4. In the Court of Kings
In the Court of Kings
Asher
Just as I set my empty drink down, King stands up and nods toward the door of the lounge. We’re the last ones here, and I hadn’t realized how quiet the space had gotten.
“You ready for the workshop?” he asks.
I look down at my wrist, forgetting that I surrendered my watch. A second later, King turns his arm, and the soft glint of his vintage analog watch catches the light. I blink at the time—almost three-thirty.
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I mutter.
We head out of the lounge and into the main building, where we’re thankfully spared from the snowstorm raging outside. As we walk down the curved hallway, I rack my brain. Emotional wellness? Emotional regulation? What the hell kind of workshop is this again?
I’m too distracted to remember.
My mind is already drifting forward to Tuesday’s coffee date, and what I need to do to stay in Walter Davenport’s orbit until then. The man practically handed me a golden key. Now I just have to prove I deserve to use it.
No pressure or anything.
We step into what looks like a bohemian yoga studio. Soft, amber lighting. Floating muslin curtains. A faint smell of sandalwood and something herbal. And worse—blankets.
Blankets mean sitting. Possibly on the floor.
I start to get the sinking feeling I’m not going to like whatever kind of workshop this is.
There are twelve couples in total. King and I are the last to arrive and, of course, our spot is front and center.
Perfect.
I sigh and kick off my shoes, already resenting every single thing about this.
King slips out of his boots beside me. I glance down and do a double take at his socks. Bright purple. With cats .
He catches me staring. One brow lifts.
“You wear a thirty-thousand-dollar watch and pair it with cat socks?” I ask, unable to stop myself.
He shrugs. “Balance.”
We step onto the pair of wool blankets folded like yoga mats. I lower myself stiffly onto mine, knees creaking. King, naturally, sits like he was born to meditate—cross-legged, back straight, hands resting loosely on his thighs.
In front of each pair is a small tray with two objects: a blindfold and what looks, unmistakably, like a collar.
Nope.
The instructor is tall and thin, and of course he’s wearing linen and wool from head to toe. He claps his hands twice, and the cacophonous chatter in the room stops.
“Welcome to Emotional Surrender,” he says warmly. “This is one of our most powerful couples exercises. Today, we’re going to explore what it means to truly let go. To trust. To surrender.”
The couples around us shift, some more excited than others. I sit very, very still.
The instructor picks up a collar from the demonstration tray in front of him. It’s simple leather, with a gold buckle and a brass ring.
“In a past life, I used to train dogs,” he begins, voice slow and hypnotic.
“And what I learned is that animals give their full selves over when they trust you. There’s no halfway.
When they wear a collar, they are letting you guide them.
And don’t be mistaken… it’s not because they’re weak, but because they feel safe with you. And it’s not something you can fake.”
Jesus Christ.
“When we wear the collar during this retreat,” he continues, holding it up like a sacred object during church worship, “it means we are surrendering to our partner’s guidance. We give them permission to lead, to decide, and to take care of us. That, friends, takes strength. And deep trust.”
I shift uncomfortably. Out of the corner of my eye, I see King watching me.
“One of you will wear the collar for the duration of the retreat,” the instructor says, gesturing toward the trays. “The other will guide. For the rest of this week, one partner must surrender.”
I reach for the collar and hand it to King. No way in hell I’m surrendering to this bastard.
“Here,” I mutter, not meeting his eyes.
He doesn’t take it. I look up at him, and he’s smirking at me.
“No,” he says firmly.
Despite the way his lips are twitching with amusement, his gaze is unreadable, steady. The kind that says he’s already made a decision I wasn’t invited to weigh in on.
My throat goes dry. I look down at the collar in my hands. It shouldn’t be a big deal. It’s just a prop.
But somehow, it feels like a metaphor for something I haven’t been privy to.
The instructor walks across the front of the room like a lecturer, gesturing lightly.
“Think of it like sailing. One partner is the rudder, the other is the sail.
One provides direction, the other provides motion.
Neither is useful without the other. And sometimes those roles reverse with the tide.
But for the purposes of this exercise, and, ultimately, the main purpose of this retreat, you will each choose your role. Lead… or surrender.
“For some,” the instructor continues, walking past King and me, “falling into the natural dynamic of yin and yang—of lead and follow—feels effortless. For others, it takes work. Trust isn’t always immediate.
But trust can be cultivated. This exercise is about discovering that balance.
The give and the take. The surrender and the direction. The sacred tension.”
His words skim just under the surface of something deeper, more primal.
And then I think of the book I saw in King’s duffle bag.
The Dominant’s Discourse: Power, Control, and Consent.
All around us, people are helping their partners with their collars. To my right, Jacques is standing behind a kneeling Walter, gently securing the collar around his neck.
I swallow. My fingers tremble as I bring the black leather collar toward my throat.
Maybe I just want to know what it feels like to let someone else decide what happens next.
Just to prove I can, if nothing else.
King takes it from me, wordless. He steps in close—close enough that I can feel the heat of him against my back. His hand brushes my neck as he lifts the collar in place, and instinctively, I stiffen.
Breathe, Asher.
He buckles it gently in place from his position behind me, and every time his calloused fingertips brush the sensitive area on the back of my neck, I fight a full-body shudder. The leather is warm. Firm. It presses against the hollow of my throat with a weight I feel all the way down to my gut.
My pulse kicks under his touch, but I don’t stop him. Something about this, something about being held here—not by force, but by choice—does something to me.
I don’t want to inspect it too closely.
All I know is, he’s the one leading now. And while I don’t know what that means for the rest of the week, I do know that for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel the excruciatingly heavy pressure of trying to hold everything together.
“There,” he says quietly. “Perfect fit.” His fingers linger, just for a second, and then his voice curls around the back of my neck. “What a good boy.” He pauses, and then his voice goes softer. Darker. “Such a good listener.”
The praise slides under my skin, leaving heat in my wake. I exhale a shaky, involuntary sound. It’s too much and not enough all at once. My hand comes up to touch the edge of the collar, then drops, resigned.
The instructor resumes talking, guiding everyone through breathing exercises. I don’t hear most of it, because I can’t stop thinking of the weight of the collar around my neck.
Every time my fingers brush against it, something tightens in my chest. A tug. A pulse. An awareness that refuses to be ignored.
This is stupid. It’s just a workshop. This is all fake.
But the way King looks at me? The hungry, dark-eyed way that makes me squirm?
The way I feel with it wrapped around my throat?
It doesn’t feel fake.
The collar is snug. Not uncomfortably so, but just enough that I feel it every time I breathe.
Every time I swallow. Every time I shift slightly on the thick woven blanket beneath us.
King hasn’t touched me again. Not physically.
Not since he buckled the clasp with a kind of calm precision that made my pulse race.
But I can feel the heat of his presence behind me. And if someone were looking at us, it wouldn’t seem sexual—not explicitly, at least.
But there’s sometime undeniably possessive in the way he hasn’t said a word since.
The instructor’s voice is low and soothing. He’s still talking about trust. About surrender. About how, in a dynamic partnership, one person protects. One person steers the other safely through unfamiliar terrain.
“Think of the collar,” he says, “as a reminder. Of who’s holding the leash. Of who you’ve chosen to trust.”
My ears burn.
This is absurd, but for some reason, my body hasn’t gotten the memo that this is just a game.
My breathing turns shallow, and suddenly the collar feels too tight.
It’s him— King. A man I don’t trust. A man who is my biggest competitor. So why the hell does this feel… fine ?
My palms sweat. My neck itches. My breathing won’t slow.
“You may now assign a safe word,” the instructor says softly. “Something clear and simple.”
I exhale shakily. King doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. He’s giving me nothing.
Which is, somehow, worse.
He’s letting me sit here. Letting me stew in it. In him.
“What’ll it be, Harrison?” King asks, his voice low—almost lazy. But there’s something in it. Heat, or desire, and it’s barely leashed. Like he already knows I’ll give him exactly what he wants.
My spine straightens, and defiance rears its head. “Tax season,” I say, deadpan. “If that doesn’t kill the mood, nothing will.”
There’s a beat of silence before King exhales. If he were anyone else, I might mistake the sound for a laugh. But the way his eyes glint dangerously tells me he’s not amused.
“Bold choice,” he murmurs. “Let’s see if you remember it when you actually need it.”
Something white-hot flickers low in my stomach. I don’t know if it’s embarrassment… or arousal. Maybe both.
Fuck.
I think about ripping the damn thing off. Standing up. Storming out. But that would be worse. That would make it a thing. That would give him power he doesn’t deserve.
I close my eyes and try to breathe. Try to ignore the way my thoughts spiral.
Is he enjoying this?
Does he know what he’s doing?
Who am I kidding? Of course he does. This isn’t the first time he’s worn control like a second skin, if that book in his bag is any indication.
And it’s definitely not the first time I’ve let someone lead while pretending I didn’t want it.
The instructor continues. “There is freedom in surrender,” he says. “But only when it’s earned. Only when the one you yield to… understands the weight of what they’re holding.”
I feel something shift behind me, and a second later, King’s breath feathers against the back of my neck.
“You look good with a collar,” he whispers.
I go still, my spine straightening as blood roars in my ears.
All I can muster is a broken, “Thanks.”
Because inside, I’m torn between enjoying the idea of letting go and hating the fact that it’s King who’s in charge.