Page 56 of Doyle

I gently brushed a strand of hair from Michael's forehead, my mind racing with the implications of the dream.

William had always been a source of guidance and strength for me, even now, years after his passing. His warning couldn't be ignored.

Michael stirred, but he didn’t wake.

Instead, he turned on his side and curled into a ball, groaning and murmuring words I couldn’t make sense of in his sleep.

He was still having nightmares. That didn’t surprise me, especially after everything he had been through.

"Michael," I said gently, reaching out to wake him.

It was the wrong move. Michael suddenly reacted like a cornered animal, clawing and screaming at me.

I held my ground, not caring that he raked his nails across my arms.

"Michael, wake up. It's just a bad dream," I repeated, trying to keep my voice calm and soothing.

No matter what I did, I couldn’t seem to help him snap out of it, and that disturbed me deeply.

Desperate, I tried a different tactic and kissed him.

His eyes flew open, and he looked at me uncomprehendingly for a few seconds, as if he didn’t know who I was or where he was.

Then he shook his head and whispered, "Doyle?"

"I'm right here," I assured him.

Michael looked down and saw the bloody scratches he left on my arm. His face paled.

Reluctantly, I released him, thinking he needed space.

He got out of bed, rubbing his arms. He was hunched over, and a frustrated growl slipped his lips.

I understood what he was feeling; his inner beast must want out, and the space probably felt claustrophobic.

"Come on," I told him, opening the nearby drawer and grabbing him some clothes. "Put these on."

"What? What's going on?" Michael asked, confused.

"We're going for a drive. It's time to let your fox loose," I said.

Michael's eyes flickered with understanding and a hint of hope. He quickly dressed, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly.

I threw on some clothes and we headed downstairs, moving as quietly as possible so as not to disturb Otis and Zane.

The cool early morning air hit us as we stepped outside.

Michael took a deep breath, his eyes darting around as if expecting an ambush.

I placed a reassuring hand on his back, guiding him to the truck.

Once we were on the road, I glanced at him, noting how the tension seemed to lift the farther we got from the house.

"You need this," I said quietly. "Your fox needs this."

He nodded, staring out the window.

"I know. I just... I hate that I keep putting you through this,” he said.

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