Page 3 of King of Praise
In that moment of clarity, I realize I have to make a choice. I can’t sit here forever, paralyzed by indecision while the sun tracks across the sky. Whatever I decide to do next will change everything—my life, Micah’s life, the lives of everyone connected to Lucas.
The magnitude of that decision presses down on me, making it hard to breathe again.
My gaze drifts back to Lucas’s face, so peaceful now, as if he’s merely sleeping. But I know better. I know the violence that led to this moment, the years of abuse that culminated in this final, fatal confrontation. I know the monster that lurked behind his handsome face, the rage that drove him to break down Micah’s door, to try to kill me rather than let me go.
The sun continues its relentless journey across the floor, time slipping further away while I sit surrounded by the consequences of my desperate act of survival. Soon someone will come looking. Micah will return from work. A neighbor might see the broken door and decide to investigate, or maybe even the police if someone calls them instead.
I have to decide. Now. Before the choice is taken from me.
Powder stands, turning to face Lucas’s body. Her tail twitches as she stares at him, as if trying to understand why he’s not moving. Then she looks back at me, her blue eyes full of feline intelligence, and meows softly.
The sound echoes in the silent apartment, a reminder that life goes on, that the world continues turning even when it feels like everything has stopped. I take a deep breath, tasting blood on my tongue.
Whatever I decide to do next, I can’t do it huddled in this corner, covered in blood. I have to move. Have to act. Have to face the consequences of this terrible, necessary thing I’ve done.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper again, though I know he can’t hear me. Then I drop my head and bury it in Powder’s fur.
Twenty minutes earlier
Despite the cold January temperatures, sunlight streams through Micah’s kitchen window, warming my face as I whisk cookie batter in a large ceramic bowl. The bright rays are a rare sight during an Ohio winter when the sky usually maintains a stubborn slate-gray from November through March.
A perfect day for baking.
The kitchen counter wears a light dusting of flour like fresh snow, dotted with measuring cups and mixing bowls. Behind me, the oven preheats with a steady hum, promising the comfort of homemade chocolate chip cookies. The scent of softened butter and brown sugar already perfumes the air.
I catch my reflection in the window above the sink. My red curls have escaped from my messy bun, and my freckles arestark against winter-pale skin. For the first time in months, my movements flow with an easy grace, shoulders relaxed instead of hunched in anticipation of the next blow. The bruises that once marked my wrists have faded, no longer visible now. No need to hide them under long sleeves anymore.
My casual dress swishes around my knees as I move between the counter and the sink. Tiny purple flowers scatter across the cream-colored fabric—the kind of feminine, delicate thing I would never have dared wear around Lucas. All this exposed skin would have only invited more bruises, more fingers digging into flesh to leave their mark.
But Micah? His quiet compliments make me feel pretty instead of like prey. I smile to myself as his words run through my mind again.
“That dress suits you,”he’d said just this morning before heading to work, voice gruff but eyes warm. Such simple words, yet they’ve made me smile all day.
His apartment has become my sanctuary these past few months. Not just a temporary refuge from Lucas, but a real home. Micah’s presence infuses every corner with safety—from his worn leather recliner to the gentle giant of a cat currently sprawled in a patch of sunlight. Even now, Powder’s rhythmic purring provides a soothing counterpoint to my movements in the kitchen.
I hum softly as I work, some half-remembered lullaby my grandmother used to sing. The wooden spoon makes satisfying circles through the thick batter. Everything feels peaceful, ordinary,right.
A sharp knock shatters the quiet afternoon.
I freeze, spoon suspended over the bowl. Batter drips slowly, like a countdown timer. No one ever knocks on Micah’s door. It could be a neighbor, but everyone around Micah should be at work at this hour.
Another knock follows, more insistent this time. The peaceful bubble bursts, reality rushing back in with the force of a tsunami. My heart accelerates from lazy contentment to a frantic gallop in the space of a breath.
I set down the spoon with trembling hands, barely registering the clatter against the edge of the bowl. The apartment falls silent save for the blood rushing in my ears. My bare feet make no sound as I creep toward the door, movements automatic after years of learning to move quietly.
The peephole offers a distorted fish-eye view of the hallway. My breath catches painfully in my throat.
Lucas.
His rigid stance screams anger, shoulders squared beneath his expensive suit jacket and wool coat. My soon-to-be ex-husband is always careful about appearances, so concerned with maintaining the perfect facade. But I recognize the rage simmering beneath that polished surface. His icy blue eyes seem to stare directly through the peephole, through me.
I stumble backward, lungs struggling to draw air. My fingers fumble for the phone on the counter, muscle memory bringing up Micah’s number. The call goes straight to voicemail. Of course—he mentioned an important meeting today. No interruptions.
The pounding resumes, accompanied by Lucas’s voice. He starts with that deceptively reasonable tone I know too well.
“Naomi? I know you’re in there. Open the door. We need to talk.”
Shit. How did he figure out I was here?
