Page 27 of King of Praise
Naomi
My heart skips a beat as Micah’s large frame fills the entrance. Our eyes meet across the room, and I can’t help the smile that spreads across my face. My stomach flutters at the intense look in his dark eyes. He seems tired but pleased to see me.
“Hi,” he says softly, his deep voice sending a shiver down my spine.
Before either of us can say more, Powder darts forward, weaving between his legs and meowing insistently for attention. A rare smile softens Micah’s features as he bends down to scoop up the white ragdoll cat. My breath catches at the surprising gentleness in his movements. His hands that I’m sure he’s used in ways that would make grown men shriek in fear cradles the cat with such care.
“Hello, beautiful girl,” he mutters, scratching under her chin as she purrs contentedly. “Did you miss me?”
The sight of this intimidating man cooing at his cat does funny things to my insides. It’s oddly endearing and more than a little attractive. There’s something incredibly appealing about the contrast between his tough exterior and these glimpses of tenderness.
I catch myself staring and quickly look away, busying myself with straightening some books on the table beside the bed. But my eyes are drawn back to him as he continues lavishing attention on an ecstatic Powder. The past week has fallen into a routine of sorts. Micah arriving in the evenings with supplies and updates before departing again before dawn. Each time he walks through that door, I feel this same mix of relief and anticipation.
Tonight though, exhaustion is evident in every line of his body. His movements are slower than usual as he finally sets Powder down, shrugging off his leather jacket with a barely suppressed wince. He runs a hand through his gray-streaked dark hair, his shoulders tense.
Without thinking, I step forward to take his jacket, hanging it carefully by the door. “Rough day?” I ask softly.
He gives a noncommittal grunt that I’m learning means “yes,” but he doesn’t want to elaborate. Rather than press, I gently guide him toward the small kitchen table. I’ve left a plate of food warming in the oven. I’d already eaten earlier, too hungry to wait, but made sure to save him a portion.
It’s only as I’m setting the plate in front of him that the ease of the gesture hits me. My hands flutter nervously as I step back, suddenly uncertain of my place here.
What are we to each other really? Not quite family anymore, considering what I did to his son. Not quite friends either. We’re bound together by tragedy and necessity, by the violent act that ended my marriage to his son.
Yet something else has begun to grow between us in this isolated cabin—a tentative trust perhaps. Or maybe just the natural intimacy that comes from sharing space and secrets.
“Thank you,” Micah says quietly, his dark eyes holding mine for a moment before he turns his attention to the food.
I hover for a moment, uncertain what to do next, then settle into the chair across from him. His large frame makes the wooden chair look almost child-sized, but he eats with careful appreciation. Between bites, he tells me about the coalition meeting with the other crime families, clearly editing the details to avoid making me an accessory but providing enough information to reassure me things are going as planned and he’s safe.
“Any word on the investigation?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady despite the fear that question always triggers.
He shakes his head. “Nothing new. You’re not on their radar. At least no one has asked me about you.” His tone carries a certainty that helps ease the knot of anxiety in my chest.
When he finishes eating, I start to rise to clear the plates, but he waves me back. “I’ve got it,” he insists, despite his obvious fatigue.
I find myself watching his broad shoulders as he works at the sink, the gentleness of his hands on the delicate glassware at odds with their obvious strength.
You shouldn’t be noticing these things, I scold myself.He’s the father of the man you killed.But the reminders feel hollow against the reality of who Micah has proven to be. He’s nothing like the cold, unfeeling monster Lucas described in his bitter tirades.
Micah dries his hands on a dish towel and rolls his broad shoulders, clearly trying to work out some of the tension.
“Need a shower,” he says gruffly, already pulling his black T-shirt over his head.
My breath catches at the sight of his bare chest—broad and muscled, dusted with dark hair trailing down his stomach. Scars mark his skin, telling stories of a violent past. I should look away. But I can’t tear my eyes from him as he disappears behindthe thin curtain he added since our arrival that now separates the jacuzzi tub area from the rest of the cabin.
Bathing and changing clothes are the hardest part about sharing this small space with him. At least I’m alone during the day for these activities, but he’s not.
The sound of running water fills the space. Steam rises above the curtain, and Micah’s silhouette is clearly outlined—massive shoulders, the curve of his spine, powerful thighs. My mouth goes dry as he tips his head back under the spray, running his hands through his hair.
I’m transfixed, eyes glued to the outline of his body.
Heat pools low in my belly as I imagine joining him, pressing myself against his wet skin, feeling those large hands on my body. The fantasy is so vivid I can almost feel the warm water cascading over us both, his beard rough against my neck as he—
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to banish the inappropriate thoughts. This is wrong on so many levels. Any attraction between us would be twisted, born of trauma and forced proximity.
But when I open my eyes again, they’re drawn inexorably back to his shadow moving behind the curtain. Water sluices down his body as he washes, and my fingers itch with the desire to trace those same paths. I imagine how small I would feel next to him, how easily his large frame could cage me against the shower wall.
My face burns with shame even as arousal throbs between my thighs. What kind of person am I to want the father of the man I killed? To fantasize about him while his son’s body isn’t even in the ground?
