Page 102 of King of Praise
Naomi shakes her head, placing her hand over my heart again. “Lucas wasn’t your failure. You didn’t create his cruelty.”
“Maybe not,” I acknowledge, “but I couldn’t prevent it either. Couldn’t protect you from him.”
“But you did,” she says softly. “When it mattered most, you chose to protect me instead of him. You helped me survive the aftermath. You gave me space to heal.”
Her forgiveness, her refusal to blame me for Lucas’s actions, touches something deep within me—a wound I hadn’t realized still bled until she came into my life. This woman, who suffered directly from my son’s cruelty, offers absolution.
I reach for her, drawing her closer, my hands framing her face with reverent care. “How did I find you?”
Her smile holds both sadness and joy, acknowledging the terrible circumstances that brought us together while affirming the unexpected gift those circumstances gave us.
“Just lucky, I guess,” she whispers, leaning forward to press her lips gently against mine.
The kiss begins softly, tenderly, but quickly deepens as emotional intensity translates into physical desire. My hands slide into her hair, cradling her head as I explore the warmth of her mouth. Her smaller hands press against my chest, fingers splayed as if trying to touch as much of me as possible.
When we break apart, both breathless, desire darkens in her eyes, matching the heat building within me. But this feels different from our earlier passionate encounter—no less intense, but infused with newfound significance after our declarations and discussions.
“I want you,” she says simply, honestly.
The directness of her statement, the open vulnerability in her expression, strikes me deeply.
“You have me,” I promise. “All of me.”
No words have ever been truer. There isn’t anything I’d do for this woman. She owns all of me. And I plan to spend the rest of my life showing her just how much I love her.
Chapter 27
Shattered Sanctuary
Naomi
The warmth of the oven against my back is a comforting presence as I sift flour into the large ceramic bowl, watching the fine white powder create miniature clouds that dance in the morning light.
Outside the cabin windows, a fresh dusting of snow covers the world in pristine white, making the forest look like something from a fairy tale rather than our remote hideaway.
Powder watches me from her perch on the windowsill, her blue eyes following my every movement with that feline mixture of judgment and adoration.
“What do you think?” I ask her, holding up the recipe card. “Vanilla bean cake with raspberry filling and buttercream frosting? Something to celebrate with when Micah gets home?”
Powder blinks slowly in response, which I choose to interpret as approval.
I smile to myself, still not entirely used to this feeling of lightness in my chest. It’s been less than twenty-four hours since Micah told me he loved me and I said those words back to him. It feels like everything has shifted.
I reach for the vanilla beans, slicing them open with precision to scrape out the tiny black seeds. The rich, heady scent fillsthe kitchen as I work them into the sugar with my fingertips, creating fragrant crystals to perfume the entire cake.
Micah left before dawn, called to Columbus by Zeke for some urgent business that couldn’t wait. I’d woken briefly as he dressed in the darkness, his whispered explanation and lingering kiss different from previous departures—a promise rather than an apology, infused with our newly acknowledged feelings.
“I’ll be back by evening,” he’d murmured against my lips. “Try not to worry.”
Easy for him to say. Worry has been my constant companion since childhood, amplified during my marriage to Lucas. The fact that I now worry for Micah’s safety rather than fear his return is progress, I suppose, but it’s still not peace.
I crack eggs into the sugar mixture one-handed so I can continue whisking with the other. The repetitive motion is soothing, transforming separate ingredients into something greater than their parts. Like Micah and me, perhaps. Two broken people finding wholeness together.
I smile again as I add flour to the wet ingredients, careful not to over mix. This celebration cake needs to be perfect—light, delicate, worthy of marking this turning point in our lives. We’re building something real, something that might last beyond the immediate crisis that brought us together.
I pour the batter into prepared pans, sliding them into the preheated oven before turning my attention to the raspberry filling. The frozen berries from the store aren’t ideal—I’d prefer fresh, locally grown fruit for something this important—but they’ll work well enough once cooked down with sugar and a hint of lemon.
As I stir the berries on the stovetop and they break down into glossy crimson, my mind wanders to the plans we discussed last night. A new place together, outside Columbus but close enoughfor my bakery. An actual bakery—my dream since childhood, now potentially within reach.
