Page 92 of King of Praise
A soft gray scarf completes the ensemble, wound carefully around my neck with gentle precision. His fingers brush my throat as he arranges the fabric—a reminder of power held in check, strength tempered by consideration.
“Perfect,” he declares, pressing a kiss to my temple. “My beautiful girl.”
The praise settles warm in my chest as he opens the cabin door, letting in a rush of crisp winter air. I take his offered hand without hesitation, our fingers intertwining with familiar comfort. His large palm engulfs my smaller one with gentle strength.
As we walk toward his truck, holding hands in the daylight feels both ordinary and significant.
The winter sun bathes everything in pale golden light, making the frost-covered landscape sparkle like diamonds. Each breath creates visible puffs in the cold air, reminding me just how cold it is outside.
Yet walking beside Micah, his solid presence steady and sure, I feel only warmth—like the ice that once encased my heart has finally begun to thaw, allowing hope to bloom even in winter’s grip.
Chapter 24
Ventures Beyond
Micah
The waitress sets down my coffee, the porcelain cup barely making a sound against its saucer. I thank her with a nod, maintaining a casual demeanor while tracking her retreat from our table. She’s young, maybe mid-twenties, with a professional manner that suggests she takes her job seriously. No visible flaws. No nervous tics. No excessive interest in us. Just another server working the lunch shift at an upscale resort restaurant.
Not a threat.
I’ve made similar assessments of everyone who’s entered the dining room in the seventeen minutes we’ve been seated. It’s automatic, this constant cataloging—muscle memory developed through decades operating in environments where momentary inattention can be fatal. Even here, in this rustic yet elegant restaurant perched on a cliff overlooking Hocking Hills, I can’t fully disengage the instincts that have kept me alive for fifty-four years.
“Micah?”
Naomi’s voice pulls me back to our immediate surroundings. Her green eyes study me with gentle concern, head tilted as she waits for my wandering attention.
“Sorry,” I say, wrapping my weathered hands around the warm cup. “Force of habit.”
“Assessing exits?” Not an ounce of judgment in her tone. In our weeks together, she’s become attuned to my security protocols.
I nod, allowing a smile that few besides her ever see. “Among other things.”
“And what’s your professional assessment?” She leans forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Are we in mortal danger from the elderly couple by the window? Or perhaps that toddler with the crayon is planning an ambush?”
The teasing catches me off guard, and I chuckle. This playful side of Naomi emerges more frequently these days. She’s healing. Safety is gradually replacing constant fear.
“The toddler’s definitely suspicious,” I counter, playing along. “Nobody needs that many crayons unless they’re planning something.”
Her laugh fills me with a satisfaction. Every moment of joy feels like a personal victory against all Lucas took from her.
“This view is incredible,” she says, turning toward the floor-to-ceiling windows that showcase winter-bare trees and rolling landscapes stretching toward the horizon. The wonder in her expression reminds me of a child discovering something magical for the first time. “I’ve lived in Ohio my whole life and never knew this was here.”
I follow her gaze, trying to see the familiar landscape through her eyes. The Hocking Hills region in winter offers stark beauty—skeletal trees etched against the gray-blue sky, occasional evergreens providing bursts of color, distant hills rising and falling like frozen waves all covered in a blanket of snow.
I’ve always appreciated the place for its isolation, its usefulness as a retreat when Columbus became too complicated.Now, watching Naomi’s unguarded delight, I find new value in its beauty.
Her fingers intertwine with mine, giving a gentle squeeze full of gratitude. It feels more significant than it should.
The server breaks our moment. I withdraw my hand casually, maintaining the appearance of appropriate distance. Though I doubt anyone here would recognize us or understand the complexity of our relationship, discretion remains second nature.
“Have you decided?” The young woman asks, notebook poised.
I notice Naomi’s momentary hesitation, the quick glance in my direction—seeking permission or approval before ordering. Lucas conditioned her to seek approval for every decision, no matter how small. Breaking that pattern is going to require consistent reinforcement of her autonomy.
I deliberately remain silent, offering an encouraging nod but no direction. This is her choice to make.
“I’ll have the roasted butternut squash soup to start,” she says after a beat, her voice growing more confident with each word, “and the pan-seared trout with the winter vegetable medley.”
