20. Whispers of Betrayal
Whispers of Betrayal
Micah
T he fire crackles softly, casting dancing shadows across the cabin walls as morning light filters through the windows.
Naomi sits between my legs, her back pressed against my chest, both of us wrapped in a thick blanket beside the fireplace.
The peaceful calm of the moment is surreal—her red curls tickling my neck, the warmth of her body melting into mine, Powder curled contentiously nearby.
Last night’s memories flood my mind, and I tighten my grip around her waist. The image of her kneeling in submission, offering herself with such trust and vulnerability, still takes my breath away. Even now, hours later, I struggle to process the depth of what transpired between us.
“Open up,” I say, bringing a piece of still-warm apple turnover to her lips. She’d been up before dawn baking. Her mouth parts obediently, accepting the morsel with a small sound of pleasure that shoots straight to my cock.
“So good.” She praises her own handiwork, tilting her head back to meet my gaze. “Though everything tastes better when you feed it to me.”
The simple admission creates a fierce ache in my chest. I press a kiss to her temple, inhaling the sweet scent of her shampoo mingled with traces of cinnamon and vanilla.
“You spoil me,” I tell her, reaching for coffee with my free hand. “I haven’t eaten this well in years.”
She laughs, the sound light and genuine in a way I rarely heard during her first weeks here. “You deserve to be spoiled. Besides, baking helps me think.”
“What were you thinking about this morning?” I ask.
She’s quiet for a moment, her fingers absently stroking my forearm where it rests across her stomach. “About last night. About us. About how different everything feels now.”
The vulnerability in her voice makes me pause. “Different good or different scary?”
“Both?” She shifts, pressing closer as if seeking reassurance. “Good because I’ve never felt so safe, so seen. Scary because I never thought I could want this kind of submission. But with you, it feels right. Natural.”
I set my coffee aside to wrap both arms around her, enraptured by the trust she places in me. “You’re incredible,” I murmur against her hair. “So brave, so strong. The way you offered yourself last night.”
“I meant every bit of it,” she says, turning in my embrace to face me. Her green eyes meet mine with quiet certainty. “I choose this—choose you. Maybe we shouldn’t, given everything, but I don’t care anymore.”
The declaration steals my breath. I cup her face in my hands, studying the constellation of freckles across her nose, the subtle curve of her lips, the absolute conviction in her gaze.
Everything about her captivates me—her resilience, her gentleness, the way she transforms our forced proximity into a home.
“My good girl,” I praise softly. Color floods her cheeks. “So perfect for me in every way.”
She practically purrs at my words, arching into my touch like a contented cat. The movement draws my attention to the marks I left on her neck last night. Pride and possessiveness flood through me.
Mine , something primitive inside me growls. All mine to protect, to pleasure, and to praise .
The buzz of my phone breaks through our peaceful bubble. I consider ignoring it, but years of ingrained caution win out. Keeping one arm around Naomi, I fish the device from the side table, checking the display with wariness.
My blood runs cold at the name illuminated on the screen. Sandra.
Naomi tenses in my arms, also catching sight of the caller ID. Her breath hitches. I shouldn’t answer. Nothing good can come from engaging with Sandra’s grief-fueled accusations but I’ve ignored her last few calls.
“I should take this,” I say, already regretting the decision even as I make it. “Maybe I can talk some sense into her.”
Naomi nods, though her expression reveals doubt that mirrors my own. She starts to move away, but I tighten my arm around her waist, keeping her close. Whatever vitriol Sandra spews, I want Naomi to feel my support.
Taking a deep breath, I accept the call. “Sandra.”
“Finally decided to answer your phone?” Her voice drips with venom. “I was beginning to think you were avoiding me.”
“I’ve been busy.” The neutrality in my tone comes from years of practice dealing with her dramatic finger-pointing. “What do you want?”
“Want?” She laughs, the sound sharp and bitter. “I want justice for my son. I want the police to do their jobs instead of accepting this ridiculous drug dealer story. I want to know why you’re protecting that murdering bitch.”
Anger flares hot in my chest, but I force it down. Letting Sandra provoke me will only make things worse. “The police investigation was thorough. The evidence supports their conclusions. Lucas made choices that—”
“Don’t you dare,” she hisses. “Don’t you dare suggest he was involved with drugs. He would never—”
“You don’t know everything about him,” I interrupt, keeping my voice level despite the growing urge to shout. “You never did.”
“Oh, but you did?” Scorn colors her words. “The father who abandoned him? Who chose his precious job over his own son?”
The old accusations still sting, though I’ve long since accepted that Sandra’s version of events bears little resemblance to reality. She had been the one to poison Lucas against me, to encourage his worst impulses while dismissing any attempt at discipline.
“This conversation isn’t productive,” I say, acutely aware of Naomi tensing in my arms. “The police are close to closing the case. Let it go, Sandra.”
“Let it go?” She laughs and it holds an edge of hysteria. “Like you’ve let go of Naomi? Don’t insult my intelligence, Micah. I know she was staying with you when Lucas disappeared. I know you’re hiding her somewhere.”
A chill washes over me, pushing back the heat from the fireplace and igniting goosebumps on my arms. She’s fishing, trying to provoke a reaction that will confirm her suspicions, but her words still worry me.
“I have no idea where Naomi is,” I lie, years of practice making the words sound natural. “Why would I?”
“Because you’ve always had a soft spot for pretty young things,” she sneers. “I saw how you looked at her, even when she was still with Lucas. Does it make you feel young again, playing protector to his widow?”
The insinuation makes bile rise in my throat. “You’re delusional.”
“Am I? Then why hasn’t anyone seen her in weeks? Why won’t the police question her? What are you hiding?”
“Nothing to hide,” I maintain, though my heart pounds harder with each word she speaks. “The police have no reason to question Naomi because all evidence points to—”
“Drug dealers.” She cuts in. “Yes, so you keep saying. Well, if you’re so convinced of that, you won’t mind if I hire my own investigators. I have friends too, you know. People who can find things the police might have overlooked.”
The threat is unmistakable. Naomi’s fingers dig into my arm. I want to reassure her, but any comfort I offer now might be overheard and misconstrued.
“Do what you want,” I say instead, injecting boredom into my tone. “You’re wasting your time and money, but that’s your choice.”
“We’ll see.” The satisfaction in her voice sets off warning bells. She thinks she has leverage, some card yet to play. “One way or another, I’ll find out what really happened to him. And when I do—”
The line goes dead before I can respond, leaving her threat hanging in the air. Silence fills the cabin, broken only by the soft crackle of the dying fire and Powder’s quiet purring.
Naomi turns in my arms, her face pale but composed. “She knows something.”
“She suspects,” I correct, though uncertainty gnaws at my gut. “But she has no proof. If she did, she wouldn’t be making threats. She’d have gone straight to the police.”
“What if she finds something? What if her private investigators discover where I am?” Real fear haunts her voice now. “Micah, I can’t go to prison. I can’t—”
“Hey.” I cup her face in my hands, forcing her to meet my gaze. “That’s not going to happen. I won’t let it happen.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because I’ve got you.” I press a soft kiss to her lips. “But I need to go into the city. Deal with this before Sandra’s meddling creates problems we can’t control.”
Naomi nods, though her expression remains troubled. “When?”
“Now.” I hate leaving her alone, especially after last night, but Sandra’s threats cannot go uninvestigated. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. Lock up after me, don’t answer the door for anyone.”
“I know the drill.” She attempts a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Be careful?”
I kiss her thoroughly, pouring all my unspoken reassurance into the contact. When we separate, both breathless, I rest my forehead against hers for a moment. “Always am, lovely. Always am.”
Rising reluctantly from our nest of blankets, I move quickly to prepare for the drive into Columbus.
After tossing on some clothes, I gather the things I need—phone, wallet, keys.
It feels like another step away from the peace we’ve found in this isolated cabin.
Reality intrudes with cruel persistence, reminding us that our sanctuary remains temporary, our situation precarious.
At the door, I turn back for one final look. Naomi stands wrapped in the blanket we shared, her red curls wild around her shoulders, Powder winding figure-eights around her ankles.
The scene burns into my memory—something precious to protect, something worth any risk.
“I’ll be back soon,” I promise, though we both know circumstances might prove me a liar. “Try not to worry.”
Her smile this time holds more genuine warmth, though concern still shadows her eyes. “Just come back to me.”
Her words follow me out into the cold morning air, echoing in my mind as I start the truck and point it toward Columbus.
Come back to me .
Such a small request carrying such enormous implications.