The Rebel King (All the King's Men Duet #2) - Kennedy Ryan Page 0,76

love so much. I run the paths most mornings freely since there’s no access other than through the gate, and so few people even know this home exists. Some mornings Maxim joins me on my runs, but he usually leaves me to it.

I’ve also started smudging each morning on the sun porch. Mena was right. My ancestors intuitively understood the sacred connection with the land—that it could heal us, and during this time away out here in the middle of nowhere, with the sun and sky for company, and the mountains for shelter, I’m recovering. That, along with regular video calls to my therapist, has helped with the flashbacks and residual trauma from Costa Rica.

I am getting better.

And I’ve smudged every corner of this huge house. Maxim leaned against the wall, arms folded, curiosity and love in his gaze that tracked me walking from room to room waving out the negative energy with my smoky sage.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks, lifting his brows and piercing the last piece of turkey sausage before offering it up to me. I shake my head that I don’t want it, and he bites into it.

“This place. How much I love it here.” I hesitate and then confess. “Wondering how much longer we can hide out.”

“Hide?” He settles back against the pillows and threads our fingers together on the breakfast tray. “Is that what you think we’re doing?”

“You’re hiding me.” I squeeze his fingers until he meets my eyes. “And as much as I’ve loved it, needed it, I wonder how much longer it can last.”

“Don’t let Jin Lei hear you say that. She loves it here.”

Jin Lei stays in a guest house about a mile away. We see her when she comes once or twice a week to meet with Maxim, giving him papers to sign, updating him on the things he can do from here. I’ve never known him to stay put this long.

“I love it here, too, but Kimba called yesterday.” I run my fingers through his hair, the longest I’ve seen it in a long time. “She’s fielded several calls from candidates asking us to run their campaigns.”

“Isn’t it a bit late to still be assembling a team?”

“It’s only April. Still ten months before Iowa. Plenty of time if you have a foundation.”

He stiffens and flicks a narrow glance up at me. “You’re considering it.”

It sounds like an accusation and I sigh, bracing for our first argument in three weeks. “How can I not? It’s my job, Doc. It’s not just me. Kimba’s my business partner. I can’t ask her to sit idle while I do whatever we’re doing.”

“Whatever we’re doing.” He huffs a truncated laugh, tosses the down comforter back and climbs out of bed. “I’m sorry you’re getting bored with ‘whatever we’re doing.’”

“You know I’m not bored, but some of the candidates Kimba mentioned might have a shot if we help them, and Senator Middleton’s position grows stronger every day. He’s the frontrunner for the Republicans. If there’s anything I can do to keep that mongrel thief out of the oval, I have to try.”

He nods, but turns his back to me. The sleeping pants cling to the muscled curve of his ass and long legs. He links his fingers behind his head, burying them in the dark strands of his hair. The wide plateau of his back tightens with the movement, but also with new tension.

He strides out to the balcony off the bedroom. Diaphanous curtains billow back and forth, in and out with the breeze. I slip a heavy silk robe over my nightgown and grab his Berkeley hoodie from the bench at the foot of our bed.

Our bed. Our place. Our life here.

It’s the first time we’ve ever been in the same place this long, and it does feel like we actually share a life. I don’t want it to end, but we can’t hunker down here forever just in case Gregory Keene decides he wants to try something.

“Hey.” I walk up beside him on the balcony and proffer the sweatshirt. “It’s cool out here.”

He grunts, but accepts the hoodie and slides it over his head. It rumples his hair even more, and wearing the Berkeley sweatshirt, he looks so unlike the businessman the world knows. He looks more like he did the day we met when he was still a master’s student.

“You’re mad?” I ask after a few moments of silence.

Exasperation edges his sigh. “What did Kimba say?” His eyes narrow on my