Page 4 of King of Praise
I press myself against the wall beside the door, as if I could somehow melt into it. Disappear completely.
“Come on, baby. Don’t be difficult. I just want to work things out.”
When I remain silent, his patience cracks. The false sweetness evaporates.
“Open the fucking door, Naomi. Now.”
Each impact of his fist makes the door shudder in its frame. I can picture his face contorting with fury, that familiar transformation from a charming businessman to a terrifying monster. My legs want to give out, but terror keeps me upright.
The next blow comes with so much force the wood splinters around the lock. Again. Again. The door frame fractures, then gives way entirely.
Lucas storms in, filling the doorway with his presence. His carefully styled hair has fallen across his forehead, suit jacket crooked. The perfect mask finally slipping to reveal the rage beneath.
I back toward the kitchen, eyes darting for escape routes. There are none. The living room window leads to a four-story drop. The bedroom is a dead end. The only exit is the one he’s blocking.
“Look at you,” he sneers, taking in my dress, my bare legs, my exposed throat. “Playing house with my father. Did you really think you could just walk away from me? That I’d let you?”
“Lucas, please—”
“Shut up.” He advances slowly, methodically. A predator toying with cornered prey. “You ungrateful little bitch. I gave you everything. A beautiful home. Designer clothes. The best of everything. And this is how you repay me? You shack up with my dad?”
“No, you didn’t,” I manage to say though my voice trembles. “My trust paid for all of that.”
His eyes narrow with furious intent. My back hits the kitchen counter. Nowhere left to retreat.
“When are you going to learn?” His laugh holds no humor. “And turning my own father against me. You’re ruining my life, babe. Again. Just like when you couldn’t give me children.”
The familiar guilt and shame rises up, threatening to drown me. I’d lied about that. As soon as he showed me his true nature, I knew I could never have children with him. So I had an IUD put in and said I was infertile. He believed me.
“That wasn’t my fault,” I whisper. Then louder: “None of this is my fault.”
His face contorts. “Everything is your fault.”
Lucas lunges for me. I try to dodge him, but he’s too fast. I don’t escape his reach. His fingers dig into my shoulders as he yanks me forward, then slams me back against the counter. Pain explodes through my hip where it connects with the sharp corner. The impact knocks the air from my lungs in a harsh gasp.
His fist crashes into my cheekbone before I can catch my breath. Stars burst behind my eyes. Another blow splits my lip, blood flooding my mouth. It drips onto my dress, staining the delicate purple flowers crimson.
“You think you can leave me?” Each word punctuates another hit. “You’re mine.”
I try to curl inward, to protect my face, but he grabs my hair and yanks my head back. The fluorescent kitchen light swims above me, too bright, too harsh. His knee drives up into my stomach with crushing force. My legs buckle as pain radiates through my core. Only his grip on my hair keeps me from collapsing completely.
The batter bowl teeters on the counter edge, knocked askew in the struggle. A small, disconnected part of my mind mourns those unmade cookies. Such a simple, normal thing—baking on a rare sunny winter afternoon. Now shattered like everything else Lucas touches.
His fingers dig into my throat, crushing my windpipe. I claw at his hands, but his grip only tightens. My chest burns, desperate for air that won’t come. Each attempt to inhale feels like swallowing glass.
Lucas’s face looms above me, his features twisted with hatred. His ice-blue eyes bore into mine as he squeezes harder. The pressure builds in my head, blood pounding in my ears. Dark spots dance at the edges of my vision, growing larger with each passing second.
My legs kick out weakly, seeking purchase against the cabinets. The counter edge digs into my back as I thrash. Panic floods my system—raw, primal terror obliterates all thought except the desperate need to breathe.
He’s going to kill me. This is it. The day I lose my life to my husband’s rage.
My fumbling hands knock against the counter, sending measuring cups clattering to the floor. The batter bowl teeters closer to the edge, but it doesn’t fall. My lungs scream for oxygen. The kitchen light above blurs and doubles as consciousness starts to fade.
I’m going to die here. In this sunny kitchen where I felt safe just moments ago. The thought brings a surge of rage that cuts through the fog of fear. If I could just grab my phone, I could call for help.
My fingers brush the counter searching for where I left it. But I find something else instead—the handle of a knife I used to cut butter earlier.
The darkness creeps further into my vision. My grip on the knife handle is weak, unsteady. Lucas’s hands squeeze tighter still, his thumbs crushing my larynx. The world starts to gray as my oxygen-starved brain begins to shut down.
