6. King of All the Lines I Shouldn’t Cross
King of All the Lines I Shouldn’t Cross
King
He still eats like he’s afraid someone’s watching. Even now, as we walk back to our suite, I can picture it with such clarity.
The tense line of his shoulders, the way he gripped the fork, how his eyes stayed downcast.
He didn’t taste his food at all. He endured it, bit by small bit, swallow by forced swallow.
Then again, he was always a survivor.
That part hasn’t changed.
But the rest of him? God, he’s almost unrecognizable.
Back then, he was brighter. Louder. Thirty-seven and untouchable.
He wore his expertise like a tailored suit—effortless and exuding the kind of power I craved after leaving home.
Asher was a man who knew he had gravity and expected the world to orbit around him, instead of the other way around.
And people did—the whole office orbited around him. He was a man in his prime.
Smug. Charismatic. And when he smiled? It was kinetic. Addictive. It made you want another, and another.
I was nineteen, and I would’ve followed him anywhere.
And I did. Right into a mistake I’ve never forgotten.
One kiss at the work Christmas party.
One hand on my jaw.
One soft, breathless moan .
Then—one termination.
I still don’t know exactly what he said, but the next day I was let go and he never spoke to me again. He just discarded me like I didn’t mean anything.
But it cost me everything .
So no, I don’t want his apology.
I want his fucking unraveling .
I thought today would be the beginning. I chose the retreat on purpose, knowing he would be here.
And the scallops on the prix fixe menu? Glorious.
My choice of three mains, and of course I chose the shellfish.
His least favorite food. I used to watch him pick them out of catered lunches like they were poison.
I remembered.
And he ate every bite in front of me, jaw locked, throat bobbing. He didn’t protest. Didn’t excuse himself. He just sat there and took it, like I wasn’t watching every second of it and cataloging his every discomfort.
It should’ve felt good, but it didn’t.
Because it was too easy.
No resistance. No heat. No fight. Nothing.
He gave me the power—just handed it over. I expected a fight. A roll of his eyes. He always was a brat, and I was desperate to bring that side of him back to the surface.
But he’s exhausted, empty, and rapidly unraveling. Nothing but a frayed wire, sparking whenever things don’t go his way.
And that’s exactly how I want him.
Not just to make him pay for what he did a decade ago—though he will.
It’s clear he doesn’t remember me, given I put on about a hundred pounds of muscle, grew my hair out, and kept my face hidden behind a shadow of dark scruff.
I don’t want to just own him, I want to rewire him.
To crawl inside the soft, vulnerable places he doesn’t know how to lock away anymore.
Not because he deserves it—but because I’ve decided he doesn’t .
The version of him I knew back then would’ve been furious. Loud. Sharp-tongued and too proud to back down.
This man?
He just sat there and took it. Let me decide. Let me lead.
He’s still doing it, even now. Following me down the path to our suite. He hasn’t figured it out yet, but I’m sure he will soon.
Especially with what I have planned.
When we get back to the suite, it’s early. Just past seven. But I can tell by the way Asher walks over to the bed that he’s exhausted.
“I’ll take the couch,” I say automatically.
“There isn’t a couch,” Asher mutters, already irritable.
I glance at the narrow bench beside the fireplace. “Then you can take it. Be my guest.”
His glare could light the damn place on fire. “Funny.”
“Do you need me to build you a pillow fort?” I ask, taking my coat off before undoing the buttons on my shirt with calm, measured fingers.
“Oooh, don’t tempt me with a good time.”
There’s that bite again—sarcasm laced with something more fragile.
I ignore it, slipping my shirt from my shoulders and folding it over the armchair.
With a smirk, I reach for my belt, reveling in the way I see him stiffen in my peripheral vision.
I slowly slide my belt off. Casual. At ease.
Like I’m not aware of every single molecule of tension radiating from him.
He grabs some clothes and disappears into the bathroom with too much urgency, like he’s fleeing the room. I hear the water run. Then, a few minutes later, silence. He’s probably glaring at himself in the mirror, working up the will to be civil. Or murderous. Either way, I’ve seen the signs before.
I turn to the fireplace, take up the poker, and stir the flames until they grow into a healthy fire.
He comes back quieter and wearing plaid pajamas.
“The bed is huge. I’m not going to bite, Harrison,” I say without turning. “We both need a good night’s sleep.” I attempt to keep my voice soft and unthreatening.
“Right,” he answers as he eyes the bed warily.
He sits down on the edge like it’s a land mine, and I watch as he removes the collar from around his neck. The leather slides free as he sets it on the table next to the bed, and I feel its absence more than I probably should.
He wore it like he didn’t know what it meant—like he had no idea of the significance of accepting a collar from someone, even if it was just an exercise in surrender.
But… something about his body knew.
I’ll never forget the way he responded to me putting it on him.
I should know better, but then again, I am not a good man, and I’m not here for any kind of ethical reason. In my world, a collar is a declaration—a consensual way of submitting.
And I let him cross that line—sitting silent, immoral… predatory.
I let the moment stretch, just a little longer than necessary. Then I offer the one breadcrumb I have.
“Davenport’s schedule says he’ll be at the cold plunge tomorrow morning. Partners included.”
He doesn’t hide his interest. “Good. Maybe I can get five minutes with him before I freeze to death.”
“You’ll get more than that.” I glance at him over my shoulder. “Trust me.”
He laughs, but it has an incredulous edge. “Trust you?” I can see the tension ripple underneath his skin. I wonder if he knows how readable he is—if he realizes how much he gives away in the pauses between his words. “I’d trust Charles Manson before you.”
He lies back into the bed, tucking himself in. The firelight casts him in gold and shadow. I don’t reply, don’t speak or move.
Because silence is its own kind of dominance.
Eventually, he exhales and closes his eyes. I stay by the fire, eyes half lidded, watching it catch and flicker.
By the time I’m done getting ready for bed, he’s on his side, fast asleep.
Not for long.
The first step is simple— earn his trust.
Because trust is the softest point of entry. And once it’s open? He won’t see the knife coming.
That’s where you break a man clean.
After all, betrayal always cuts deeper when you hand them the blade first.