Page 95 of King of Praise
“Ready,” she confirms, slipping her hand into the crook of my elbow.
We exit the restaurant into the crisp winter afternoon, her body instinctively leaning closer to mine against the cold. The simple comfort of her nearness—a confirmation of trust, choice,mutual protection—creates warmth that has nothing to do with temperature.
The hostess holds the door, bidding us farewell. As we walk toward the parking lot, Naomi tucked against my side to shelter from the wind, I consider the unlikely path that brought us here. Nothing about our story follows conventional narrative, yet nothing about it feels wrong.
My hand settles at the small of her back as we approach my truck. “Market next?” I confirm, opening her door before circling to the driver’s side.
Her smile is genuine, unguarded, mischievous. “Market next,” she agrees as I slide into the driver’s seat. “I have a good feeling about this day, Micah.”
As I start the engine, her hand finds mine across the console.
This moment feels like our future. Like possibility. Like the inconceivable prospect of building something lasting from the wreckage of violence and control that initially forced us together. It should terrify me—attachment creates vulnerability, vulnerability introduces risk.
Yet watching Naomi beside me, her expression peaceful as she gazes at the winter landscape, I calculate different equations. Risk versus reward. Protection versus isolation. Professional obligation versus personal fulfillment.
For the first time in decades, the cold logic of survival seems insufficient against the warmth of potential happiness. As we drive toward the market, something resolves within me—determination not just to keep her safe, but to help her thrive. Not just to protect what exists between us, but to nurture what might grow. Not just to survive our complicated circumstances, but to build something meaningful despite them.
Chapter 25
Untainted Love
Naomi
With the last of the dishes washed and placed on the drying rack beside me, I let out a content sigh.
The warmth from the sink and the lingering scents of our light early dinner—crusty artisanal bread from the market, sharp aged cheddar, crisp winter apples I’d sliced—created a cozy meal for two.
The steady thud of the ax splitting wood echoes across the yard and reverberates off the walls of the cabin. The sun is fading but there’s still enough light that I can see Micah clearly through the window above the sink. He lifts the ax above his head to split the next log.
Each powerful swing reveals Micah’s raw strength, the kind that makes my mouth go dry and my core clench with want. His movements are fluid and practiced—lift, aim, strike. The ax head catches the late afternoon light as it arcs through the air before biting deep into another log.
He has shed his jacket, sweating from physical exertion despite the cold. His black T-shirt clings to his broad shoulders, stretched tight across his chest. A light sheen of sweat makes hisskin glow golden in the setting sun. My fingers itch to trace the strong line of his jaw, now tense from focus, to roam his salt-and-pepper beard that’s grown a touch longer during our time here.
The muscles in his forearms flex as he adjusts his grip on the ax handle. I bite my lip, remembering how those same hands touched me this morning—gentle yet commanding as he dressed me, teasing yet reverent. Now they demonstrate a different kind of power, one that sends butterflies swarming low in my belly.
A stray lock of dark hair falls across his forehead, and he pauses to brush it back with his forearm. The simple gesture shouldn’t be so erotic, but everything about him in this moment—this rugged, capable version of my protector turned lover—sets my pulse racing.
He looks like he belongs here, like some primal force of nature himself, splitting wood with the same quiet intensity he brings to everything he does.
When he bends to gather the split pieces, his shirt rides up, revealing a strip of tanned skin above his jeans. My breath catches. This man, who can be so dangerous when needed, who handles me with such careful tenderness, is now unknowingly starring in every lumberjack fantasy I never knew I had.
The physical task appears effortless despite the substantial weight, his powerful frame moving with fluid grace that continues to fascinate me. Everything about him embodies beautiful contradiction: intimidating size with gentle touch, dangerous capability with unfailing tenderness, strength built on safety rather than fear.
The sight of him stirs something deep within me, a response that’s only grown stronger during our weeks together. Not just physical attraction, though that element certainly exists, but recognition of fundamental goodness beneath his carefully maintained exterior.
He pauses to adjust his grip on the wood, and sunlight catches the silver threading through his dark hair. The distinguished touch of age that I once might have considered a barrier is now perfectly suited to him.
My thoughts drift to our outing earlier—lunch at the resort overlooking Hocking Hills, shopping together at the local market, planning meals and baking projects as though we were any normal couple rather than … what?
Fugitive and protector?
Victim and savior?
Father-in-law and daughter-in-law bound by violence and death?
The normalcy of the day stands in stark contrast to the extraordinary circumstances that brought us together. Yet somehow that very contrast makes it more precious rather than less authentic.
We’ve carved something genuine from crisis, built connection from chaos.
