Page 45 of King of Praise
“Sandra talked to the police,” I say finally, my voice rough despite my attempt to keep it neutral.
Naomi’s fingers tighten around her mug, but her expression remains composed. Even now, her self-control impresses me.Lucas did his best to break her spirit, yet here she sits, spine straight, chin lifted, ready to face whatever comes.
“What did she tell them?” Her voice is steady, betraying none of the anxiety I know she must feel.
“Exactly what you’d expect.” I can’t quite keep the bitterness from my tone. “She’s convinced you’re responsible for Lucas’s death,” I continue, studying Naomi carefully. “She’s pushing the police to investigate you more thoroughly.”
A slight tremor passes through Naomi’s hands, sending ripples through her coffee, but her voice remains level. “What exactly does she suspect?”
“Everything and nothing.” I lean back, running a hand through my hair in frustration. “She doesn’t have evidence, just her own certainty that you must somehow be involved. That you’re not the victim you appear to be.”
Sandra’s insinuations about the “inappropriateness” of Naomi staying with me still burn. As if I would ever take advantage of my son’s widow. As if Naomi isn’t worth protecting simply because she deserves safety.
“And she told the police that?” Naomi asks, her practical nature asserting itself even now.
I nod grimly. “She’s been making enough noise that Detective Archer brought me in for questioning yesterday.”
That gets her attention. Her eyes widen, genuine concern crossing her features. “The detective interviewed you?”
“Officially, yes.” I set my mug down, needing my hands free for emphasis.
“She wants to interview you too,” I say, keeping my tone calm so as not to worry Naomi. “But I think I’ve held her off for now. As long as nothing concrete links you to his death, the investigation will follow the path I designed.”
“And if something does link me?” The question is barely a whisper.
I meet her gaze directly, wanting her to see my absolute conviction. “It won’t. There’s nothing to link you. I promise.”
The promise feels heavy on my tongue, weighted with implications. I’ve already crossed lines I never thought I would by helping to cover up my own son’s death. But looking at Naomi now—at the strength and vulnerability in her expression—I know I’d do it again without hesitation.
She takes a shaky breath, fingers tracing the rim of her mug. “Will Detective Archer charge me?”
“No.” The word comes out more forcefully than intended. I moderate my tone. “If any evidence was to come up, it’d be circumstantial at best. You’ll be safe.”
Naomi nods slowly, processing this information with remarkable composure. But I see the signs of strain she tries to hide—the slight tremor in her hands, the paleness beneath her freckles, the way she tugs her lower lip between her teeth. The same tells I’ve learned to read over weeks of shared space and careful observation.
“Everything will be okay.” She says it like a question, though she tries to make it a statement.
I could lie. Could offer the empty reassurance she clearly wants. But I remember my promise to myself—never to lie to her, never to be another man who manipulates her with false comfort.
“I don’t know,” I admit quietly. “I can’t guarantee what the future holds. Can’t promise complete safety or freedom from consequences. But whatever comes, we’ll face it together.”
The “we” slips out unintentionally again yet feels right. Necessary. Even if it complicates everything, even if it blurs lines that should remain sharp and clear.
Naomi’s eyes lift to mine, something soft and dangerous flickering in their depths. “Together?”
The word is loaded with meaning neither of us is ready to fully acknowledge. In this moment, bathed in morning sunlight that turns her red hair to flame, she looks both young and aged with hard-earned wisdom. The contrast twists something in my chest.
“Together,” I confirm, my voice rougher than intended.
Her small smile—tentative but genuine—warms something long cold inside me. We sit in silence, drinking our cooling coffee while Powder jumps into Naomi’s lap. Outside, the crisp winter breeze rattles the window. For a moment, we could almost be any couple sharing a peaceful morning.
Except we’re not a couple. Can never be, should never be. She’s young enough to be my daughter, traumatized by years of abuse at the hand of my son. I’m her protector, her safe harbor in a storm. Nothing more.
I tell myself this even as I watch her scratch Powder’s ears, even as something this dangerous attraction unfurls in my chest. Even as I acknowledge that the lines between duty and desire have begun to blur in ways that terrify me.
The morning light catches the highlights in her red hair, the dusting of freckles across her nose, the gentle curve of her lips. She’s beautiful in a way that surpasses mere physical attraction—beautiful in her resilience, her quiet strength, her capacity for joy despite everything she’s endured.
Even as I force my gaze away, I know it’s already too late for me. The walls I’ve built around my heart have developed hairline fractures, and Naomi—with her gentle determination and unflinching honesty—has found every one of them.
