8. Playing with the King’s Fire
Playing with the King’s Fire
Asher
He guides me step by step. One word at a time. Just enough silence between each word to make me think his eyes don’t leave me.
A minute passes, then five. The ground goes from hard ice to soft snow, and I suspect we’re now on solid ground—a path, probably.
King guides me to the left twice, grabbing onto my elbow as we make our way off the path, onto what feels like dirt with soft snow packed on top.
It smells like decaying leaves and wet earth, and though I can’t see anything, my senses tell me we’re weaving between tall trees.
This is definitely not the retreat trail.
It’s somewhere quieter—somewhere we’re not supposed to be.
My skin prickles.
He doesn’t warn me when the terrain shifts, but his voice is there again—slightly closer now.
“Stop.”
I freeze.
“Take off the blindfold.”
My fingers are clumsy. When I tug it away, I suck in a breath.
We’re standing in a clearing. Trees overhead, the early morning sun slivering between branches. The smell of pine and snow.
And in the center of the clearing?
A low wooden bench.
“Is this the part where you murder me?” I ask, crossing my arms.
He steps closer to me—slow, calculated. His dark hair is tousled, and his eyes are clear and bright as his lips curve into a smile.
“You followed me.”
I scoff. “Because you made me.”
“No.” He’s close now. “Because part of you wanted to follow. Even if you won’t admit it yet.”
The silence wraps around us like a net.
“You’re playing a dangerous game,” I say, barely above a whisper.
He leans in. His breath brushes my ear.
“I’m not playing, Asher.”
Then he holds out something between us.
My collar.
“You had that in your coat?”
He shrugs. “I’m always prepared.”
I don’t take it. But I don’t turn away either.
His gaze hardens slightly. “You want to prove I don’t have power over you? Don’t put it on.”
The words land sharp. Like a dare. I reach out, my fingers wrapping around leather. And for one long, traitorous moment, I want to put it on. But I don’t.
I slide it into my coat pocket instead.
His expression doesn’t flicker, but I know he sees what it means.
Not submission—not yet.
But not resistance, either.
This all suddenly feels ridiculous. I’m cold, hungry, and angry that he dragged me out here when my lips are probably still blue.
But…
I also feel off-balance, somehow. Heated from the inside out.
“This wasn’t about trust,” I murmur.
“No,” he agrees. “It was about proof.”
“Of what?”
With a smile, he gestures to the bench in the middle of the clearing. “Sit.”
I tilt my head and cross my arms. “Sit, what ?”
His gaze sharpens, hardening ever so slightly as his jaw feathers. “Sit. Please.”
With an annoyed huff, I walk over and plonk down onto the bench heavily. “This feels like some sort of setup.”
King walks over and sits down in the space next to me. “Do you know what a witness scene is, Harrison?”
I blink. “A what?”
He settles himself, leaning forward slightly so that I get a whiff of cinnamon. “In kink spaces,” he starts, his tone even, “a witness scene is a negotiated moment where one person sits—fully present—and simply observes the other. No touching. No talking. Just… being seen. Vulnerable. Honest. Raw.”
My mouth goes dry on that last word. “I didn’t agree to do anything kinky with you.”
His eyes flick to my pocket, and it’s like I know what he’s thinking before he says it. “Didn’t you?”
The silence swells all around us. My toes are starting to go numb, and despite the heated jacket wrapped around my wet suit, I begin to shiver again.
“No. I didn’t. I agreed to pretend to date you for the sole purpose of getting close to Walter Davenport.”
“This is how I bond with people. Kink is my thing—and I know you’re vanilla?—”
“I’m not vanilla,” I say quickly, interrupting him.
His lips twitch as he subtly arches a brow, but he doesn’t argue.
“As I was saying, we’re not selling this very well.
You, in particular, do not like me.” I open my mouth to confirm that very astute observation, but he holds a hand up.
“I understand why. My point is, whether we like each other or not, we have to look like we do. And if we’re going to sell this relationship—if we’re going to make Walter and Jacques believe in it—then we have to find some way to actually connect. Even just a little.”
I snort. “So your idea of bonding is dragging me into the woods when I’m half frozen for some sort of kinky scene dressed up as a therapy session?”
His eyes glimmer with something satisfactory. “It seems to be working better than I expected. Maybe we’re getting somewhere.”
I narrow my eyes. “You keep saying ‘we’. But let’s be honest, you don’t need this deal. So before we proceed, what’s in it for you, really? Why are you so eager to help me?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he just looks out past the trees with a tight jaw and an unreadable expression.
“There are a lot of reasons I came this week. I was expecting to be here with a guy I’m casually dating, but instead I’m here with a middle-aged brat who can’t get over something that happened a year ago.
” My mouth drops open. Middle-aged brat?
! I’m ready to fight him, but he holds that damn hand up again.
“Now that I’m here, I think I’m realizing that you need my help more than you’re willing to admit. ”
His phrasing sends a shiver down my spine—either from surprise or… something else I don’t want to admit.
King shifts forward, eyes still locked on mine. “Are we going to do this now?”
I want to say hell fucking no. But there’s something about him—something that intrigues me.
I don’t know if it’s because of the fact that I loathe him for stealing Trent, or that I feel somehow out of my element here with him.
I have to admit, the comment about being vanilla hit me harder than it should’ve.
I think about all the times Ari asked—no, begged —me to try different things in bed. It’s not that I was opposed, per se. I have a healthy sex drive when I’m on my own, but for whatever reason, I always had trouble with Ari.
And Brooklyn.
And… all the other women I slept with.
The common denominator isn’t them.
Which leaves me with a question I’ve never fully let myself ask.
What if the problem wasn’t what they wanted, but who I wanted it from?
The thought unsettles me. I’ve gotten drunk and kissed women and men, but I always thought that was normal.
I’m obviously attracted to King. To other men, in the past.
God, what the hell is wrong with me?
None of these thoughts feel right, but they sure as fuck don’t feel wrong, either.
I shake it off, or I try to, anyway. Now isn’t the time for an identity crisis.
So, fuck it. If we need to sell this as a believable relationship, maybe it couldn’t hurt to see if this helps.
“Fine,” I say, sighing.
His chin dips slightly. “I’m not going to touch you. But I want you to do something for me.”
I swallow. “Okay?”
“Put the collar on.”
“What? No?—”
“Trust me. No games. No snark. Just you and me, sitting in the quiet, while you wear the thing that scares you. No one else is coming. No audience. It’s just me.”
I pull the collar out of my pocket. It feels heavier now. I stare at it. At the bench. At the ground, the snow… anywhere but at him. My pulse drums in my throat.
“I’m still not sure what you’re getting out of this,” I say, my voice quieter than I intended.
He gives me a lopsided smirk. “It’s all a game for me, remember? Come on, Harrison. What are you so afraid of?”
I don’t know what makes me move. Spite, maybe. Or defiance disguised as surrender.
But a second later, I slide the collar around my neck, buckling it myself. It clicks shut, and the sound is loud in the clearing.
I don’t know if we’re starting the witness thing or not, but King doesn’t say anything. His eyes just bore into mine, and his expression is neutral.
The silence stretches, thick and unnerving.
I hate how my body reacts. The prickling heat across my skin. The way my breath shortens. The way my fists want to unclench.
He sees it—he sees everything . I watch him clock every single one of my movements, from the blinking of my eyes to the rise and fall of my chest.
A second later, he starts to chuckle.
I glare at him. My whole body rushes with a feeling I don’t understand as my throat brushes against the collar.
“You’ve always been reactive. Quick to anger, and slow to listen.” He leans forward slightly, eyes narrowing. “But I do appreciate how well you take direction.”
“So this was a game?” I ask, looking around.
“I wanted to see how you’d handle it. No context. No warning. Just surrender.”
Surrender .
That word punches something low in my gut.
“You did better with this than I expected,” he adds. “Most people would’ve fought harder. You froze. Adapted. Let me lead you here and did everything I asked of you.”
“And this proves, what, exactly?” I ask, my voice a little too callous.
He tilts his head. “Tell me, Harrison… how many times in your life have you wished someone else would just take control?”
“I don’t?—”
“I want to try something else.”
He stands, and when I shift, he helps me into a standing position. His hands are warm—so different from my stiff, frozen fingers.
“Another game , I presume?”
“In a way.” He circles me once. Then again, before he stops behind me, voice low and close to my ear. “Follow my lead.”
I scoff. “In your dreams.”
He steps in front of me. His eyes flick over my body, impassive, unreadable. Then—without warning—his hand brushes the heated jacket off my shoulders.
It slips to the floor in a slow, weighted heap, and my entire body shudders as the cold air permeates the damp wet suit.
“It’s time to give in, Harrison. Let go of the pretenses, the past.”
“I can’t tell if you’re fucking with me or not,” I reply.
“I’m not. I’m trying to get us to a place where you trust me.”
I huff a sharp, bitter laugh, but I begin to shake as the cold seeps deeper into my body. “You might be waiting for a long time.”
He circles behind me again. I can feel the heat of him now, just out of reach. “Every solid relationship,” he murmurs, “runs on the assumption that if I say jump , you jump. If I say run , you run. If I say kneel …”
He moves in front of me. His steps are slow and measured, and his shoulders are squared. With a straight spine, he has the kind of posture that doesn’t waver. Solid. Occupying the space like he owns it, like usual, to stand in front of me.
“Kneel.”
The word lands like a slap.
I stare at him with wide eyes, disbelief crashing into fury.
His face is calm. His tone mild. He may as well be talking about the weather. But his jaw is set, one brow arched as if quietly challenging me.
“I’m not?—”
“You will,” he says. “Because I said so. Because this is about trust. About selling us. And because somewhere inside, you want to see what happens if you do.”
My whole body tenses. He steps back, giving me room. But I stay standing.
My jaw aches from clenching it so hard.
“I won’t ask again,” he says, voice still soft. “Kneel, Asher.”
The pause stretches.
And then—God help me—I do it. Slowly. Stiffly. Shoulders tight. Knees lowering to the ground. Snow seeps in through the material of the wet suit, and I begin to shiver harder.
Humiliation burns hot across my face as I kneel before him.
He exhales, satisfied. Like I proved some sort of theory. His pupils darken, and the tip of his tongue brushes over his lower lip. Something like pride flashes in his eyes, and it takes a lot of effort not to preen at feeling like I’m somehow doing a good job at whatever the fuck this is.
“If I tell you to kiss me , you kiss me. If I tell you to laugh , you laugh. If I tell you to beg… ” He leans forward, just enough, voice dropping a register. “…you will beg.”
I hate him.
I hate how still he is. What a fucking puppet. Does anything ever ruffle his feathers?
Most of all, though, I hate that part of me—some dark, buried part—doesn’t want to move until I’m given permission.
“Good boy,” he says, like I answered a question I never heard. “You did very well, Harrison. Now we’re getting somewhere.”
Everything inside me heats at the praise.
He studies me for a long moment.
Then he kneels, suddenly, gracefully, so we’re eye to eye. “You don’t remember me, do you?” he asks quietly.
My chest tightens. “What?”
He tilts his head, just slightly. Something like hurt flashes across his expression, but it’s gone before I can really tell.
“No. You wouldn’t. That would ruin the fun.”
I blink. “What the hell are you?—”
“You’ll remember soon enough,” he says, rising again. “And when you do, I want you to think back to this moment—on your knees, letting me give the orders. Because that’s when everything started to shift.”
He steps away. “Get some food, shower, and meet me in the lobby when you’re done.”
Anger flashes through me. “I don’t know my way back,” I grit out.
He tilts his head, studying me. “You’ll figure it out.”
I don’t move. Can’t.
He turns and walks away, his boots crunching in the snow of the forest floor.
My knees ache. My fingers are numb. But it’s what he said that lingers.
“You don’t remember me, do you?”
I grit my teeth, standing slowly, one joint at a time. The forest is silent around me, but my brain won’t shut up.
What the hell am I supposed to remember?
I don’t have an answer.
But I have a feeling I’m not going to like it when I do.