25. How a King is Ruined
How a King is Ruined
Asher
The morning air has that crisp, below-twenty-degrees bite that makes me question all my life choices, starting with coming to this retreat in the first place.
Now that it doesn’t really matter if I acquire Walter, I think about what would happen if I just went home today, two days early.
If King’s company is acquiring mine, then what’s the point?
Why am I torturing myself doing things like cold plunges and, apparently, ropes courses?
I reluctantly stand in a semicircle with the rest of the couples while a man in a white coat explains our “trust-building challenge,” with a little too much enthusiasm.
This morning’s activity is a ropes course, which, judging by the towering wooden structure behind him, was clearly built by someone not afraid of falling to their icy death.
It’s not that I’m scared of heights—not like Maddox, my brother—but I do have a fear of falling.
It’s why I’ve never considered skydiving or bungee jumping.
Things like flying are fine, as long as I can keep two feet on the ground.
Beside me, King looks irritatingly unbothered. He’s got his hands in the pockets of his puffer coat, his shoulders loose and relaxed. I’d asked him if his injured knee would hinder him, and he looked at me like I had two heads.
“You’re going to love this,” he murmurs, leaning just close enough for his breath to feather the side of my neck. The warmth flicks against the leather collar he made me wear. “The feeling of accomplishment when we’re done is going to be epic.”
I roll my eyes. “Yeah, sure. Epic. Because nothing says ‘romantic getaway’ like the constant fear of plummeting to my death.”
He grins, his expression almost manic. “I’ll make sure you don’t fall.”
“I’m starting to think you’re sort of an adrenaline junkie,” I mutter, thinking about how his accident was only just yesterday, and he’s already doing a ropes course. If it were me, I’d be milking the injury for days.
“Me? Nah. I just like the endorphins.”
“Well, I should tell you that my idea of an adventure is an evening stroll through Central Park. I don’t hike, or camp, or do anything that requires me to get dirty. Just putting that out there.”
King chuckles. “And why are you telling me that, Harrison?”
My cheeks heat. Why am I telling him all of that? It’s not like we’re actually going to ride off into the sunset as a real couple when this is all over.
It’s just for show.
The facilitator claps his hands, breaking me out of my self-deprecating spell, and announces, “You’ll be paired with your partner, of course.”
Of course.
He gestures toward the wall of harnesses, and before I can so much as think about wandering off to “accidentally” get lost in the lodge, King’s already guiding me toward it.
“Medium?” he asks, picking one up and holding it out to me.
“Do I look like a medium to you?” I shoot back, snatching the harness and pretending I’m not mentally calculating how much it’s going to hurt when I plummet to my death.
King’s mouth twitches. “Fine. Large ego, medium waist.”
I roll my eyes and turn away so I can strap the thing on without giving him the satisfaction of watching me struggle. Which I absolutely do. Again, because I never do outdoorsy things like this. Ever.
When I finally get the harness halfway situated, a warm hand lands low on my back. “You missed a loop,” King murmurs, close enough that his voice hums against my skin.
I look down, noting that I did, in fact, miss a loop. “You don’t have to sound so smug about it. I was getting there.”
“Sure you were,” he says, fixing it for me anyway.
His fingers are steady and quick, and my brain decides now is the perfect time to remember last night—the way those same hands felt against my hips, on my skin.
I swallow hard and step away before my body language starts giving away classified information.
We line up at the base of the course, and from here, it looks worse. A series of wooden platforms connected by ropes, planks, and wire—all swaying slightly in the frigid wind. Is there ice? Has someone checked that this is safe?
King looks over at me, smirking like he’s read my mind. “You ready, Harrison?”
“For what? My imminent demise?”
“For me to save your ass,” he says simply, and before I can retort, the group ahead of us starts climbing the first ladder.
When it’s our turn, King insists on going behind me “in case you fall,” which is just code for he wants to look at my ass, I’m sure. The ladder is narrow, and the rungs are spaced too far apart for comfort. Who designed this death trap?!
I can feel King’s presence right behind me. He’s close enough that if I slipped, I’d fall straight into him.
At least if I fell, I’d take him down with me.
About halfway up, my boot slips on a rung that’s slick with ice. My balance tilts, but King’s hand is instantly at my hip, steadying me.
“Got you,” he says, low and calm, like there was never a chance he’d let me fall.
We make it to the first platform, which sways under our weight. My heart’s thudding in my throat, and King steps in, hand on the small of my back, steering me toward the first obstacle—two ropes, one for your feet and one chest height for your hands.
“Just one foot in front of the other,” he says, voice pitched for me alone. “You’ve got this.”
“Do you give all your fake boyfriends pep talks, or am I special?”
He grins. “Only the ones I actually like.”
I glare at him over my shoulder, but my grip on the top rope tightens as I take the first wobbly step. The ropes sway, the platform behind me creaks, and every muscle in my body is tense enough to snap.
I fucking hate this.
Halfway across, my foot catches wrong and the rope jerks sideways. I lurch to the side, but King’s right there again, one hand gripping my harness, the other braced on the rope to steady us both.
“Easy,” he says. “Breathe.”
I do, though it’s shallow and not entirely helpful to my racing heart. “This is the worst foreplay I’ve ever experienced.”
His mouth curves into that dangerous half-smile. “Then you’re doing it wrong.”
We make it to the next platform, and for a second I let myself stand there and pretend this is fine, that the only thing shaking is the wobbly structure, and not my knees. King hands me a bottle of water from the supply bag slung over his shoulder.
“Hydrate,” he says simply.
“Bossy,” I mutter, but I take a long drink anyway.
“Efficient,” he corrects, watching me with a look that’s not just about the course anymore.
And that’s when it hits me. I don’t hate the casual way he takes care of me, the way it’s starting to feel… easy to let him lead. Too easy.
I hand the water bottle back, trying not to think too hard about the fact that my mouth was just on the same top he’s now drinking out of.
When he’s finished, King tucks the bottle back into the bag, then glances toward the next obstacle—a series of swinging wooden planks spaced far enough apart to make my stomach drop.
The facilitator in the white, branded Altura coat jogs over to check our harness clips.
“You two make a great team,” he says, upbeat and oblivious.
“Some couples fight like cats and dogs on this course, but you—” He waves a hand between us.
“—smooth as anything. Like you’ve been together for years. ”
I open my mouth to correct him, but King gets there first.
“Only a year, but it’s the real deal,” he says easily. No denial. Not even a smirk. Just this low, steady confidence like the idea of us being a real couple is the most natural thing in the world.
Something in my chest does this weird, uncomfortable twist. I tell myself it’s the height, the cold, the harness digging into my hips—anything but the fact that I liked hearing him say it. That something lit up inside of me when King said this is the real deal.
The facilitator moves on, and King crouches to check the strap at my thigh. “Loosened up a little,” he says, tightening it before I can tell him I could’ve done it myself. His fingers brush along my leg, firm and sure, and I swear my pulse skips.
“Thanks, Dad,” I say, because my brain defaults to sarcasm when I don’t know what else to do.
His mouth twitches. “You’re missing the last two letters.”
I roll my eyes and step onto the first plank, gripping the rope on either side.
The wood swings under my weight, the gap to the next plank looking much bigger from up here than it did from the platform.
I take a breath, ready to jump, heart galloping a mile a minute, and that’s when I feel King’s hand briefly at the small of my back. Not pushing, just… there. Solid.
I land on the next plank with only a minor flail, and when I glance back, he’s watching me with bright eyes and something akin to… respect?
It’s suddenly too much—the attention, the steadiness, the way he’s just there in this easy, reliable way I didn’t think he was capable of. My stomach shivers with nerves at the idea of us in the real world.
No. I can’t think of that right now. Absolutely not.
By the time we hit the third obstacle, my palms are slick inside my gloves. It’s not the ropes, or the height, or even the swinging planks. It’s him.
King is everywhere—a hand on my back, steadying my harness, catching my wrist when I misjudge a gap. It should be annoying, the constant proximity, but it’s not. It’s… worse. Because I’m starting to want it.
Because I’m starting to crave it.
The idea of his hand on my back as we ride the Q train, smirking at how full it is during rush hour.
Him ordering me a triple espresso at my favorite coffee shop on 5th Ave.
Curling up in my bed as we watch Gladiator on the weekend, or my favorite— Jeopardy!
Fuck.
Not. Now.
We pause on a wider platform to let the couple ahead of us finish the next segment. King pulls the water bottle out again and hands it over without looking, like it’s second nature now.
“Drink,” he says.
I take a swallow because it’s easier than saying no, and because my throat’s dry for reasons that have nothing to do with climbing. I pass it back, and our fingers brush. The contact sends a stupid little spark right up my arm.
Dangerous. This is dangerous.
I focus on the course instead, watching the next section sway in the wind. It’s a set of three parallel ropes—one for your feet, two higher up for your hands. No planks, no solid footing. Just ropes and air and King right behind me.
“Think you can handle it?” he asks.
I scoff. “Please. I’ve been handling you all week, haven’t I?”
“Barely,” he says, and there’s a smile in his voice.
I step out onto the first rope, my balance wobbly but passable.
The higher ropes pull at my arms, my core working overtime to keep me upright.
Thank God I work out, otherwise I wouldn’t be able to do this.
Halfway across, my foot slips—just for a second—and then there’s a strong hand gripping my harness, steadying me like before.
“I’ve got you,” he says, close to my ear. One finger brushes the collar around my neck before it disappears.
I am fine. That’s the problem. I’m fine because he’s there, because he doesn’t hesitate, because he seems to know exactly when I’m about to lose my footing—on the ropes and everywhere else.
The platform on the other side feels like safety, but when I step onto it, the rush of relief is tangled with something sharper. A thought I don’t want to have: I could get used to this.
I can’t get used to this.
King joins me a second later, his breathing steady, eyes scanning my face like he’s looking for cracks.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Yeah. Fine.” My voice comes out too quick, too light, and I shove it further into casual territory. “What, worried your fake boyfriend’s going to embarrass you in front of the whole group?”
His gaze doesn’t waver. “No. I’m worried you’re going to get hurt.”
The words land harder than they should. I look away, focusing on the couple ahead of us starting the next section.
He adjusts my harness strap again—unnecessarily this time, because he just checked it—and steps close enough that our shoulders brush. The heat from him is ridiculous, like my body’s suddenly aware of every square inch of contact.
When the facilitator waves us forward, I move fast, putting distance between us on the next stretch of ropes. It’s petty, maybe, but I need the space. I need to remember that this is pretend, that King’s not mine to lean on, not really.
Behind me, his voice carries just enough to reach my ears. “Slow down, Harrison.”
I pretend not to hear.
We make it through the last obstacle without me falling.
Physically, at least.
Emotionally? Debatable.
The group trickles down the ladder one pair at a time, boots crunching in the snow. When it’s our turn, I take the rungs fast, grateful for solid ground. My legs still feel like they’re shaking when we hit the snow-packed ground.
I start to unclip my harness, but King steps in, fingers brushing mine as he takes over the buckles. “You’ll tangle it by doing it that way,” he says, like I’m five.
“I’m perfectly capable?—”
“Uh-huh,” he says, ignoring me entirely as he works. The harness slips free, and before I can grab it, he slings it over his shoulder along with his own, as if carrying my gear is the most natural thing in the world.
We fall in step with the others for the walk back to the lodge. The facilitator is still chattering about tonight’s activity, but I barely hear it. King’s right there beside me, his pace matching mine without thought, the harnesses bumping lightly against his back with each step.
It’s nothing. A small thing. But this all feels… easy. Too easy.
I keep my eyes on the path ahead, telling myself it’s just because we’ve been forced into close proximity all week. Telling myself it won’t feel like this when we go back to the city.
Telling myself a lot of things.