us. “Just to confirm, you’re registering as a couple? We do ask all guests to sign the joint agreement—shared suite, shared schedule, full emotional transparency. Certain aspects of the retreat are very intimate. You understand, I’m sure.”

I open my mouth, ready to buy me some time to figure out what the fuck is going on.

But then King moves.

Without even looking at me, he steps closer and slips his arm around my shoulders, like he’s done it before.

Like it’s nothing .

I go rigid. Every muscle tightens instinctively, a full-body flinch I hope the receptionist doesn’t clock.

“Of course we’re a couple,” he says smoothly, all warmth and civility, like he’s being asked to confirm a dinner reservation. “Just had a little travel chaos and I wasn’t sure I’d make it in time. You know how it is.”

He gives her the kind of smile people bend around, and even I have to admit, the man has a shit ton of charisma.

She melts on cue. “Of course,” she chirps, already typing again. “Happens all the time. Welcome to Altura Retreat. You’ll both be in suite eleven. Key cards are inside your welcome packet. Before you go, we’ll just need both of you to sign the waiver and consent form.”

Waiver? Why the hell do I need a waiver?

I don’t move. My brain is trying to catch up to itself. There’s a buzzing in my skull like I’m about to be electrocuted.

King looks at me then, like he’s waiting for me to out us.

But if I have to spend a week sharing a room with this jerk, then so be it.

I need to get to know Walter Davenport, and hopefully bring him on as a client.

It’s the work of my entire lifetime, all culminating in this one, exclusive retreat where I’ll have access to the one man who could make or break the next decade of my career.

The only way that’s happening is if I play nice, keep my mouth shut, and survive this goddamn retreat.

So, I guess we’re doing this.

The woman hands us both matching welcome envelopes with the room keys inside.

We make our way to our shared suite. The door clicks softly behind us as we step out of the building and into the snow, King’s arm still around my shoulders.

The moment we’re far enough away from anyone to see us, I twist slightly, just enough to shrug him off. His arm falls away like it was never there, but the weight of it lingers, pressed into the space between my neck and spine like a hot brand.

I don’t say anything. Not here. Not yet.

But my thoughts are sharp and loud and already racing ahead.

“Trent says hi, by the way,” King says, his tone eerily casual.

That’s the moment it lands, and the moment I realize just what the fuck I’m doing. Hearing him say Trent’s name is the straw that breaks the camel’s back, and I’m suddenly filled with the resentment and anger that’s been festering for over a year.

Trent Marchand—my client, my anchor, the account I built from the ground up, including a fifteen-person team, the one I moved to New York for. The last time I saw King’s name in my inbox was the morning after Trent’s “surprise” announcement that he was moving all assets to a new firm.

I knew immediately that someone had poached him, because King had been poaching smaller clients from my roster all last year.

I’d given him an earful over the phone that day, and even back then, he was calm and collected. So annoyingly mature about the whole thing, citing, “It’s just business.”

I clench my jaw so hard it clicks.

Whatever this is? It’s not random. King is here, doing this for some reason I have yet to ascertain.

And I’m not letting him win.

Not this time.

Not again.