22. The King Who Falls
The King Who Falls
King
I don’t see Asher again until we’re all lining up in pairs for the cross-country ski outing.
The field looks idyllic and picturesque with soft, undisturbed snow covering the meadow. The sky is high and a pale blue. It’s colder now, but the air feels good in my lungs—sharp and bracing, like a reminder I’m here and I’m alive.
Asher storms across the field with his boots crunching over packed snow, mouth set in a miserable line, cheeks flushed red from cold or perhaps fury. Perhaps both. I watch the way he avoids looking at me, as if not seeing me can undo whatever happened between us earlier.
Jacques appears at my side just as Asher trudges stiffly into the clearing, his body language broadcasting pure venom. Even in a snow jacket and goggles, he looks like he’s ready to murder someone with a ski pole.
Preferably me.
Jacques whistles under his breath. “ Mon Dieu . That one always looks like he’s one step away from having a mental breakdown.”
“Long day,” I say, without elaborating, but feeling an unwelcome tug of defensiveness for my fake boyfriend. “ Interesting day,” I add.
Jacques adjusts his scarf, giving Asher a long, thoughtful look before his attention returns to me.
“Interesting is good,” he says. “Keeps you young,” he adds, looking over at Walter.
My gaze follows his to where Walter is talking animatedly with the woman I presume is the ski instructor. Asher is a few paces ahead of me, bent slightly as he adjusts the strap on his ski boot. His profile is sharp in the white glare, jaw tight, expression unreadable.
Jacques claps a gloved hand on my shoulder. “Bonne chance,” he says with a grin that might be sympathy. “That’s good luck in French. With the trail. And with him. He’s a feisty one, no?”
Then he pushes off into the snow with clean, practiced ease, leaving me alone for a moment to gather my thoughts. After a minute, I step into my ski boots and make my way over to him, where another pair of skis waits for me to step into.
Asher doesn’t look up when I approach.
“Your left boot’s twisted,” I murmur. “You’ll hurt your knee if you don’t fix it.”
“I’ve been skiing since I was twelve,” he replies flatly. “I think I’ve got it.”
Right. Of course he has.
I click into my skis and fall in beside him as the instructor starts giving us directions. And even though I say nothing, even though I give him space, I watch him out of the corner of my eye. He doesn’t say anything, but I feel the heat coming off him like a second sun.
The instructor calls for everyone to partner up and gather near the trailhead. Jacques watches the two of us for a beat longer, then turns and disappears into the crowd with Walter.
“You’re lucky I didn’t request a solo tour,” he mutters under his breath as he buckles into his skis.
“You’d get lost in five minutes,” I reply, adjusting my gloves.
He doesn’t respond, but his glare cuts into me like a blade.
The group begins to move in a slow, gliding procession—pairs side by side, following the narrow trail that cuts through the meadow and into the woods. It’s clumsy at first until everyone gets the hang of it. Asher keeps too much space between us like usual.
From the front, the instructor cheerfully gives everyone instructions about breathing techniques and core balance, but we’re a little too far behind to hear most of it.
So instead, I focus on the rhythmic sound of our skis slicing through snow, the contracting muscles in my thighs, and the fresh air.
There’s something peaceful about it. Isolating, almost. And the fact that Asher is close enough for me to hear his breath, to feel his presence in every motion, only makes it worse.
“Why are you still hovering so close to me?” he grits out after a few minutes, his voice just loud enough for me to hear over the wind. “Don’t you have an empire to run somewhere?”
“Right now, my empire involves making sure you don’t face-plant into a pine tree,” I reply calmly.
“Wouldn’t that just make your week.”
I chuckle. “Honestly? No. I’m hoping you survive long enough for us to talk again. Properly.”
He shoots me a side glance, unreadable. “Define ‘properly.’”
I shrug. “No yelling. No storming off. Maybe some honesty. You said I used you, and I can’t argue that. But I didn’t lie about all of it.”
“You lied about enough of it.”
“I know.”
Another pause. We both keep moving, the silence stretching like a rope between us.
“I meant what I said earlier,” he mutters. “We can play nice for the retreat. For optics. But after that…”
“I don’t want that to be the end,” I say.
“It’s not up to you. I also have a say, and I’m saying it’s the end.”
And there it is—a line in the snow between us. It feels like a punch to my gut, despite knowing how much I fucked this all up.
Truthfully, I didn’t expect to… like him so much.
I knew the attraction was there, but enjoying my time with him?
I didn’t exactly count on that. I thought it would be easy to fuck with him, to get the revenge I’d been craving for a decade.
He was my first kiss, and then he left me high and dry.
I was humiliated, and that feeling only fueled my business decisions over the last few years.
But then he looked so defeated. Older. More worn down. Despite that, I enjoyed being around him. I laughed and smiled more, regardless of the bickering. And those blue eyes still properly fucked me up every time they turned their gaze on me.
It wasn’t until I saw the hurt on his face earlier this morning with Walter that I realized I’d taken things too far. That I wanted to repair whatever this thing is between us.
That perhaps I wanted to give us a shot at something real.
The group begins to move apart, pairs falling into a rhythm as skis glide across packed snow. Asher and I trail somewhere in the middle. Far enough from Jacques and Walter that we won’t be overheard, but close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body every time our arms brush.
He’s silent. Murderously intent on ignoring me. And all I want to do is poke the bear, because even if he’s furious with me, at least he’s not giving me the silent treatment.
“You’re going to rupture a blood vessel if you keep grinding your teeth like that,” I mutter.
“Shut up,” he bites out.
I smile. It’s mean, maybe. But I can’t help it.
“I thought you liked it when I talked. You certainly didn’t seem to mind last night when I was whispering against your throat.”
He stops in his tracks. I almost glide past him.
“You’re infuriating,” he says, eyes flashing.
“Only with you,” I reply, too easily. “And I think you like it.”
He turns then, skis crunching snow as he faces me. “You really think sex is going to fix this?”
“No,” I say, tone suddenly serious. “But I think it’s the only language we’re fluent in.”
That gets him. His jaw flexes. I see the truth hit him right behind the eyes, and I hate that it’s true. Hate that for all our precision and control, neither of us has figured out how to speak gently.
Not with each other.
The guide calls out from up ahead. “Watch the slope on the right. The trail gets slick past the ridge!”
Asher pushes ahead again without another word, and I follow.
The trail narrows as we pass the ridge, trees thickening and the snow untouched except for the faint grooves ahead of us. It’s quiet, but not peaceful. It reminds me of our walk earlier, the air tense and thick with something opaque.
There are too many thoughts unspoken scraping along the edges of our silence.
Asher stays a few yards ahead, skis slicing cleanly through the snow.
He’s good at this. He’s good at most things.
It shouldn’t surprise me—he’s built like an athlete, and his mannerisms are graceful and efficient.
Even here, his body is magnificent. Even here, underneath all of the layers, I admire how his muscular thighs move him across the snow with hardly a huff.
He’s in good shape, and suddenly my mind is filled with more of these kinds of adventures.
Jogging with him in Central Park.
Kickboxing on Thursday nights.
Weekends camping and fishing in the Catskills.
Maybe I should focus on the rhythm of my own movement, but I’m too busy watching the way his sculpted shoulders tighten every time I draw near.
I open my mouth to say something to keep him from getting too far, and then the ground shifts.
One second, I’m gliding along the edge of the trail. The next, the snow beneath my ski collapses, a hidden patch of ice sending my balance into chaos.
There’s a sharp crack as my pole bends, then it’s a blur of white and pain.
I hit the ground hard. Shoulder first, then ribs. My leg twists wrong beneath me and a jagged, blinding throb pulses through my knee.
“Fuck!” The cry rips out of me before I can stop it. It echoes like a gunshot through the trees.
My skis scatter. One flies off, along with the pole lost somewhere in the drifts. Something knocks the back of my skull. The world tilts, and a second later, I’m flat on my back, staring up at a perfect blue sky and wondering how the hell everything hurts at once.
“Ow,” I manage through clenched teeth.
Asher drops to his knees beside me in the snow, face pale beneath the flush of cold. “Jesus, what happened?” His hands hover, unsure where to touch. “Are you?—”
“My knee,” I grunt. “I—fell wrong.”
He doesn’t move for a second. Just stares at me, wide-eyed, before dragging his gaze to my knee.
“Okay,” he says finally, breath fogging between us. “Okay, just—don’t move. I’ll call for help.”
But he doesn’t get up. He’s frozen there, jaw tight, his hands trembling slightly as they finally settle against my chest. He checks my breathing, my pulse… like he’s afraid of what he might find.
“I’m not going to die. I’m fine,” I lie, trying to get oxygen into my lungs despite having it all knocked out of me. “Just twisted it.”
“You’re not fine,” he snaps, voice sharp with panic. “You’re bleeding.”
I glance down. A gash on my shin is leaking through the layer of my pants, the fabric torn to shreds, staining the snow beneath me.
“Oh.”
That’s when the pain spikes hard enough to make my vision go white, and the back of my head throbs and makes my vision go blurry.
“Asher,” I grit out, but he’s already tearing off his gloves, looking around for help.
The problem is, we’re several feet below everyone on the side of a mountain. Even if there were people behind us, they’d have to look over the edge to see us. He’ll have to either carry me up—I doubt I can put weight on my knee—or call for help.
“I never would’ve fallen if I wasn’t checking out your cute ass,” I admit, suddenly feeling giddy and slightly lightheaded.
Asher narrows his eyes. “Fuck. Did you hit your head? Do you have a concussion?”
“Maybe. Do I look like a doctor?” I ask, unable to contain my snarky tone.
“Good to know even a concussion and a broken leg doesn’t dull your assholery,” he mutters, standing up and looking down at me.
“I doubt my leg is broken,” I say, wiggling my toes in my boot.
“All right, here’s what we’re going to do,” he answers, putting his hands on his hips. “I need to help you up to the trail, and then I need to go find help. We can’t be that far from the retreat, right?”
Before I can answer, he pulls his ski jacket off and places it over me. He’s only wearing a skintight thermal underneath, and my eyes drag lazily over his biceps.
“You know, you’re kind of a dick sometimes. It’s a good thing you’re pretty.”
He grunts as he gently places his hands under me. “Can you sit up?”
I use my abdominal muscles to pull myself up, and my head throbs once, causing me to wince. His hands are still on my back, brushing the snow off my jacket.
“Okay. I’m going to help you stand. Don’t use your bad knee. Count of three?”
“I hope you’ve been lifting heavy in the gym, old man,” I mutter, grabbing onto his hand as he hefts me up into a standing position. I hop on one leg, using one hand to check the back of my head. It’s wet—so it’s either snow or blood.
“Am I bleeding?” I ask, pulling my hand away.
Asher quickly moves behind me, and I can feel the hard press of his body against my back as I pull his jacket tighter around my body.
“I don’t see any blood, but I’ll make sure they check for a concussion.”
When he comes back around to face me, his expression is… worried?
“Okay,” he says, voice firm. Turning around, he crouches down and pats his back. “Hop on, asshole.”
I laugh and stare incredulously at his back. “What? You’re going to carry me?”
He looks at me over his shoulder, glaring. “If you have a better idea, I’d love to hear it.”
I place both hands on his shoulders, and he crouches lower—low enough for him to reach around and grab the backs of my knees, using his strength to hoist me onto his back.
“Fuck, Ambrose. You weigh a literal ton,” he adds, voice strained as he slowly walks us up the steep side of the mountain.
“A ton of muscle. And my dick, of course.”
He snorts, and I smile. I like that I made him laugh, even if he’s currently just taking pity on me. Probably.
It doesn’t take him long. He has us back on the trail in under a minute. I expect him to drop me, but instead, he gently lowers me, his hands grazing the backs of my thighs and supporting my lower back until I find my footing on my good foot.
“Now what?” I ask, looking around.
“You sit on that rock,” he says, pointing at the large boulder on the side of the trail. “Don’t go to sleep—I know that much about concussions.” Looking down at my knee, he then crouches down and gathers some clean snow, placing it against the gash.
“Fuck. A warning would’ve been nice,” I hiss.
“You’re welcome for saving you from flesh-eating bacteria. You can thank me later.”
I wiggle my eyebrows. “Oh yeah? I have ideas for how I can thank you.”
He rolls his eyes. “Right. You—sit,” he says, voice commanding.
I’m used to being the one in charge, and it’s kind of hilarious to see him do it for once.
He’s hot when he’s dominating. It’s too bad I don’t have a submissive bone in my body, otherwise I might enjoy switching roles with him.
“I’m going to jog back to the retreat to get help. The others should be back soon, too.”
“Yes, Daddy.”
He stares at me. “That’s your name, not mine.”
I grin. “I know. I just wanted to hear you admit it.”
Huffing an exasperated breath, he looks at me once more and shrugs. “I’ll be back soon. Don’t die,” he adds, winking once before turning and jogging away.