Page 19 of King of Praise
Naomi
The butter knife scrapes against darkened toast, spreading strawberry preserves in methodical strokes.
Scrape. Spread. Scrape. Spread.
The sound fills the cabin’s late morning silence, oddly comforting in its mundanity. Outside, a light drizzle taps against the windows, blurring the pine trees into watercolor smudges of green and gray.
Gray like my mood. I’m grateful for Micah’s protection, and understand the need to hide, but it feels like I’ve been hiding for a lifetime. First, I spend months hiding from Lucas, and now I have to hide from what I did.
At least before I could see my friends. I’ve no clue how long I’ll have to wait before it’s safe to see them again.
I close my eyes and sigh.Will I ever get my life back?
I set the knife down and take a bite of toast, barely tasting it. Food has become functional rather than pleasurable, something I force myself to consume to keep moving forward.Keep breathing. Keep eating. Keep existing.The simplest acts require conscious effort now.
Powder winds between my ankles, her white fur catching on the black leggings I’ve been wearing since yesterday. I reachdown to stroke her, grateful for the warm, living connection. She purrs deeply, arching into my touch.
“At least you’re easy to please,” I mutter.
My voice sounds strange in the cabin’s quiet—too loud, too real. I’ve barely speak when Micah’s gone, afraid that breaking the silent solitude might somehow break me too. Instead, I’ve existed in a gray space between terror and numbness, moving through each hour like a ghost haunting its own life.
I rise from the small wooden table, carrying my half-eaten breakfast to the sink. I’ve only been here a few days but the cabin’s interior has become intimately familiar—every creaking floorboard, every knot in the wooden walls, every book on the shelves. I’ve memorized the contents of each cupboard, organized and reorganized the modest kitchen supplies, even counted the stones that make up the massive fireplace dominating one wall.
My gaze drifts to the king-sized bed with its patchwork quilt, still rumpled from my restless night. Sleep comes in fractured intervals, interrupted by dreams where the knife enters Lucas’s chest again and again. Sometimes I wake feeling vindicated. Other times, monstrous.
You did what you had to do.The mantra worn smooth from repetition.
The rational part of my brain knows this is true. Lucas’s rage had escalated beyond anything I’d experienced before. The knife was desperation, survival, instinct.
Still, the memory of his expression haunts me. That moment replays in endless loops, as though my mind is searching for an alternative ending that doesn’t exist.
I place my plate in the sink and move to the oversized jacuzzi tub that stands in the opposite corner. I might as well put it to use while Micah’s gone. I run hot water, adding the lavender bath salts I found in my bag the morning after Micah brought mehere. They’re my favorite, and I try not to think too long on the fact that he packed them for me.
The scent rises with the steam, momentarily displacing the cabin’s woody aroma.
While the tub fills, I wander to the bookshelf, fingers trailing across the spines. Micah’s collection reveals unexpected depth—classic literature alongside modern fiction, technical woodworking manuals beside philosophy texts. I select a dog-eared copy of Steinbeck’sEast of Eden, remembering how it had been assigned in my high school English class. I’d never finished it then, too busy with family obligations and the social pressures of adolescence.
I set the book on the edge of the tub as I undress, the steam building and filling the cabin’s main space.
I sink into the hot water, book balanced on the tub’s edge, and let the heat seep into my muscles. I’m still tense. I avoid looking at the evidence of Lucas’s final assault—bruises around my throat, fading fingerprints on my upper arms, a cut on my lip that’s healing into a thin pink line. Instead I focus on the pages before me.
The words blur together at first, my concentration fragmented by intrusive thoughts and rising anxiety. I persist, forcing myself to focus on the sentences, on the rhythm of the language. Gradually, Steinbeck’s world emerges, offering temporary escape.
But before long, my thoughts are taken over by Micah. His imposing form. His gentle touches. His knowing, yet caring eyes.
The contrast between father and son couldn’t be starker. Where Lucas was explosive rage and cutting words, Micah radiates quiet strength. Lucas demanded attention, always needing to be the center of my world. Micah gives me space to breathe, to exist without constant scrutiny.
Setting the book aside, I sink deeper into the bath, the hot water lapping at my collarbones. Lucas’s touches were always possessive, marking territory. But Micah … the way his calloused fingers had brushed my chin sent electricity through my body, despite the formality. And there was something in his eyes, a heat that made my skin tingle.
I close my eyes, remembering how his broad shoulders fill the doorway of the cabin, how his presence makes me feel simultaneously safe and something else. Something I shouldn’t be feeling about my father-in-law. But the thought persists. Would his beard scratch against my skin if he kissed me? Would those strong hands that craft beautiful things from wood be gentle or demanding?
My cheeks flush, and not from the steam. These thoughts are dangerous, inappropriate. The man just lost his son—by my hand, no less. Yet I can’t help wondering how it would feel to be held by someone who sees me as more than a possession. Someone who looks at me like I’m worth protecting, worth cherishing.
Uncomfortable with the direction of my thoughts, I shift in the tub and the water splashes at the edges. But my thoughts are relentless, painting pictures of what those arms might feel like wrapped around me, how his deep voice might sound whispering my name.
The images flood my mind unbidden—Micah’s large hands gripping my waist, his beard rough against my neck as he kisses down my throat. I imagine him lifting me easily with those strong arms, pressing me against the cabin wall. The fantasy is so vivid I can almost feel the heat of his skin against mine.
My breath catches as arousal pools low in my belly. I shouldn’t be thinking these things, shouldn’t be imagining my father-in-law this way. But my body responds anyway, nipples hardening in the cooling bathwater.
