Page 82 of King of Praise
“Oh my God,” Lydia squeaks, her face turning pink even as she leans forward. “Really? All of them?”
“Let’s just say there’s something about men who are used to being in control,” Olivia purrs, shooting me a knowing look that makes me squirm in my seat. “They tend to bethoroughin all their endeavors.”
A shiver slides down my spine. Micah’s thoroughness extends far beyond the bedroom—from the meticulous way he cleans his weapons to how carefully he plans for every contingency to keep me safe. Even now, I know he’s positioned near the entrance, watching, protecting, ready to eliminate any threat before it reaches us.
Lydia sits back in her seat and sighs. “Maybe I need to find me a morally gray hottie who’s more than a little thorough.”
“I’m sure that could be arranged,” Olivia says with a waggle of her brow.
“To dangerous men who keep us very, very satisfied,” Eve declares, raising her glass in a toast that makes us all dissolve into scandalous giggles.
The conversation drifts to less intoxicating topics after that—Lydia’s children, a difficult customer at the boutique, the unusually harsh winter. I let the normalcy wash over me, savoring each moment like a starving woman at a feast. Thisconnection, laughter, and belonging feels like a gift I’d forgotten I deserved.
Our food arrives, temporarily halting conversation as we appreciate the chef’s artistry. I cut into my seared salmon, watching steam rise from the tender pink flesh. Simple pleasures like a well-prepared meal in beautiful surroundings once seemed permanently beyond my reach. Now each bite tastes of possibility, of a future where joy might outweigh fear.
“So, I hate to ask, but I’ve been worried about you. How are you handling all the trouble Sandra’s been causing?” Eve asks quietly, her professional persona edging into her voice.
I set down my fork, appetite suddenly diminished. “Micah says she’s hired private investigators. She’s convinced I had something to do with Lucas’s murder.”
“Well, that’s ridiculous.” Lydia gasps.
Her immediate rejection makes me smile.
Eve shakes her head, taking a measured sip of her wine. “She’s grasping at straws. There’s nothing linking you to his death.”
“But what if—” I begin.
Eve cuts me off with a gentle but firm hand on my wrist. “Naomi, listen to me.” Her green eyes hold mine, steady and certain. “The case is essentially closed. All evidence points to drug-related violence. There’s nothing—absolutely nothing—that would lead any competent investigator to suspect you of involvement.”
“But Sandra—”
“Is grief-stricken and looking for someone to blame.” Eve’s voice softens with compassion. “I’ve seen it a hundred times. She can’t accept that her son made choices that led to his death, so she’s creating a narrative where he’s the innocent victim of a scheming wife.”
The irony almost makes me laugh. Lucas, innocent? The man who blackened my eyes, fractured my ribs, wrapped his hands around my throat until spots danced at the edges of my vision? The bruises have faded from my skin, but the memory of his violence remains branded into my nervous system.
“Once Detective Archer officially closes the case,” Eve continues, “there’s—”
Eve is cut off by a commotion outside.
The crystal wine glasses on our table shatter in rapid succession—one, two, three, four—before my brain registers the staccato crack of gunfire.
“Get down!” Eve yells, already moving with practiced efficiency, her hand instinctively reaching for a weapon that isn’t there.
More shots ring out. Glass explodes. Someone screams. My body freezes, caught in the paralysis of terror as chaos erupts around me.
People shouting.
Tables overturning.
The acrid smell of gunpowder cutting through the lingering scents of expensive perfume and fine cuisine.
I’m still sitting upright, stupidly vulnerable, when strong arms wrap around me from behind.Micah. He lifts me from my chair, cradling me against his chest like I weigh nothing. His heartbeat thunders against my ear—steady, strong, certain—as he moves with purpose through the growing pandemonium.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, his deep voice a lifeline in the madness.
Smoke billows through the restaurant, thick and disorienting, filling my lungs and stinging my eyes. Shadows move through the haze—running figures, crouched forms, indistinct threats. I glimpse Olivia dragging Lydia beneath atable, Eve moving in the opposite direction, her posture battle-ready despite her cocktail dress.
“My friends—” I gasp, struggling against Micah’s iron grip.
