King of Praise (Club Velvet Petal #2)

1. Blood on Her Hands

Blood on Her Hands

Naomi

B lood has a very distinct and nauseating smell.

I never thought about that before. Never noticed until now.

How the coppery scent fills every corner of a room.

How it clings to your nostrils until you can taste it on the back of your tongue.

How it becomes the only thing you can focus on when the pool at your feet grows larger and larger.

Blood seeps through my floral dress, staining the delicate fabric a deep crimson. My hands tremble as I stare at them, coated in thick red that’s already beginning to dry and crack around my fingernails.

I can’t look at him. I won’t look at him.

But my eyes betray me, drawn inexorably to Lucas’s still form sprawled across Micah’s floor. The knife handle protrudes from his chest at an awkward angle, blood spilling from the wound. His eyes stare vacantly upward, lips parted in eternal surprise.

I killed him. Oh God, I killed him.

The thought loops endlessly, each repetition sending fresh waves of horror coursing through my body. My breath comes in shallow gasps that are too loud in the oppressive silence of the apartment. I pull my knees tighter to my chest, trying to make myself smaller, to disappear entirely.

A soft padding of feet draws my attention.

Powder, Micah’s mostly white ragdoll cat, emerges from wherever she’d hidden during the chaos.

She moves cautiously around the edges of the room, her blue eyes fixed warily on Lucas’s body.

When she reaches me, she bumps her head against my arm, demanding attention.

The normalcy of her gesture breaks something inside me.

A laugh bubbles up—high-pitched and hysterical.

I clap my bloodied hands over my mouth to stifle it, leaving crimson smears across my lips and chin.

I tug at the collar of my dress and frantically scrub it across my mouth to wipe off the blood.

For all I know, I’m smearing it worse, but that doesn’t stop me from trying.

What do I do now?

My gaze darts around the apartment, taking in details I’d been too shocked to process before.

The splintered door frame where Lucas had forced his way in.

The overturned chair from our struggle. The cheerful yellow bowl of cookie batter still sitting on the counter, a wooden spoon handle protruding from it like some grotesque echo of the knife in Lucas’s chest.

I’d been baking cookies. Just minutes ago—or was it hours? Time feels fluid, disconnected. I’d been humming to myself, measuring vanilla extract with careful precision when the knocking started. Such an ordinary afternoon transformed into this nightmare with terrifying speed.

Powder settles next to me, her warm body pressing against my leg. Her soft purr fills the silence, somehow making everything feel simultaneously more real and more surreal.

This can’t be happening.

But the evidence is everywhere—in the cooling body before me, in the blood drying on my skin, in the metallic tang that coats my tongue with every shuddering breath.

My fingers find their way to my throat where Lucas’s hands had wrapped around it, squeezing until black spots danced in my vision.

The skin there feels tender, and I know without looking that bruises are already forming.

More bruises to add to the collection he’s left on my body over the years.

Except these will be the last ones. He’ll never hurt me again.

The thought should bring relief, but all I feel is numb horror. I squeeze my eyes shut. The image of Lucas’s face is burned into my mind forever. From the moment of impact to the shock in his eyes as the blade slid home, and the way his expression went slack as he fell. I’ll never forget it.

I never wanted to hurt anyone. Even after everything he’d done to me, I just wanted to get away, to be safe. But when he broke down the door, when he punched me, when his hands closed around my throat …

Instinct took over. My body chose survival when my mind froze in terror.

I had no choice . He would have killed me.

But that doesn’t stop the guilt from crushing my chest, making each breath a struggle.

I open my eyes, forcing myself to look at him again.

In death, his face has softened, lost the hard edges of rage that had twisted his features in those final moments.

He looks younger somehow, almost like the boy I’d fallen in love with years ago—before the charming mask cracked to reveal the monster beneath.

A sob catches in my throat as memories flash unbidden through my mind.

Lucas bringing me flowers on our first date, his smile bright and genuine.

Lucas down on one knee, promising to love me forever.

Lucas screaming I was worthless, his fist connecting with my ribs.

Lucas’s hands around my throat, his eyes wild with murderous intent.

The sound of a car door slamming outside makes me flinch.

Powder startles at my sudden movement, leaping away with an indignant meow.

My heart pounds against my ribs as footsteps echo in the hallway outside, but they pass by without pausing.

Still, the brief moment of panic forces me to confront reality.

I can’t sit here forever, covered in blood, waiting to be discovered.

I need to do something. Call someone. But who? The police? They’ll arrest me. Even though it was self-defense, even though I had no choice. Will they believe me? His mother, Sandra, has connections everywhere. She’ll make sure they paint me as a murderous wife who plotted this all along.

Micah . I should call Micah.

But what will he think when he sees his son’s blood staining his floor? How can I face him after what I’ve done? He provided me with a safe place to stay when I had nowhere else to go. I’ve repaid his kindness by killing his only child.

My breathing speeds up again, edging toward hyperventilation.

Black spots dance at the edges of my vision—similar to but different from the ones Lucas’s strangling grip had caused.

I force myself to take slower breaths, pressing my palms flat against the cool floor beside me.

The tacky feel of drying blood making my skin stick to the tile nearly sends me spiraling again.

Powder returns, either forgiving my earlier transgression or simply bored with exploring elsewhere.

She settles into my lap this time, unbothered by the blood matting her pristine fur.

Her weight is grounding, her purrs steady and soothing.

I focus on the sensation of her fur beneath my fingers, trying to center myself.

Think, Naomi. Think.

The apartment falls silent again except for Powder’s purring and my gradually steadying breaths.

Somewhere in the distance, a siren wails.

The sound makes my muscles lock up, every nerve screaming at me to run.

But where would I go? What would I do? I have plenty of money of my own from my trust—the only reason Lucas married me—but no family I can turn to.

They’d made it clear whose side they were on when I first fled from Lucas four months ago.

My father is no better than Lucas. He’s abused my mother for years and beat me when he got bored with her. To them, Lucas’s treatment and behavior is normal. To me, it was hell on earth.

I could disappear if I wanted. Move to another country. But where? And how would I escape Columbus undetected?

That’s why I accepted the temporary sanctuary Micah offered.

But that offer was made to his son’s wife , not to his son’s killer .

What will he do to me now? The thought threatens to send me spiraling deeper into despair, but I dig my fingers into Powder’s fur, anchoring myself in the present moment.

The sun slants through the windows, painting golden rectangles on the floor that creep closer to Lucas’s body. Time is passing, precious minutes slipping away while I sit paralyzed by indecision and shock. Soon the light will touch him, illuminating the horror I’ve created in unforgiving detail.

My eyes track the moving sunlight, and something catches my attention. It’s a glint of metal near Lucas’s outstretched hand. My grandmother’s locket that was around my neck. The chain is broken, probably snapped during our struggle.

The sight of the locket stirs something in me. Anger . Even in his final moments, he’d been trying to possess me, to dominate me. He’d broken into Micah’s apartment with the clear intent to either force me back into his control or ensure no one else could have me.

You did what you had to do , that small voice whispers again, stronger now. You survived.

My hand drifts to my throat again, feeling the tender flesh where his fingers had dug in.

If I hadn’t grabbed that knife, I’d be the one lying lifeless on the floor right now.

There’s no doubt in my mind about that. I’d seen it in his eyes—that familiar rage amplified to murderous intensity. He’d meant to kill me.

The realization doesn’t erase my guilt or horror of what I’ve done, but it helps me breathe a little easier. Helps me think a little clearer.

Powder shifts in my lap, stretching lazily before settling back down. Her casual disregard for the gravity of the situation is almost humorous. She doesn’t care that her peaceful home has become a crime scene, that her owner’s son lies dead mere feet away, that her current pillow is a murderer.

Self-defense , I remind myself firmly. Not murder. Self-defense.

The distinction feels important, even if it doesn’t change the fact that Lucas is dead by my hand.

The sun creeps closer to his body, and I find myself holding my breath, as if expecting him to suddenly move, to leap up and resume his attack.

But he remains still, blood no longer pumping from around the knife’s handle, his eyes glassy as they stare at nothing.