Page 116 of King of Praise
“If you harm her,” he says, voice dropped to barely audible register, “there won’t be a hole deep enough to hide in. I’ll find you. I’ll take days killing you. Weeks. You’ll beg for death long before I grant it.”
It’s a promise, full of so much conviction that I believe every word. If I die here, Micah will hunt Tommy to the ends of the earth. The certainty of this is strangely comforting even with steel kissing my throat.
Tommy’s grip tightens in my hair, but I detect the first flicker of doubt in his posture. He expected Micah to back down, to surrender in exchange for my safety. This implacable promise of retribution, regardless of outcome, has disrupted his calculation.
“I said on your knees,” Tommy shouts, voice cracking with strain.
Micah doesn’t move, doesn’t even blink. “And I said let her go.”
The standoff stretches, seconds extending into small eternities. I can feel Tommy’s heartbeat through his chest pressed against my shoulder, its rhythm frantic. Sweat drips from his forehead onto my shoulder. The knife trembles against my skin.
He’s losing control. This could go either way.
I meet Micah’s eyes, trying to convey everything words cannot. If these are my final moments, I want him to know I regret nothing. Not Lucas’s death, not our taboo relationship, not the love that bloomed in that isolated cabin. Whatever comes next, I wouldn’t trade the time we’ve had for safety or conventionality or another man’s definition of right.
Something in my expression must reach him. The cold fury in his gaze softens momentarily, revealing the man beneath the enforcer, the lover beneath the fighter. He gives me the smallest nod—acknowledgment or reassurance or farewell, I cannot tell.
Then his attention shifts back to Tommy, all warmth vanishing. “Your arm’s broken. You’re bleeding internally. You can barely stand. How long do you think you can hold that knife?” His voice carries calm certainty. “Francesca’s already writing you off. Look at her. She didn’t expect you to fail this badly.”
Tommy’s head jerks, gaze darting toward his boss. His breathing quickens, his grip on the knife faltering for a crucial fraction of second.
Micah notes the weakness but doesn’t move—not yet. “You’re a dead man walking, Tommy. The only question is how you die. Give me Naomi, and I’ll make it quick. Keep threatening her, and I promise you’ll experience pain beyond your imagination.”
“Fuck you,” Tommy snarls, desperation edging into his voice now. His plan is unraveling, advantage slipping away as his injuries take their toll. Blood loss and the adrenaline crash are catching up to him, making him lightheaded, erratic. The knife wavers against my throat.
This is it. Whatever happens next determines everything.
I close my eyes, steadying my breathing as much as the blade allows. My thoughts turn inward, to memories accumulated during our weeks together—Micah’s rare laugh when I said something funny, the gentleness in his massive hands when he bathed me after lovemaking, the quiet vulnerability in his eyes when he finally said he loved me. If I die with his name in my heart, at least I’ve known what it means to be cherished rather than controlled, protected rather than possessed.
When I open my eyes again, time seems to have slowed. I register individual dust motes dancing in the harsh spotlight. Hear the faint shift of Tommy’s weight behind me. See the minute tightening of Micah’s muscles as he prepares to move.
“Last chance,” Micah says with deceptive softness. “Let. Her. Go.”
Tommy’s answer is a wet, choking laugh that sprays blood droplets across the back of my neck. “Come any closer and I’ll—”
The warehouse erupts into chaos.
Multiple entry points breach simultaneously, flashbang devices detonating with disorienting brilliance that temporarily blinds me. Through ringing ears and swimming vision, I register blurred movement.
Tommy’s grip on me loosens for a critical instant as shock overrides his focus. The knife edge wavers away from my throat.
It’s all the opening Micah needs.
He lunges forward with terrifying speed, covering the distance between us with single-minded intensity that ignores the gun battle erupting around us. Before Tommy can reestablish his threat, Micah slams into him with the full force of his considerable mass, driving him away from my chair.
They crash to the concrete floor several feet behind me, the impact jarring enough that I feel it through the warehouse foundation. I push against my restraints, desperate to see what’s happening, but the zip ties hold firm. The sounds tell their own story—fists connecting with flesh, grunts of pain, the wet thud of bodies hitting concrete.
When I finally manage to twist far enough to glimpse the struggle, Micah has gained the upper hand. He straddles Tommy’s chest, one massive hand pinning Tommy’s good arm while the other delivers punishing blows to his face. Each impact produces a spray of blood and spittle that catches the harsh spotlight with twisted beauty.
“You. Don’t. Touch. Her.” Micah punctuates each word with another devastating strike until Tommy’s features are barely recognizable beneath shattered bone and pulped flesh.
When he reaches for the fallen knife, I know with terrible certainty what comes next. Micah’s expression holds nothing of the gentle man who whispers praise against my skin in thedarkness, nothing of the protective presence who guided me through recovery after Lucas’s death. This is a primal creature of vengeance.
He grips Tommy’s hair, yanking his head back to expose his throat. The knife—the same blade that moments ago threatened my life—gleams dully, smeared with both their blood.
“This is for touching her,” Micah growls, and draws the blade across Tommy’s throat in a single, practiced motion.
Arterial spray paints a crimson arc across the concrete. Tommy’s body convulses, hands clawing reflexively at the fatal wound as his life pumps out in rhythmic pulses. His eyes—still aware—widen with the shocking realization of imminent death.
