Page 12 of King of Praise
Yet, this same man opened his home to me without hesitation when I appeared on his doorstep a few months ago, fleeing another of Lucas’s rages. This same man brought me here after what I did to his son.
Morning light strengthens, painting golden stripes across the cabin’s wooden floor. Micah shifts in his chair, and I find myself studying him with new eyes. He’s a large man, tall and broad-shouldered, but there’s nothing threatening in his presence. At least not with me. Instead, he radiates a quiet strength, a steadiness I’ve come to rely on more than I should.
What happens now?
The life I had been slowly rebuilding—my dreams of opening a bakery, of finally standing on my own two feet—seems impossibly distant. In its place is this new reality. I am a killer inhiding, dependent on the father of the man I killed. There is no clear path forward from this moment, no way to undo what has been done.
The sound of Micah stirring pulls me from my dark thoughts. His eyes open, immediately finding mine. For several heartbeats, we simply look at each other, neither moving nor speaking. There’s something in his gaze I can’t quite read. Relief maybe? Worry? Or something deeper that makes my pulse quicken?
“Thank you,” I whisper finally, my voice rough. “For everything.”
He pushes to his feet in one fluid motion, approaching the bed with careful steps. My breath catches as he reaches out, gently tilting my chin up with calloused fingers. The touch sends an unexpected shiver through me. His eyes darken as he examines the bruises on my throat, his jaw tightening. He gives a short nod, then turns and strides outside without a word.
I let out a shaky breath, uncertain what just passed between us. His touch lingers on my skin, stirring feelings I know I shouldn’t be having. Not toward him.
Through the window, I watch him move purposefully around the cabin’s exterior, checking windows and doors. Testing locks. Securing our sanctuary. His earlier gentleness replaced by the efficient movements of a man accustomed to anticipating threats.
Beneath the fear and uncertainty clouding my thoughts, a small, shameful realization emerges. For the first time in years, no one is watching my every move, judging my choices, waiting for me to make a mistake. For the first time in years, I might truly be safe.
The irony of finding safety with Micah, of all people, is not lost on me. My father-in-law.
I push back the covers, wincing at the protest of my bruised muscles. My duffle bag sits on a chair nearby. Micah must have packed it before we fled his apartment. The thought of him selecting clothes for me, handling such intimate items, brings heat to my cheeks.
Inside, I find several of my favorite dresses folded carefully, along with warm leggings and sweaters. Practical choices for hiding in a remote cabin, but also items I feel most comfortable in.
He noticed. All those weeks living in his apartment, those brief exchanges in the hallway or kitchen, and he noticed what made me feel comfortable.
In the corner next to a large vanity sits a jacuzzi tub that makes me ache for a hot soak. But there’s no privacy for that since this is a one room cabin. I’ll have to wait until Micah leaves before I can indulge, assuming he leaves me alone here at some point.
Instead, I head to the small door next to it where I find a toilet and sink with a mirror on the wall. I need to assess the damage anyway—to see what Lucas’s final act of violence has written on my skin.
The mirror above the sink pulls no punches. Dark bruises circle my throat like a macabre necklace, clear impressions of fingers that make my stomach turn. A cut on my lip has scabbed over, joining the collection of healing marks from previous encounters. My skin looks pale, almost translucent, making my freckles stand out like constellations.
I trace the edge of a bruise with trembling fingers.
This is the last time. The very last time he’ll ever lay hands on me.
The thought should bring relief but instead, tears burn behind my eyes. I blink them back fiercely. I will not cry for him.Will not waste any more tears on the man who spent years trying to break me.
The cabin’s main room stands empty when I emerge, but I hear Micah outside. Through the window, I watch him splitting wood with smooth, powerful strokes. The ax rises and falls in a hypnotic rhythm, his breath visible in the cold air. He’s shed his jacket despite the temperature, and I’m mesmerized by the play of muscles beneath his Henley.
Stop staring. I scold myself.He’s your father-in-law. Was your father-in-law. What exactly is he to me now?
The question sends my thoughts spinning in uncomfortable directions. I turn away from the window, needing a distraction. The kitchen seems as good a place as any to start. Cooking has always been my escape, my way of processing difficult emotions. And after everything Micah has done for me, the least I can do is make him breakfast.
The kitchen is small but well-organized, every pot and utensil exactly where logic dictates it should be. The refrigerator holds basic supplies—eggs, milk, cheese, and vegetables. Enough to work with. I gather ingredients, letting muscle memory take over as I whisk eggs and grate cheese for omelets.
The familiar motions soothe my rattled nerves. This, at least, I know how to do. This small act of normalcy in the midst of chaos. The sound of chopping wood continues outside, a steady percussion accompanying my cooking.
I’m sliding the first omelet onto a plate when the door opens, bringing a rush of cold air. Micah fills the doorway, cheeks flushed from exertion, hair damp with sweat. His eyes widen at the sight of me at his stove.
“You didn’t have to cook,” he says, voice gruff.
“I wanted to.” I gesture to the plate. “Sit. Eat while it’s hot.”
He hesitates, then moves to wash his hands at the sink. I try not to notice how his presence seems to shrink the already smallkitchen, how aware I am of his every movement. When he finally sits at the small table, I slide the plate in front of him along with a mug of coffee.
“Thank you.” He looks up at me, something soft in his expression. “How are you feeling?”
