3. Sanctuary in the Woods #2
The sound of Micah stirring pulls me from my dark thoughts.
His eyes open, immediately finding mine.
For several heartbeats, we simply look at each other, neither moving nor speaking.
There’s something in his gaze I can’t quite read.
Relief maybe? Worry? Or something deeper that makes my pulse quicken?
“Thank you,” I whisper finally, my voice rough. “For everything.”
He pushes to his feet in one fluid motion, approaching the bed with careful steps.
My breath catches as he reaches out, gently tilting my chin up with calloused fingers.
The touch sends an unexpected shiver through me.
His eyes darken as he examines the bruises on my throat, his jaw tightening.
He gives a short nod, then turns and strides outside without a word.
I let out a shaky breath, uncertain what just passed between us. His touch lingers on my skin, stirring feelings I know I shouldn’t be having. Not toward him.
Through the window, I watch him move purposefully around the cabin’s exterior, checking windows and doors. Testing locks. Securing our sanctuary. His earlier gentleness replaced by the efficient movements of a man accustomed to anticipating threats.
Beneath the fear and uncertainty clouding my thoughts, a small, shameful realization emerges. For the first time in years, no one is watching my every move, judging my choices, waiting for me to make a mistake. For the first time in years, I might truly be safe.
The irony of finding safety with Micah, of all people, is not lost on me. My father-in-law.
I push back the covers, wincing at the protest of my bruised muscles. My duffle bag sits on a chair nearby. Micah must have packed it before we fled his apartment. The thought of him selecting clothes for me, handling such intimate items, brings heat to my cheeks.
Inside, I find several of my favorite dresses folded carefully, along with warm leggings and sweaters. Practical choices for hiding in a remote cabin, but also items I feel most comfortable in.
He noticed . All those weeks living in his apartment, those brief exchanges in the hallway or kitchen, and he noticed what made me feel comfortable.
In the corner next to a large vanity sits a jacuzzi tub that makes me ache for a hot soak. But there’s no privacy for that since this is a one room cabin. I’ll have to wait until Micah leaves before I can indulge, assuming he leaves me alone here at some point.
Instead, I head to the small door next to it where I find a toilet and sink with a mirror on the wall. I need to assess the damage anyway—to see what Lucas’s final act of violence has written on my skin.
The mirror above the sink pulls no punches.
Dark bruises circle my throat like a macabre necklace, clear impressions of fingers that make my stomach turn.
A cut on my lip has scabbed over, joining the collection of healing marks from previous encounters.
My skin looks pale, almost translucent, making my freckles stand out like constellations.
I trace the edge of a bruise with trembling fingers.
This is the last time. The very last time he’ll ever lay hands on me.
The thought should bring relief but instead, tears burn behind my eyes. I blink them back fiercely. I will not cry for him. Will not waste any more tears on the man who spent years trying to break me.
The cabin’s main room stands empty when I emerge, but I hear Micah outside.
Through the window, I watch him splitting wood with smooth, powerful strokes.
The ax rises and falls in a hypnotic rhythm, his breath visible in the cold air.
He’s shed his jacket despite the temperature, and I’m mesmerized by the play of muscles beneath his Henley.
Stop staring . I scold myself. He’s your father-in-law. Was your father-in-law. What exactly is he to me now?
The question sends my thoughts spinning in uncomfortable directions.
I turn away from the window, needing a distraction.
The kitchen seems as good a place as any to start.
Cooking has always been my escape, my way of processing difficult emotions.
And after everything Micah has done for me, the least I can do is make him breakfast.
The kitchen is small but well-organized, every pot and utensil exactly where logic dictates it should be.
The refrigerator holds basic supplies—eggs, milk, cheese, and vegetables.
Enough to work with. I gather ingredients, letting muscle memory take over as I whisk eggs and grate cheese for omelets.
The familiar motions soothe my rattled nerves. This, at least, I know how to do. This small act of normalcy in the midst of chaos. The sound of chopping wood continues outside, a steady percussion accompanying my cooking.
I’m sliding the first omelet onto a plate when the door opens, bringing a rush of cold air. Micah fills the doorway, cheeks flushed from exertion, hair damp with sweat. His eyes widen at the sight of me at his stove.
“You didn’t have to cook,” he says, voice gruff.
“I wanted to.” I gesture to the plate. “Sit. Eat while it’s hot.”
He hesitates, then moves to wash his hands at the sink. I try not to notice how his presence seems to shrink the already small kitchen, how aware I am of his every movement. When he finally sits at the small table, I slide the plate in front of him along with a mug of coffee.
“Thank you.” He looks up at me, something soft in his expression. “How are you feeling?”
The question catches me off guard. How am I feeling? Numb. Terrified. Guilty. Relieved. Lost. Too many emotions to name, all tangled together in my chest.
“I don’t know,” I answer honestly.
He nods as if this makes perfect sense. “Eat something. Then we need to talk about what happens next.”
The words send a chill down my spine, but I manage to make my own omelet and join him at the table. We eat in comfortable silence, broken only by Powder’s hopeful meowing as she winds between our legs.
“She likes you,” Micah observes, sneaking the cat a bit of egg.
“She’s been very sweet.” I reach down to scratch under her chin. “Thank you for bringing her. It helps, having her here.”
His eyes soften. “Good. You need all the comfort you can get right now.”
The genuine care in his voice makes my throat tight. I focus on my plate, pushing the eggs around with my fork. “What … what happens now?”
Micah sets down his coffee cup with deliberate care. “Now we wait. Let things settle in Columbus. Give the evidence time to point where we want it to point.”
“The police—”
“Will investigate a drug deal gone bad.” His voice turns hard. “Lucas had enemies. People who wanted him dead. That’s the story that will stick.”
I look up sharply. “How can you be so sure?”
“Because I know people. People who owe me favors. And because I have resources you don’t know about.” He meets my gaze. “Trust me, Naomi. I won’t let anything happen to you.”
The fierce protectiveness in his tone sends warmth spreading through my chest.
“Why?” The question slips out before I can stop it. “Why are you helping me? After what I did—”
“Stop.” He reaches across the table, covering my hand with his. Electricity dances up my arm. “You defended yourself against a man who was trying to kill you. My son or not, he made his choice. And I…” he swallows hard, “I should have stopped him long ago. Should have seen what he was becoming.”
“It wasn’t your fault.” The words come automatically, but I mean them. “Sandra—”
“Sandra.” He spits the name like a curse. “She’ll be a problem. She’ll never believe Lucas died at the hands of drug dealers. She’ll push for an investigation, call in favors of her own.”
Fear washes over me like a tidal wave. “What do we do?”
“We stay here. Stay quiet. I have friends watching her, monitoring the situation. When it’s safe, we’ll figure out the next steps.” His thumb strokes absently across my knuckles. “For now, just focus on healing.”
The gentle touch becomes too much. I pull my hand away, wrapping my arms around myself. “I killed him,” I whisper. “Your son. I killed your son.”
“Look at me.” His voice firm. I raise my eyes reluctantly to meet his blazing gaze. “The man you killed stopped being my son long ago. Sandra made sure of that. The boy I knew—the boy I loved—died years before you put that knife in his chest.”
Tears spill down my cheeks despite my best efforts to hold them back. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t.” He stands abruptly, coming around the table to kneel beside my chair. “Don’t apologize for surviving. Never apologize for that.”
His large hands cup my face, thumbs brushing away tears. The touch is gentle, at odds with his fierce expression. I should pull away. Should maintain distance. But I find myself leaning into his warmth instead, starved for comfort after living in fear so long.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, and the words undo me completely.
I collapse forward into his chest, shoulders shaking with silent sobs. His arms come around me immediately, strong and steady, one hand stroking my hair while the other supports my back. He makes quiet shushing sounds, rocking me as I fall apart.
I cry for the girl I used to be, before Lucas’s abuse stripped away what little confidence I had. I cry for the dreams I’d finally started rebuilding, now shattered by one desperate act of violence. And I cry for the tangled mess of guilt and relief warring in my chest.
Through it all, Micah holds me. His presence anchors me as the storm of emotions pass, leaving me drained but somehow lighter.
When my tears finally slow, I become acutely aware of our position—half in his lap on the kitchen floor, his arms still wrapped around me, my face pressed to his chest. I should move and put distance between us.
But his warmth feels too good, too safe to leave just yet.
“Better?” he asks softly, still stroking my hair.
I nod against his shirt, not trusting my voice. His heart beats beneath my ear, its rhythm soothing.
“You’re stronger than you know,” he says. “You survived him. You’ll survive this too.”
“How can you be so sure?”
His arms tighten. “Because I see you, Naomi. The real you, not the scared woman Lucas tried to create. I see your strength, your resilience. You’re a survivor.”
The words sink into my chest like a balm, easing something that’s been tight and painful for so long. He sees me. Really sees me, beyond the bruises and fear. Something shifts between us in that moment, subtle but significant. A boundary crossed that we can’t uncross.
His phone rings, shattering the moment. We both freeze, his arms going rigid around me.
“I should get that,” he says.
I nod, reluctantly extracting myself from his embrace. He pushes to his feet and grabs his phone. He answers it before it stops ringing. “Give me a second,” he says into the receiver. Then he drops to the phone to his side and looks down at me.
He towers over me. All six feet four inches of strong man. He tips my chin up with a gentle finger, meeting my eyes with an intensity that steals my breath. “We’re not done talking about this. But right now, I need to take this call.”
He heads out the door and it closes behind him with a soft click, leaving me alone with my racing thoughts and the remnants of his touch still burning on my skin. Through the door, his voice murmurs too low to make out words.
My heart pounds in my chest as I wait, wondering what new complications this call might bring. Wondering if this sanctuary we’ve found will last beyond this moment.
Wondering why my skin still tingles where Micah touched me, and what that might mean for both of us.