Page 122 of King of Praise
I kiss her again, letting everything else fade away as we lose ourselves in pleasure that creates its own kind of sanctuary. Tomorrow will bring what it brings. For now, this is enough. More than enough.
This is everything.
Epilogue
Naomi
The morning sun spills through our bakery windows like liquid gold, catching on the glass display cases highlighting today’s fresh creations. My hands—dusted with flour up to the elbows—automatically reach for the timer as it counts down the final seconds for the hazelnut croissants. Even after three years, that satisfyingdingstill makes me smile.
Three years.
Sometimes I still can’t believe it’s been that long since we left Columbus behind, since I turned dreams sketched in a cabin hideaway into the thriving reality of Velvet Crumb Bakery. The name had come to me one night as Micah held me close, his large frame curled protectively around mine. “Something that combines softness with substance. Something that joins our two worlds together,” I’d murmured sleepily.
The bell above the door jingles, pulling me from my thoughts. It’s just after six in the morning—still thirty minutes before we officially open—but Mrs. Abernathy arrives at precisely this time every Wednesday to collect her standing order of sourdough and cinnamon rolls. The retired literature professor claims my sourdough is the only bread that properly complements her morning poetry readings.
“Good morning, sunshine.” Her crisp voice carries through the space as I slide the tray of perfect croissants onto the cooling rack. “Something smells divine in here.”
“Morning, Mrs. Abernathy. You’re right on time.” I wipe my hands on my apron and move toward the front, where Eliza, my morning counter assistant, already has the order packaged.
“As if I’d risk missing these before they sell out.” She accepts the package with a conspiratorial wink. “Any chance you’ve experimented with that cardamom version we discussed?”
“Coming next week. I’m still perfecting the balance.”
Her eyes crinkle with delight. “That’s why you’re the best, dear. Perfection takes patience.” She glances around the empty shop. “How’s that handsome husband of yours?”
The word still sends a pleasant flutter through my stomach, even after two years of marriage. The ring on my finger catches the morning light as I reach up to tuck a stray curl back into my bun.
“Busy as ever. He’s upstairs in his office handling some work calls before the café fills up.”
What I don’t mention is that those “work calls” involve coordinating security details with Zeke back in Columbus. Even with three years of distance, that connection remains, though carefully managed and compartmentalized. It’s a compromise we’ve crafted with painstaking care—like the perfect balance of butter and flour in croissant dough.
Mrs. Abernathy’s gaze softens. She doesn’t know the specifics of our history—no one in Cincinnati does—but she’s perceptive enough to have sensed the shadows we’ve carried with us.
“Well, tell him his secret admirer says hello,” she says with a playful pat on my hand. “Though I suppose at my age, I should set my sights on someone more attainable.”
I laugh, the sound echoing in the still-quiet bakery. “I’ll tell him, but fair warning, it might go to his head.”
After she leaves, I return to my preparations. The kitchen is my domain, a space where I’ve found healing through creation. There’s something profoundly restorative about transforming simple ingredients into something extraordinary—flour and water becoming sustenance, butter and sugar alchemizing into joy. For someone who spent years being diminished, there’s power in this act of making, of bringing forth nourishment from my own hands.
The morning progresses with calm rhythm—staff arriving, ovens humming, display cases gradually filling with artfully arranged pastries and breads. By seven-thirty, the first wave of regulars trickle in—business professionals grabbing coffee and breakfast before work, university students settling in with laptops at the corner tables, neighbors stopping by as part of their morning routines.
I’m piping delicate chocolate detailing onto a batch of éclairs when I sense him before I see him—that subtle shift in the air that always precedes Micah’s presence. At fifty-seven, he remains an imposing figure—broad-shouldered and solid, his dark hair now liberally streaked with silver, beard meticulously trimmed. He moves with the same quiet power he’s always possessed, though the dangerous edge has softened somewhat with time and distance from his former life.
Our eyes meet through the glass partition separating the kitchen from the café, and for a moment, everything else fades away. Even after all this time, that connection still jolts through me like electricity—immediate and undeniable.
He lifts his coffee mug in silent salute, his lips curving into the slight smile that remains reserved exclusively for me. I return the gesture with my piping bag, earning a soft chuckle I can feel rather than hear through the partition.
This is our normal now—quiet exchanges across a bustling bakery, the private language we’ve developed that speaksvolumes without words. It’s still sometimes surreal to think about how we started—me blood-spattered and terrified in his apartment, him struggling with impossible choices about protecting the woman who killed his son in self-defense.
I finish the éclairs and move on to scoring the artisan loaves that have been proofing overnight. By ten o’clock, the morning rush has subsided, leaving a comfortable hum of activity throughout the café. I emerge from the kitchen to check on the front of house, stopping to chat with regulars and adjust displays as needed. This interaction—the community building that happens alongside the actual baking—has become one of my favorite parts of the business.
Mrs. Chen, who runs the flower shop across the street, waves me over to her table where she sits with her usual pot of green tea and an almond croissant.
“The decorations for tonight’s party are ready,” she says, referring to the floral arrangements I ordered for our anniversary celebration. “My assistant will bring them over around three thirty, if that works?”
“Perfect. We’ll be closed by then and getting ready to head home.”
Her sharp eyes assess me with typical directness. “Three years. Not bad for someone who had never run a business before.”
