CHAPTER FIVE- THE TOUCH

CHAPTER FIVE

The tension in the room was a physical presence, thick and suffocating, sharp enough to cut. A deafening silence swallowed the space where Frank’s damning words still seemed to echo. Nelly’s hand was frozen over her mouth, her eyes wide with a mixture of horror and stunned admiration for my audacity.

I stood rooted before Michael, the empty glass clutched in my white-knuckled hand, my chest rising and falling with ragged, furious breaths.

I watched a storm of emotions break across Michael’s face, shock, white-hot anger, utter humiliation. His body went rigid, a statue of coiled fury, his right fist clenched so tightly the tendons stood out on his forearm. Then, as if a steel curtain fell, he masked it all behind an unnerving calm. The control was more terrifying than the rage.

He took slow, deliberate steps toward me, closing the distance until only inches separated us. I could feel the faint, mint-cool breeze of his breath on my heated skin. He loomed, using his height to intimidate, but I planted my feet, refusing to give an inch. My neck craned to meet his gaze, and in those dark depths, I saw no fire, only a glacial, hateful disdain. His jaw was clenched, his lips a thin, unforgiving line. We stood locked in that silent battle for seconds that stretched into an eternity, a war of wills communicated in the charged air between us.

“What the hell is going on here!”

My husband’s voice, sharp with alarm, shattered the standoff. I flinched, turning to see Dr. Yeboah standing in the doorway, his briefcase dangling forgotten from his hand, his face a mask of confusion and dawning authority.

“Michael, look at me and answer my question!” he commanded, his voice deepening with paternal force. “And why are you drenched?”

Michael didn’t utter a word. His cold eyes held mine for a final, promise-laden second before he brushed past me. He didn’t just move; he shouldered into me, a deliberate, jarring impact that spoke volumes where his mouth would not. Then he was gone, his retreating footsteps echoing on the stairs.

My husband’s attention swung to me, his expression shifting from sternness to concern as he took in my trembling form and the shattered composure I was desperately trying to reassemble. “Raquel, what happened?”

Words failed me. A choked sound escaped my throat, and I rushed into the solid sanctuary of his arms, burying my face in his familiar, tweed-clad shoulder. I needed his stability, his unquestioning embrace, to ground me.

“Shh, it’s alright. I’m here,” he murmured, his hand coming up to cradle the back of my head. “What did he do?”

“Just… just hold me,” I whispered, my voice muffled against him.

In my periphery, I saw Frank, pale and awkward, shifting his weight before muttering, “I should… I’ll go check on him,” and disappearing after Michael. Nelly caught my eye, her face a portrait of sympathy and bafflement. She mimed a phone call, grabbed her purse, and slipped out the front door, leaving me in the protective circle of my husband’s arms.

We stood like that for a long moment before he gently guided me upstairs, his hand firmly enveloping mine. In the quiet of our bedroom, he sat me on the edge of the bed, kneeling before me.

“I thought you two were finding a way to coexist. What could possibly have provoked this?” he asked, his brow deeply furrowed.

“It’s nothing I can’t handle,” I insisted, my voice stronger now, though my insides still quivered.

“Are you sure?” His doubt was clear. “Do you want me to speak to him? To remind him whose house this is and the respect owed to you?”

He began to rise, a protective fire in his eyes, but I caught his hand.

“No, baby. Please. This… this is between Michael and me. A ‘mother-son’ issue,” I said, attempting a weak smile. “Let me deal with it. I need to.”

He searched my face, conflict warring in his gentle eyes. Finally, he sighed, reluctantly agreeing but extracting a promise. “If he ever ever crosses a line, you tell me immediately. You shouldn’t feel uncomfortable in your own home.”

“I cross my heart,” I vowed, forcing a lightness I didn’t feel.

He sighed again, a weary sound, and apologized once more for Michael’s behavior before attempting to divert me with anecdotes from his day. I nodded and smiled at all the right places, but my mind was a world away, replaying the searing look in Michael’s eyes and the shocking chill of the water on his skin.

Later, after he retreated to his study to work, the emptiness of the room pressed in on me. Nelly’s flurry of concerned texts glowed on my phone. I sent her brief, reassuring replies, but declined a call she was on a date, and my chaos shouldn't interrupt her night. I picked up a werewolf romance novel, seeking escape in a fantasy of simpler, primal conflicts, but the words blurred before my eyes.

By 10:30 PM, restlessness had become a physical itch. I peeked into my husband’s study, finding him buried in papers. “Coming to bed soon?”

“Not for a while, my dear. Don’t wait up,” he said, smiling absently.

Back in bed, silence and shadows were my only company. My thoughts churned uncontrollably Frank’s betrayed expression, Michael’s dripping fury, the vile labels that had hung in the air. A craving for something sweet and cold pierced through the mental noise. Ice cream.

The house was a tomb, my bare feet whispering against the cool marble floors as I descended to the darkened kitchen. I didn’t switch on the light; the soft glow from the digital clock on the oven and the faint moonlight from the window were enough. I navigated by memory to the large stainless steel fridge, its hum the only sound.

The light from the opened fridge door spilled onto the tiles as I reached in. I closed it, the container of vanilla bean ice cream cool in my hand, and turned, only to collide with a solid, warm presence in the dark.

A gasp died in my throat as a large hand clamped firmly over my mouth, stifling my scream. My back hit the fridge door with a soft thud, the cold metal seeping through my thin nightdress. Panic, pure and primal, shot through me.

Then, a low, familiar laugh vibrated in the darkness. “Poor, skittish kitten.”

Michael.

Recognition flooded me, followed by a wave of anger. I wrenched my face away from his hand. “What the hell is wrong with you? Are you trying to give me a heart attack?” I hissed, trying to shove past him.

My hands came up against a wall of bare, warm skin, the hard, defined planes of his chest. I snatched them back as if scalded, but not before the impression of solid muscle and heat had seared itself into my palms. My fingers tingled.

“You like what you’re touching?” His whisper was a husky, intimate sound in the dark, his breath grazing my ear.

Mortifying heat flooded my cheeks. “Move out of my way,” I demanded, but my voice came out breathless, lacking all conviction.

“Not so soon, sweetheart.” His voice was a soft, dangerous caress. Then his fingers were on my face, tracing the line of my cheekbone with a shocking, feather-light tenderness. My breath hitched, caught somewhere between outrage and a traitorous, electric thrill.

“That little stunt you pulled today,” he continued, his thumb brushing my lower lip, making my entire body jolt. “Don’t ever try it again. You really don’t want to see my bad side.” The words were a threat, but his touch was a seduction, a confusing, maddening contradiction that left my mind reeling and my body responding against its will.

I was drowning in sensation. My mind screamed to knee him, to shout, to run, but my body leaned infinitesimally into his touch, a fragile vessel drawn to a dangerous flame. His proximity, the scent of his skin soap and something uniquely, infuriatingly male ,was overwhelming.

He leaned in, and for a heart-stopping moment, I thought he would kiss me. Instead, his lips brushed my cheek, a hair’s breadth from the corner of my mouth, a kiss that was not a kiss, a promise that was a threat.

“Be a good girl, Mom,” he chastised, the title a deliberate, mocking poison on his tongue.

And then he was gone, melting back into the shadows of the kitchen as silently as he had appeared. The sudden absence of his warmth left me shivering, the cold from the fridge at my back now permeating my core. I stood there, trembling, the ice cream container growing damp in my hand.

His scent clean, masculine, and subtly spicy lingered in the air around me, a ghostly imprint of the encounter. My skin still burned where he had touched me. I raised a shaking hand to my cheek.

This wasn’t just war anymore. It was something far more complex, far more treacherous. And as I stood alone in the dark kitchen, I realized with dawning, terrifying clarity that the greatest battle would not be against Michael, but against the treacherous, unwelcome response of my own untamed heart.