5. Michael
CHAPTER FIVE
MICHAEL
I turned one more time in the bed and sighed, realizing sleep would never come.
It wasn't the bed's fault. It was too big and too...comfortable. I'd been sleeping on a cold concrete floor for five years.
The contrast was jarring, and despite the soft sheets and plush mattress, I couldn't relax.
Thoughts raced through my mind. First of all, I thought of my dad. Doyle had handed me his cellphone during the ride, asking me if I wanted to call anyone.
I’d been too overwhelmed by everything that had happened, so I only shook my head.
Doyle was incredibly patient and told me I could ask whenever I was ready. Was I guilty for not contacting my dad immediately after my rescue?
Maybe just a little bit, but I figured one more day couldn't hurt, especially if he'd probably written me off as dead.
I rolled over again, staring at the ceiling. My thoughts shifted to the events of the day, to the chaos of the battle, to Doyle's reassuring presence.
His touch, his voice—it had all felt so real. But what if it wasn't?
What if this was all a dream, and I'd wake up back in my cage? The fear gnawed at me, making it impossible to find any semblance of peace.
I tried counting sheep. I tried deep breathing. I even tried replaying Doyle's soothing words in my mind.
Nothing worked. Sleep remained elusive, and my anxiety grew with each passing minute.
Part of me was scared that if I closed my eyes, I'd wake up to the cold, harsh reality of my prison.
Finally, I pushed the sheets away and sat up. The room was too quiet, too still.
Maybe a glass of milk would help. I remembered reading somewhere that it was supposed to help with sleep.
Besides, I needed to move, to do something to break the cycle of restless thoughts.
I left the room, quietly padding down the hallway. The house was dimly lit, shadows stretching across the walls.
I navigated my way to the kitchen, trying to make as little noise as possible. The last thing I wanted was to wake anyone up.
In the kitchen, I found a glass and the fridge. The soft hum of the refrigerator was oddly comforting as I poured myself a glass of milk.
I took a sip, the cold liquid soothing my dry throat.
The silence of the house felt heavy, almost oppressive, but the milk was grounding, reminding me that this was real.
I was free. I was safe. But the milk didn't magically chase away my fears.
I leaned against the counter, staring into the half-empty glass, my mind still racing.
The enormity of everything I'd been through, and everything that lay ahead, felt overwhelming.
And yet, amidst the fear and uncertainty, there was a glimmer of hope—a fragile, precious thing that Doyle had ignited within me.
I finished the milk, rinsed the glass, and put it away. As I stood there in the quiet kitchen, I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself.
I wasn't sure what the future held, but I knew one thing: I was no longer a prisoner and I had…Doyle. And that was a start.
After washing the glass, I headed back upstairs. As I reached the floor where my room was, I paused by the doorway and glanced at Doyle's room.
I wondered if he was still awake. And if he was, would he mind my company?
The thought of seeing him, of talking to him, was comforting. Just then, I heard a giggle.
Turning, I saw a little girl peering at me from the stairwell. She had bright eyes and an impish smile that reminded me of Doyle’s warmth.
"Hey there. What's your name?" I asked, recalling Doyle mentioning that Zane had two kids.
"Ariel," she said, her voice full of curiosity.
"Ariel, there you are," came a grumpy voice from the stairwell.
Zane soon appeared, his expression stern. The lead alpha paused, taking in the scene with a scrutinizing, almost unfriendly look.
His protective stance made sense, but it still stung. He looked at me as if I had done or was about to do something wrong.
Trying to understand his perspective, I reminded myself that if a pack member brought a complete stranger back to his home, he’d be worried too.
So, I tried not to take offense.
"Who's he, Dad?" Ariel asked, looking up at Zane for an answer.
"I'm Michael," I whispered, feeling a bit self-conscious under Zane's gaze. To Zane, I said, "I couldn't sleep, so I poured myself a glass of milk in the kitchen. I hope that's okay."
"That's fine," Zane said shortly. "Come along, Ariel. Back to bed."
He gave me a curt nod before gently guiding his daughter back down the hallway.
As they disappeared around the corner, I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
The encounter left me feeling more like an intruder than ever, but I couldn't blame Zane for being protective of his family.
Turning back towards Doyle's room, I hesitated for a moment before walking up to his door.
I raised my hand to knock but stopped short, second-guessing myself. What if he was asleep?
What if he needed his rest after the day's events? But the thought of returning to my too-big, too-comfortable bed alone was unbearable.
Before I could make up my mind, the door creaked open. Doyle stood there, shirtless and looking as though he’d just woken up.
His hair was tousled, and his eyes were bleary, but they softened when he saw me.
"Michael? Is everything okay?" he asked, concern lacing his voice.
"I couldn't sleep," I admitted, feeling a bit foolish. "I tried, but it’s too quiet. Too comfortable."
He chuckled softly and stepped aside, allowing me to enter.
"Comfortable, huh? That’s a new one,” Doyle said.
I smiled weakly, stepping into his room. The space felt warmer, more inviting than my room.
"Yeah, I guess I’m not used to it,” I admitted.
Doyle closed the door behind me and gestured to the bed.
"You can stay here, if you want. We can talk or just sit quietly. Whatever you need,” Doyle assured me.
I nodded, feeling a surge of relief.
"Thanks, Doyle. I... I didn't want to be alone."
"You’re not alone anymore," he said, his voice gentle but firm. "You never have to be alone again."
What exactly did Doyle mean by those words? I decided not to ask, because I didn’t want to ruin the moment.
I settled on the edge of the bed, feeling the tension slowly melt away.
Doyle sat beside me, his presence reassuring. For a while, we just sat there, the silence between us comfortable and safe.
Eventually, I found myself lying down, my head resting on the pillow. Doyle stayed close, his hand resting lightly on my shoulder.
"Try to sleep," he whispered. "I’ll be right here."
With Doyle beside me, the fears that had haunted me began to fade.
The warmth of his presence, the sound of his steady breathing, all made me feel safer than I had in years.
Slowly, my eyes grew heavy, and for the first time in a long while, I drifted into a peaceful sleep, knowing that when I woke up, Doyle would be there.
When I woke up, it was early morning. I half expected to be back in my cage, but I wasn’t.
For a moment, I lay still, feeling the warmth of the bed and the steady presence of Doyle beside me.
His arm was draped protectively over me, his breathing slow and even.What happened yesterday, really wasn’t a dream.
This was my new reality and I liked every bit of it.
I shifted slightly, trying not to wake him, but his eyes fluttered open, and he looked at me with a sleepy smile.
"Morning," he murmured, his voice husky.
"Morning," I replied, feeling a blush rise to my cheeks. "Did you sleep well?"
"Better than I have in a long time," he said, stretching lazily. "How about you?"
I nodded, feeling a small smile tug at my lips.
“Yeah, I did. Thanks for letting me stay in your room,” I told him.
"Anytime," he said, his gaze softening as he looked at me. "You don't have to thank me."
For a moment, we just lay there, basking in the quiet comfort of each other's presence.
But then, the events of the previous day came rushing back, and I felt a pang of guilt.
"I should call my dad," I said quietly.
Doyle nodded, understanding in his eyes.
"Do you want to use my phone again?" Doyle asked.
"Yeah, if that's okay," I said, sitting up.
He handed me his phone, and I took a deep breath before dialing the familiar number.
It rang several times before a gruff voice answered. "Hello?"
"Dad?" I said, my voice trembling.
There was a long pause on the other end of the line.
"Michael? Is that really you?" he asked.
"Yeah, it's me," I said, feeling tears prick at the corners of my eyes. "I'm...I'm okay, Dad."
"Oh my God," he breathed, and I could hear the emotion in his voice. “I thought…I thought you were gone."
"I know," I said, my voice breaking. "But I'm safe now. I'm with some people who helped me."
"Where are you? I'll come get you," he said urgently.
I glanced at Doyle, who gave me an encouraging nod.
"I'm at Sky Stead," I said. "It's a bit of a drive, but I can give you the address."
After giving him the details, I hung up the phone, feeling a mixture of relief and anxiety.
To be honest, I wasn’t ready to leave Sky Stead or Doyle but I told myself this was the right decision. My dad probably wanted to see I was okay.
Doyle reached out and squeezed my hand.
"He'll be here soon," he said. "You did the right thing."
"I know," I said, taking a deep breath. "It's just...a lot to process."
"One step at a time," Doyle said gently. "We'll get through this together."
Feeling comforted by his words, I nodded. It didn’t escape me that he said ‘we’ not ‘you’.
That meant Doyle still wanted to be part of my life, didn’t it?
“Thank you, Doyle. For everything,” I said.
"You're welcome," he said, his eyes full of warmth. “Hey, you want to use the shower first?”
I wished I had the courage to ask him if he wanted to shower together and save water, but when I opened my mouth to answer, no words came out, so I only nodded.
"I forgot. You need clothes," Doyle said. "Mine would probably be too big on you, but you're about Otis' size. Hop right in the shower. I'll go ask him."
"Thanks," I said, feeling a mix of gratitude and shyness.
I headed to the bathroom and took my time in the shower, enjoying the feeling of the warm water cascading over me.
It felt like washing away years of grime and pain. I let the steam envelop me, trying to relax and shake off the lingering unease from the sleepless night.
Eventually, I heard Doyle reentering the room.
"I'll leave it on the bed," Doyle said. "Unless you want me to hand it to you?"
"Please," I replied, opening the door slightly so Doyle could pass the clothes to me.
During the brief interaction, I didn't miss the interested gaze he gave me, and my cheeks heated up.
It was amazing that Doyle found me attractive despite how skinny and gaunt I was.
"Thanks," I said, accepting the clothes and gently closing the door.
I quickly dressed, pleased to find that the clothes fit well enough.
When I stepped out, I found Doyle still in the room, on the phone with someone.
"Yeah, sure, Mayhem," Doyle was saying.
He looked up when he saw me. Not wanting to intrude, I gestured to the door.
Doyle nodded, and I quietly closed the door behind me. I wandered down the hallway, feeling a strange mixture of anxiety and hope.
The house was filled with the sounds of life—a distant conversation, the clinking of dishes, the hum of daily activity.
It was a stark contrast to my time with the coven. As I reached the kitchen, I found myself thinking about the future.
What would it be like to truly be part of a pack, to have a place to call home?
The thought was both thrilling and terrifying. But my dad was driving up here to come get me. That realization dampened my mood.
I would have to leave soon, and the fantasy of finding a new home with Doyle and his pack would never happen.
Zane's distrust was evident, and it wasn't just about protecting his family.
I was an outsider in their world, a stranger who might bring potential danger to the pack.
I couldn't blame him. I had seen enough to know how precarious trust could be. But it made the prospect of staying with Doyle even more impossible.
The more I thought about it, the more it made sense that I should be with my family, back where I belonged.
But the thought of returning to my old life, left me feeling hollow and depressed.
My dad would be thrilled to see me, but he would never understand my years in captivity or the bond I felt with Doyle, or the strange, unexpected sense of belonging I had found here.
It felt like being torn in two directions, neither of which offered a clear path to happiness.
"Michael, are you okay?" Doyle asked, his voice bringing me back to reality.
He knitted his eyebrows in concern and placed a reassuring hand on my shoulder. I realized I was still standing on the top of the staircase.
I forced a smile, but it felt fragile.
"Yeah, I just got lost in my own thoughts,” I said.
"I get it, you must be feeling so overwhelmed,” he said, reaching for my hand and giving it a squeeze. “Whatever happens, Michael, just know that you have a place here. If you ever need me, I’ll be here for you."
His words were comforting, but they also reminded me of the impending separation.
The fleeting moments of warmth and connection we shared felt bittersweet, knowing they would soon come to an end.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I told him.
“Come on, let’s get something to eat,” he said and I nodded.