Page 10 of King of Praise
Focus, I tell myself.One problem at a time.
But as Naomi shifts in her sleep, I know it’s already too late for that.
I’m in too deep. Have been since she first showed up at my door months ago, bruised and desperate.
Now there’s blood between us. My son’s blood.
Nothing will ever be simple again.
The night deepens. I maintain my vigil, watching over the woman I see as something so much more precious than a daughter-in-law.
God help us both.
Chapter 3
Sanctuary in the Woods
Naomi
Consciousness returns slowly, like swimming to the surface through murky water. My eyelids flutter open to an unfamiliar wooden ceiling. Sunlight filters through curtained windows, casting dappled patterns across rough-hewn beams. For one blissful moment, confusion shields me from memory. Then reality crashes back with merciless clarity.
Lucas. The knife. Blood spreading across Micah’s apartment floor.
A small sound escapes my throat, drawing Powder’s attention. The white ragdoll cat lies curled against my side, her warmth and gentle purring oddly comforting. My fingers tangle in her soft fur—now clean from the blood.
I lie in a large king-sized bed in the middle of a cabin, a patchwork quilt pulled up to my chest. The cabin is one open room—rustic but meticulously maintained. A small kitchen occupies one wall, copper pots hanging above a cast-iron stove that has to be an antique. On another wall stands a large jacuzzi tub and bathroom sink, with a door beside them presumably leading to a toilet or a closet. Opposite the bed is a floor-to-ceiling stone fireplace where faint embers still glow from last night’s fire.
The space feels both cozy and exposed. There’s nowhere to hide, but somehow, I still feel safe. Perhaps it’s the isolation, the sense that we’re far from civilization. Or perhaps it’s the man sleeping in the leather armchair near the bed.
Micah’s large frame is awkwardly contained by the chair’s dimensions, his head resting at what must be an uncomfortable angle. One hand still curls around a book that has slipped to his lap. Even in sleep, tension lines his handsome face, his beard not quite concealing the tightness in his jaw.
I study him—this man who is both familiar and a stranger. My father-in-law, though that term feels hollow given the circumstances. For months, I’d been living in his apartment, fleeing Lucas’s escalating violence, yet our interactions had been limited to brief, polite exchanges. Micah had given me space, respecting invisible boundaries we’d both created.
Now those boundaries have collapsed entirely. He has seen me at my most vulnerable, has washed his own son’s blood from my skin.
The memory makes me feel physically ill. My hands shake as images flash through my mind.
Lucas’s face contorted with rage as he broke down the door.
His hands around my throat, squeezing until spots danced before my eyes.
The look of shock in his icy blue eyes as the knife slid home.
My chest tightens as panic claws its way up my throat. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to focus on my breathing the way my therapist taught me.In for four counts. Hold for seven. Out for eight.
But the memories won’t stop coming.
The weight of Lucas’s body as he collapsed on top of me.
The sticky warmth of his blood soaking through my dress.
The vacant stare of his dead eyes.
I killed my husband. The relief this knowledge brings is immediately followed by crushing guilt. What kind of monster feels relief at taking a life?
But he was going to kill you.You had no choice.
Did I, though? Maybe if I’d been stronger, smarter, better at defusing his anger. Maybe if I hadn’t provoked him by leaving. Maybe if I’d just stayed and endured his abuse like a good wife should.
