Page 60 of King of Praise

Even after these weeks together, the sight of her—vulnerable, trusting, beautiful in the sunlight—affects me more than it should.

Our bed. The thought comes unbidden, dangerous in its comfort. This arrangement has evolved into something neither of us anticipated or sought—something that feels increasingly permanent despite the impossibility of that outcome.

The isolation that made this location perfect for hiding her now feels like borrowed time. Soon, the investigation into Lucas’s death will conclude. Sandra’s accusations will fade. Naomi will be free to rebuild her life however she chooses.

Without me.

The thought sits heavy in my gut. She deserves that freedom—deserves a chance at a normal life untainted by violence and criminal enterprises. A life I can’t provide, no matter how much I might wish otherwise.

My phone vibrates on the counter, interrupting these reflections. Zeke’s name appears on the screen, the early hour indicating urgency rather than casual contact. Moving quietly to avoid disturbing Naomi’s rest, I step onto the porch, closing the door behind me.

The winter air bites through my thin shirt, but I welcome it. It makes me feel something other than this ache in my heart. “Talk to me.”

“We’ve got trouble.” Zeke’s voice carries the weight of command even through the phone. “Francesca is making moves.”

My jaw tightens. “What kind of moves?”

“The kind that require immediate attention. Our coalition is showing signs of strain.” A pause heavy with implication. “How quickly can you get here?”

I glance through the window at Naomi’s sleeping form. “Give me an hour. Two tops.”

“Make it faster if you can. My office.”

The call ends with typical abruptness. Zeke never wastes words, especially when the situation demands action rather than discussion. Whatever’s happening in Columbus, it’s serious enough to pull me from my temporary exile.

When I reenter the cabin, Naomi has awakened. She sits up in bed, sheet crumpled around her waist, her breasts on fulldisplay.Jesus Christ. She looks like a fucking offering waiting to be fucked.

The sight of her—sleep-tousled and sexy—nearly derails my resolve to leave.

“Everything okay?” Her voice carries traces of sleep, but her eyes are alert, studying my face with the perceptiveness I’ve come to expect from her.

“Business in the city.” I move to the dresser, selecting clothes with practiced efficiency. “Nothing serious.”

“Liar.” The word holds no accusation, only quiet certainty. “Your jaw gets tight when you’re worried.”

I pause in the act of pulling off my shirt, caught off guard. Few people read me so accurately, and none have ever mentioned it so casually. The intimacy of her knowledge—the way she’s learned my tells—creates an unfamiliar warmth in my chest.

“It’s just coalition business.” I attempt reassurance while maintaining honesty. “Some of our associates need reminding about the chain of command.”

Her brow furrows. “Is this related to the cut on your arm?”

“Nothing for you to worry about.”

“Too late.” She watches as I move toward the shower. “I already worry.”

Of course she worries. She’s seen the violence of our world firsthand. The knife wound on my arm, barely healed from the last attack, provides tangible evidence of those dangers.

I strip, no longer bothering to hide behind the shower curtain. As I step under the spray, I hear her approach the tub. She leans against the wall, sheet wrapped around her with her arms crossed to hold it in place, concern evident in her posture.

“Will you be careful?” The question comes softly, nearly lost beneath the sound of running water.

I turn to face her, noting the way her gaze tracks over my body. “I’m always careful.”

“That’s not what your scars suggests.” Her eyes linger on the healing knife wound. “Promise me you’ll come back.”

Something in her voice—vulnerability masked by attempted lightness—hits me hard. Before her, no one waited for my safe return. No one would have mourned if I failed to come back. The realization that she genuinely cares about my wellbeing, not just the protection I provide, creates a warmth in my chest.

Shutting off the water, I step out and wrap a towel around my waist. Water drips from my hair, trailing down my chest as I move toward her. Her eyes follow the movement, pupils dilating despite her obvious worry.