Page 9 of King of Praise

By nightfall, my apartment shows no trace of violence. Lucas’s body and his car are gone, nowhere near my apartment. But we can’t stay here. Sandra will come looking eventually, and this will be her first stop.

I have a cabin in Hocking Hills. It’s remote, defensible, and off any official records. It’ll do for now, give us time to plan our next move.

Naomi still hasn’t moved from where I left her. She lets me guide her to the truck without resistance, Powder curled in her arms with an indignant meow at being displaced. The cat settles in Naomi’s lap as I drive, purring steadily.

I glance at Naomi’s profile in the darkness. Even in shock, she’s beautiful. Moonlight catches her freckles, turning her red hair to flames. The protective surge in my chest threatens to choke me.

I failed her. Let Lucas hurt her under my own roof. She never should have been in the position to defend herself like this.

Reaching across the seat, I take her cold hand in mine. She doesn’t respond, but her fingers curl around mine. It feels like a promise.

“I’ve got you,” I murmur, more to myself than her. “Whatever comes next, I’ve got you.”

The truck eats up dark miles as snow begins to fall in earnest, erasing all evidence of our passage into the night.

Like none of this ever happened.

Like we could outrun the consequences of this bloody day.

But I know better. There will be consequences. Sandra will never believe her precious son fell to drug dealers. At her constant insistence, the police will investigate. Questions we can’t answer will be asked.

Let’s just hope our connections—Detective Eve Landry, Zeke’s wife—can save us from too much interrogation.

I squeeze Naomi’s hand, and a slight tremor runs through her. I’ll handle whatever comes. I’ll protect her, even if it means becoming the monster everyone already thinks I am.

The cabin lies ahead, a dark shape barely visible against the darker trees. Our sanctuary, for now. Tomorrow will bring itsown challenges. But for tonight, I focus on her safety, on keeping her warm, on being whatever she needs me to be.

Even if what she needs is the father of the man she just killed.

Snow swirls in our headlights as we wind through the driveway, leaving civilization behind. Naomi’s head drops to my shoulder, whether from exhaustion or trust, I’m not sure. I press a kiss to her hair, brief and fierce.

“I’ve got you,” I whisper again. A vow. A promise. A declaration of war against anyone who tries to hurt her.

Let them come. I’ve spent my life being the man in the shadows, the cleaner, the fixer. Time to put those skills to better use.

The cabin emerges from the darkness, windows dark, waiting. Like us, it holds its secrets close. Tonight, it will hold one more.

I park close to the door, not wanting Naomi to walk far in the snow. She doesn’t protest as I lift her from the truck, Powder nuzzling close to my chest. As soon as I open the door, she jumps down and immediately claims her favorite spot by the fireplace while I settle Naomi on the bed.

Naomi curls into herself, small and vulnerable against the patchwork quilt. I build a fire quickly, muscle memory taking over as my mind races through contingencies, plans, and backup plans.

I settle into my armchair, positioned to watch both Naomi and the door. Outside, snow continues to fall.

I watch Naomi’s breathing evening out as exhaustion finally claims her. Even in sleep, her face holds echoes of terror.

My son is dead. The truth of it sits like lead on my shoulders. But when I look at the bruises on Naomi’s throat, the evidence of his cruelty, I feel only fierce pride that she fought back and survived.

What kind of father does that make me?

I don’t know and I don’t want to examine it too closely. Not tonight.

Tonight, I keep watch. Tomorrow we face whatever comes.

The fire crackles, casting dancing shadows on the walls. Powder curls against Naomi’s side, purring softly. Outside, the world turns white and silent.

The snow falls thicker, isolating us from the rest of the world. Perfect weather for making things disappear.

Like bodies. Like evidence. Like the last threads of propriety holding me back from what I really want.