Page 111 of King of Praise
I keep my voice steady, empty of emotion. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Come now.” He smiles, but it never reaches his eyes. “Let’s not insult each other’s intelligence. We’ve had the cabin under surveillance for some time now. The domestic bliss was quite touching, really. Cooking together, reading by the fire, fucking like teenagers when you thought no one was watching. Quite the dynamic between you two.”
He winks, his evil grin growing. Heat floods my face despite my efforts at control. The violation of our privacy, the transformation of intimate moments into voyeuristic entertainment, threatens to shatter my composure. I force myself to breathe through the fury and humiliation.
“What do you want?” I ask.
“Direct. Just like your fuck Daddy.” Tommy leans forward. “What I want is information about Micah Hunt. His movements, his relationships, his vulnerabilities. The man’s been remarkablycircumspect over the years. Makes him difficult to manage properly.”
“Lucas is dead and you’re asking aboutthat?” Sandra’s voice cracks with hysteria. “Why are you interrogating his widow about sleeping with his father? You promised you’d find his true killer.”
Tommy’s attention shifts to her with a cruelty that makes me flinch. “Your son got exactly what he deserved, Mrs. Hunt. A rabid dog put down before he could do more damage. Now be quiet while the adults talk.”
The dismissal silences Sandra more effectively than direct threats could have. She slumps in her chair, the fight visibly draining from her posture.
Tommy returns his focus to me, head tilted as though examining a particularly interesting specimen. “Now then, where were we? Ah yes, Micah Hunt. Tell me about his routine. What makes himtick?”
I consider my response carefully, recognizing the need to provide enough information to prevent violence while revealing nothing truly useful. The skills developed during my marriage—appearing compliant while maintaining internal resistance—guide my strategy.
“I don’t know much about his work,” I say, inflecting my voice with appropriate hesitation. “He keeps that separate from our relationship.”
“Hmm.” Tommy studies me with unnerving intensity. “And what exactly is the nature of that relationship? Beyond the obvious fuck fests, I mean. Does he love you?”
He’s probing for emotional vulnerabilities, seeking confirmation that I’m a valuable bargaining chip in whatever game they’re playing.
“I don’t know,” I lie, though my heart aches with the memory of Micah’s face when he first told me he loved me. “We haven’t discussed feelings.”
“No?” Tommy’s smile turns predatory. “Interesting. Because our surveillance suggests otherwise. The tender moments, the whispered conversations, the way he looks at you when he thinks no one’s watching. Seems rather emotional for just fucking.”
My hands clench involuntarily against the zip ties securing my wrists. The invasion of our most private moments, the transformation of genuine love into tactical advantage, fills me with helpless rage.
“What do you really want?” I ask, unable to keep slight edge from my voice.
“You’re smarter than you look. What I want is simple—Micah Hunt’s complete cooperation in certain business matters. Your continued wellbeing provides powerful motivation for that cooperation.”
“You’re using us as bait,” I say.
“Crude but accurate terminology.” He shrugs.
“He won’t come alone,” I warn.
“Oh, we’re counting on that, actually.” Tommy’s smile widens. “His predictable heroics provide excellent opportunity to resolve multiple issues simultaneously. Quite efficient, really.”
A chill slips down my spine. Whatever game they’re playing extends beyond simple hostage negotiation into more complex strategy.
Tommy rises smoothly from his chair. “I have calls to make, preparations to oversee. We’ll continue our chat later, assuming initial negotiations prove unsuccessful.”
He addresses his subordinates without looking away from me. “Regular monitoring, increased security. Prepare for phase two.”
As Tommy and his men depart, the door screeching closed behind them, silence descends in the concrete room. Sandra seems to have retreated into shocked stillness.
Physical escape appears increasingly unlikely given the professional security measures. Even if we managed to free ourselves, the door likely remains guarded, with an unknown number of obstacles between us and freedom.
Direct resistance would likely provoke punishment without improving our circumstances. These men operate with disciplined professionalism and have protocols for handling uncooperative prisoners. Testing those protocols right now would get us nowhere.
That leaves waiting—maintaining composure, preserving strength, gathering whatever information becomes available. Not a satisfying strategy but potentially the only viable option given our circumstances.
I shift in the uncomfortable metal chair, trying to ease pressure points where zip ties dig into my wrists and ankles. The movement draws Sandra’s attention, her red-rimmed eyes focusing on me with mix of confusion and resentment.
