Page 13 of King of Praise
The question catches me off guard. How am I feeling? Numb. Terrified. Guilty. Relieved. Lost. Too many emotions to name, all tangled together in my chest.
“I don’t know,” I answer honestly.
He nods as if this makes perfect sense. “Eat something. Then we need to talk about what happens next.”
The words send a chill down my spine, but I manage to make my own omelet and join him at the table. We eat in comfortable silence, broken only by Powder’s hopeful meowing as she winds between our legs.
“She likes you,” Micah observes, sneaking the cat a bit of egg.
“She’s been very sweet.” I reach down to scratch under her chin. “Thank you for bringing her. It helps, having her here.”
His eyes soften. “Good. You need all the comfort you can get right now.”
The genuine care in his voice makes my throat tight. I focus on my plate, pushing the eggs around with my fork. “What … what happens now?”
Micah sets down his coffee cup with deliberate care. “Now we wait. Let things settle in Columbus. Give the evidence time to point where we want it to point.”
“The police—”
“Will investigate a drug deal gone bad.” His voice turns hard. “Lucas had enemies. People who wanted him dead. That’s the story that will stick.”
I look up sharply. “How can you be so sure?”
“Because I know people. People who owe me favors. And because I have resources you don’t know about.” He meets my gaze. “Trust me, Naomi. I won’t let anything happen to you.”
The fierce protectiveness in his tone sends warmth spreading through my chest.
“Why?” The question slips out before I can stop it. “Why are you helping me? After what I did—”
“Stop.” He reaches across the table, covering my hand with his. Electricity dances up my arm. “You defended yourself against a man who was trying to kill you. My son or not, he made his choice. And I…” he swallows hard, “I should have stopped him long ago. Should have seen what he was becoming.”
“It wasn’t your fault.” The words come automatically, but I mean them. “Sandra—”
“Sandra.” He spits the name like a curse. “She’ll be a problem. She’ll never believe Lucas died at the hands of drug dealers. She’ll push for an investigation, call in favors of her own.”
Fear washes over me like a tidal wave. “What do we do?”
“We stay here. Stay quiet. I have friends watching her, monitoring the situation. When it’s safe, we’ll figure out the next steps.” His thumb strokes absently across my knuckles. “For now, just focus on healing.”
The gentle touch becomes too much. I pull my hand away, wrapping my arms around myself. “I killed him,” I whisper. “Your son. I killed your son.”
“Look at me.” His voice firm. I raise my eyes reluctantly to meet his blazing gaze. “The man you killed stopped being my son long ago. Sandra made sure of that. The boy I knew—the boy I loved—died years before you put that knife in his chest.”
Tears spill down my cheeks despite my best efforts to hold them back. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t.” He stands abruptly, coming around the table to kneel beside my chair. “Don’t apologize for surviving. Never apologize for that.”
His large hands cup my face, thumbs brushing away tears. The touch is gentle, at odds with his fierce expression. I should pull away. Should maintain distance. But I find myself leaning into his warmth instead, starved for comfort after living in fear so long.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, and the words undo me completely.
I collapse forward into his chest, shoulders shaking with silent sobs. His arms come around me immediately, strong and steady, one hand stroking my hair while the other supports my back. He makes quiet shushing sounds, rocking me as I fall apart.
I cry for the girl I used to be, before Lucas’s abuse stripped away what little confidence I had. I cry for the dreams I’d finally started rebuilding, now shattered by one desperate act of violence. And I cry for the tangled mess of guilt and relief warring in my chest.
Through it all, Micah holds me. His presence anchors me as the storm of emotions pass, leaving me drained but somehow lighter. When my tears finally slow, I become acutely aware of our position—half in his lap on the kitchen floor, his arms still wrapped around me, my face pressed to his chest. I should move and put distance between us. But his warmth feels too good, too safe to leave just yet.
“Better?” he asks softly, still stroking my hair.
