Page 34 of King of Praise
As I drive through Columbus’s darkening streets, an uncomfortable truth settles over me. I can’t protect Naomi forever. Sooner or later, the past will catch up to us. And whenit does, the choices we’ve made and the lines we’ve crossed and almost crossed will demand their price.
The city lights blur past my window, each one seeming to whisper of approaching storms. I press harder on the accelerator, eager to return to the cabin, to Naomi. To the secluded hideaway we’ve created that suddenly feels far more fragile than before.
Sandra’s final threat echoes in my mind.I’ll find her.Three simple words that carry the weight of inevitable confrontation. Because Sandra’s right about one thing—she’s always been dangerously good at finding what she wants. And she wants answers about Lucas’s death that I can never let her discover.
Chapter 9
Sisterhood of Survivors
Naomi
Micah’s truck idles outside the community center, its engine a low rumble that matches my thundering heartbeat. My hands twist nervously in my lap as I watch women entering the plain brick building, each walking with purpose toward the weekly support group meeting.Mysupport group meeting. The thought sends fresh anxiety coursing through my veins.
“You don’t have to do this,” Micah says softly, his large frame turned toward me. “We can go back to the cabin.”
I shake my head, red curls brushing my shoulders. “I need this.” My voice comes out steadier than I feel. “I’ve been isolated for too long.”
His jaw tightens. I’ve learned to read the subtle shifts in his expression over our weeks together. The suggestion to attend these meetings had sparked intense debate between us. Sandra’s threats loom large, making any public appearance risky. But my quiet insistence about needing connection with others who understand my trauma eventually won out.
“At least let me—”
“Check the perimeter?” I finish for him, a small smile tugging at my lips despite my nerves. “I know.”
Micah’s protective instincts are both comforting and constraining. I watch as his dark eyes scan the parking lot methodically, taking in each vehicle, each shadow, searching for threats or surveillance. The thoroughness of his assessment reminds me that while Lucas may be gone, danger still lurks at the edges of my world.
A young woman walks past our truck, her shoulders hunched against the February chill. Something in her posture—the wariness, the way she glances constantly over her shoulder—strikes a chord of recognition deep within me. I used to move like that, always anticipating the next blow, the next cruel word. Sometimes I still do.
“Micah.” I rest my hand on his forearm, feeling the tension in his muscles. “I’ll be fine. Eve, Lydia, and Olivia will be here. It’s a safe space.”
He covers my hand with his, the warmth of his palm seeping into my cold fingers. The gesture is casual but loaded with meaning like so many of our interactions lately. Ever since that morning in the cabin when we almost kissed, every touch between us carries dangerous possibilities.
“Two hours,” he says gruffly. “Text me when it ends. I’ll be close.”
“I know.” I squeeze his arm gently before withdrawing my hand. “You’re always close.”
The words come out more breathless than intended. Micah’s eyes darken, and for a moment I think he might say something more. But he simply nods, that muscle in his jaw jumping again.
I gather my courage and open the door, letting in a blast of cold air. The community center’s lights spill across the cracked pavement, creating pools of yellow warmth. Other women make their way inside. Some alone, while others are in pairs. All walking toward the same destination, carrying similar burdens.
“Naomi.” Micah’s voice stops me as I start to slide out. When I turn back, his expression is intense. “Be careful.”
“Always.” I promise, trying to inject lightness I don’t quite feel into my voice. Then I slip from the truck’s warmth into the cold winter evening, wrapping my arms around myself against the chill.
The cold air bites at my nose as I step onto the sidewalk leading to the community center. Ahead of me, two young women walk together, chatting quietly. They cast quick glances over their shoulders every so often, scanning for threats. It’s a habit I know well. Lucas may have left physical scars that fade over time, but the mental ones remain. I still flinch at loud noises and jump when someone approaches too quickly.
Micah’s truck rumbles to life behind me, and I resist the urge to look back. He’ll watch me to make sure I get in safely before finding a spot to wait.
His protectiveness should feel stifling after Lucas’s controlling behavior, but somehow it doesn’t. Maybe because Micah never demands or assumes. He simply offers security while respecting my choices.
Like tonight. He clearly hates the idea of me attending this meeting, exposing myself to public scrutiny while Sandra actively searches for me. But when I explained how isolated I felt, how much I needed connection with others who understood, that my friends would start to question my absence, he listened. Really listened in that intense way he has, then worked out ways to make it happen safely.
He has no idea how grateful I am that he agreed to this. I don’t hate being at the cabin with him though it does get lonely during the day. If I’m really being honest with myself, I’d probably stay at that cabin with him forever if he’d let me.
I just need reassurance I’ll get this time with my friends as well.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned from being a survivor of domestic violence, it’s that support and therapy from groups like this are lifesavers.
I don’t think I’d be here today without this.
