Chapter 6 #2
It wasn't the breathing kind. It was the silent, paralyzing kind.
I was in the Equipment Room at the arena. It was my job on Sunday nights to sharpen the team's skates for the week. It was a task I usually loved. The rhythmic shhh-shhh-shhh of the grinding wheel against the steel. The smell of metal dust. The sparks flying.
But then my phone rang.
The screen lit up with a number I knew by heart. The Pines Sanctuary.
My father’s facility.
I let the skate blade rest against the wheel for a second too long, ruining the edge. I swore, pulled the skate back, and answered the phone.
"This is Michael," I said, my voice tight.
"Mr. Holt," the administrator’s voice was crisp, professional, and completely devoid of empathy. "We're calling regarding your father's account."
"I paid the monthly fee," I said immediately. "The check cleared on the first."
"Yes, the standard care fee is paid. However, there was an incident yesterday."
My blood ran cold. "What kind of incident?"
"James had an episode. He became... agitated. He assaulted a staff member and caused significant damage to the isolation unit. He tore the padding off the walls, Mr. Holt. And he broke a reinforced window."
I closed my eyes, leaning my forehead against the cool metal of the sharpening machine. I could see it. I could see him. A massive, grey-haired wolf, snarling at shadows, destroying everything in his path because his brain was telling him the world was attacking him.
" Is he hurt?" I asked quietly.
"He required sedation and sutures. He is stable now. But the facility charges for damages, Mr. Holt. And given the severity of his decline, Dr. Evans is recommending we move him to the High-Security Wing. Permanent isolation."
"No," I said. "No, he needs social time. He needs the courtyard. If you lock him in solitary, he'll rot."
"The High-Security Wing is safer for everyone. But it is also more expensive. The monthly rate increases by four thousand dollars. And the bill for the damages is twelve thousand. Due immediately."
I did the math in my head. My savings account had six thousand dollars in it. My scholarship covered tuition and board, but it didn't give me cash.
"I... I can't pay that right now," I whispered. "I need time. I'm waiting on... I'm waiting on the draft."
"The draft is months away, Mr. Holt. We need a payment plan set up by Friday. Or we will have to initiate a transfer to a state facility."
State facility.
The Cage. That's what they called it. A warehouse where they drugged the ferals until they were zombies and left them to die in their own filth.
"Don't transfer him," I said, panic rising in my throat. "I'll get the money. I'll... I'll sell my truck. I'll figure it out. Just don't move him."
"Friday, Mr. Holt."
The line went dead.
I dropped the phone on the workbench. It sounded like a gunshot in the quiet room.
Twelve thousand dollars. Plus an extra four grand a month.
It was impossible. It was a mountain I couldn't climb.
I sank down onto a stack of crate, burying my face in my hands. The smell of ozone and sparks filled my nose, but underneath it, I could smell the rot of my own future.
I was going to lose him. And then, in a few years, I was going to be him. And there would be no one to pay my bills. No one to keep me out of the Cage.
I sat there, shaking, fighting the urge to shift and tear the room apart.
The door to the Equipment Room opened.
I didn't look up. I couldn't. If anyone saw me like this—shaking, weak, broken—I would have to kill them.
"Mikey?"
Her voice.
Of course it was her. It was always her.
"Get out," I rasped, not lifting my head. "Leave me alone."
"I came to drop off the hydration charts for the trip," she said. Her voice was hesitant, soft. She stepped into the room, the door clicking shut behind her. "I heard the grinder running, but then it stopped. And you didn't come out."
She walked closer. I could hear her footsteps. Light. Careful.
"Mikey, you're bleeding."
I looked down. My hand was gripping the edge of the skate blade I had been holding. I hadn't even felt it. A thin line of red was trickling down my finger, dripping onto the concrete floor.
"It's nothing," I said, wiping it on my jeans.
"It's not nothing."
She was standing in front of me now. She put the charts down on the workbench and reached for my hand.
I pulled away. "Don't. I'm not in the mood for doctoring, Lydia."
She ignored me. She reached out again, grabbing my wrist with a strength that surprised me. She pulled my hand toward her, inspecting the cut.
"It's superficial," she murmured. "But you're shaking."
She looked up at me. In the harsh light of the work lamp, her eyes were huge, filled with a concern that made my chest ache.
"What happened?" she asked.
"Nothing."
"Liar. You look like you just went twelve rounds with a bear." She didn't let go of my hand. She stepped into the space between my spread knees—a mirror image of the bathroom scene, but this time, the dynamic was inverted.
I was the vulnerable one. She was the anchor.
"Talk to me," she commanded. It was soft, but it had steel in it.
I looked at her. I looked at the face I had dreamed about, the face I had tried to push away. And the dam just broke.
"They're moving him," I whispered. "My dad. He tore up his room. They want twelve grand by Friday or they're shipping him to the state ward."
Lydia gasped softly. "Oh, Mikey."
"I don't have it," I confessed, the shame burning hotter than the cut. "I have nothing. I'm scraping by on a scholarship and hope. If they move him... he dies. He won't survive the state ward. He's confused, Lydia. He's scared. If they lock him in a cage with strangers, his heart will give out."
My voice cracked. I hated it. I hated hearing myself sound so small.
"I'm supposed to be the Enforcer," I said, a bitter laugh escaping me. "I'm supposed to protect the pack. And I can't even protect my own father."
Lydia didn't say anything for a long moment. She didn't offer me money—thank God. She knew that would shatter my pride. She didn't offer platitudes about how "it would all work out."
Instead, she stepped closer.
She let go of my hand and brought both of her hands up to cup my face. Her palms were cool against my heated skin. Her thumbs brushed over my cheekbones, tracing the tension held there.
"You are protecting him," she said fiercely. "You're here, fighting for a future that can save him. You're carrying a burden that would crush most men, and you're still standing."
"I'm barely standing," I admitted, leaning into her touch. I closed my eyes. "I'm tired, Mouse. I'm so fucking tired."
"I know," she whispered.
She pulled my head down. I went willingly. I rested my forehead against her shoulder, burying my face in the soft wool of her sweater.
She smelled like rain and vanilla and safety.
She wrapped her arms around my neck, holding me. One of her hands tangled in the hair at the nape of my neck, scratching lightly.
It was the most intimate thing anyone had ever done to me.
We stood there in the dusty, metal-smelling room for a long time. Me, the monster, slumped against the girl I was supposed to be terrifying. Her, holding the weight of my fear without buckling.
"We'll figure it out," she whispered against my ear. "Friday is five days away. We have the trip. We have time. Don't give up."
I breathed her in. For the first time all day, the panic receded.
"Why are you being so nice to me?" I mumbled into her sweater. "I'm a dick to you. I'm a mess."
She pulled back slightly, forcing me to look at her. Her hands stayed on my face.
"Because," she said softly. "I know what it's like to be scared of your own bloodline, Mikey. I know what it's like to think you have to be perfect to survive."
She brushed her thumb over the scar on my jaw.
"And besides," she added, a small, sad smile touching her lips. "I think I kind of like the mess."
The air shifted. The sadness was still there, but underneath it, the heat began to rise again. But this wasn't the frantic, explosive heat of the hydrotherapy room. This was a slow burn. A coal glowing in the ashes.
I looked at her lips. I wanted to kiss her. Not to claim her. Not to shut her up. But just to thank her. To taste the kindness she was offering so freely.
"Lydia," I warned, my voice gravelly. "You're too close."
"I'm right where I want to be," she countered.
I lifted a hand, covering hers where it rested on my cheek. I turned my face, pressing a kiss into her palm.
She shuddered.
"Friday," I said, pulling back and straightening up. I had to put the wall back up, at least a little bit. If I stayed in her arms, I would never leave. "I have until Friday."
"We'll think of something," she promised. "I'm good at puzzles, remember?"
She stepped back, the loss of contact making my skin ache.
"Get some sleep, Holt," she said, picking up her charts. "Bus leaves at 8 AM tomorrow. I need my bodyguard rested."
"I'll be ready," I said.
She walked to the door, pausing with her hand on the knob. She looked back at me, her expression unreadable.
"And Mikey?"
"Yeah?"
"You're not your father," she said again. "You're better."
She slipped out, leaving me alone in the silence.
I looked at the skate sharpener. I looked at the blood on my finger.
I wasn't sure if I was better. But for her?
I would tear the world apart to try to be.
The Northern Trip was coming. Five days on a bus. Five days of hotels. Five days of forced proximity with the one person who could save me—or destroy me completely.
I wiped the blood off my hand and turned the grinder back on.
Let's go.