Page 83 of King of Praise

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“They’re being handled,” he says, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Zeke and his men are here. My priority is getting you out.”

Another burst of gunfire, closer now. Micah tightens his hold, shielding my body with his much larger one as he navigates through the smoke. His movements are fluid, decisive. He’s a man accustomed to violence, unfazed by danger. The stark contrast between this Micah and the gentle lover who whispers praise against my skin in the darkness sends a shiver through me.

We burst through a side exit into the frigid night air. The sudden cold burns my lungs, still raw from the smoke. Micah doesn’t slow, covering ground with long strides, keeping my face pressed against his chest. I catch fractured glimpses of the scene—men with guns positioned around the parking lot, the restaurant’s windows glowing orange with fire, patrons fleeing in every direction.

“Who—?” I try to ask, but my voice breaks.

“Later,” Micah promises, his beard brushing my forehead as he scans our surroundings with predatory intensity. “First we get somewhere safe.”

His truck appears through the smoke. He yanks open the passenger door one-handed, somehow maintaining his grip on me, and deposits me inside with surprising gentleness given the urgency of the moment. Before I can fully register the change in position, he’s sliding into the driver’s seat, slamming the door, and starting the engine.

We hurtle backwards, tires squealing against asphalt. Through the windshield, I see two masked figures emerge from the smoke, weapons raised. Micah swerves hard, avoiding aspray of bullets that pings against metal. His expression remains unnervingly calm, almost detached, as he shifts gears and accelerates forward, narrowly missing a parked car.

“Duck down,” he orders, one hand reaching to push my head below window level. “Keep down until I say otherwise.”

I comply without question, folding myself into the footwell as the truck lurches and weaves through the parking lot. More gunshots ring out behind us. A loud cracking sound follows. Maybe metal ripped apart by bullets? I can’t tell, can only feel the truck’s violent acceleration as we burst onto the main road.

“Stay down,” he repeats, then adds with unexpected tenderness, “You’re safe now. I promise.”

As we speed through the night, city lights strobing across the dashboard, I close my eyes and focus on his promise, clinging to it like a talisman against the terror threatening to consume me.

I don’t know how much time passes before Micah tells me it’s safe to get up. I don’t move at first, too afraid of what might happen if I do. But his reassuring nod and the softness in his eyes are all the comfort I need to get my aching body out of the floor of the truck.

I curl into the passenger seat, knees drawn to my chest, watching shadows slide across Micah’s face as streetlights flash past. The beautiful emerald dress that made me feel alive just hours ago is torn at the hem and smells of smoke. My hands won’t stop shaking.

The ringing of Micah’s phone slices through our tense silence. He answers on the first ring, hitting the speaker button without taking his eyes off the road.

“We’re clear,” Micah says before the caller can speak, his voice steady despite everything.

“Good.” Zeke’s voice fills the cab, clipped and dangerous. “Everyone’s accounted for. Eve’s handling the local police, making sure this stays a random gang shooting in the reports.”

Relief floods through me. “Olivia and Lydia? They’re okay?”

“They’re safe,” Zeke confirms. “Seb got Olivia out. Eli took care of Lydia.”

Micah’s knuckles whiten on the steering wheel. “Who was it?”

“The Gallaghers.” Zeke spits the name like poison.

“Confirmed?” Micah asks.

“They used outside men for the hit but Connor’s right-hand man was spotted a few blocks from the restaurant before he got away.”

“Brendan,” Micah growls, the name reverberating with fury. “Are you sure of his involvement?”

I shudder at the implication but can’t find it in me to feel anything but vengeful satisfaction. These people tried to kill us over territory and power.

“Why else would he be so close,” Zeke’s anger comes out in every word.

“It’s definitely cause for suspicion.”

“We’re cleaning house,” Zeke continues, his voice cold steel. “This will not go unpunished.”

Micah’s eyes flick to me briefly, then back to the road. “You need me.”

It’s not a question.

“Get her to safety first,” Zeke orders. “Then meet us at the club. We’re going to send a message no one in Columbus will forget.”