Stolen Hearts [Book 1]

Chapter 4

Kayla Webber

My head is pounding, and my body is racked with chills as I lay curled up on the plush bed in Michael's room. The fever had hit hard and fast, leaving me weak and disoriented. I have no idea how long I had been in the freezing basement, but now I am in what feels like an entirely different world—the warmth of Michael's bedroom, the scent of his cologne lingering in the air. It was unsettling, the intimacy of the space making me feel vulnerable in a way I hadn't anticipated.

The door creaks open, and I weakly turn my head to see Michael entering, a frown etched on his face. He is carrying a damp cloth and a bottle of medicine. The sight of him in his own room, attending to me, sent a confusing mix of emotions swirling through my fevered mind.

"I can take care of myself!" I snap, my voice hoarse. "I don't need your charity!"

Michael's frown deepens, but he didn't back away. "You have a fever. I need to—"

"Don't touch me with your filthy hands!" I spit, trying to push myself up, but the effort leaves me dizzy and more disoriented than before.

Michael's patience snaps. He slams the cloth and medicine down on the nightstand and leans in close, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "Listen here, you little bitch. I don't like you either, but I'm not going to let you suffer when I know I can do something to help. So shut the fuck up and let me do my job."

I freeze, my breath catching in her throat as I stare up at him. The intensity in his eyes is different from the cold detachment he has shown before. There is frustration, yes, but also something else—an urgency, a need to take control of a situation he doesn't know how to handle any other way.

Michael Jackson

For a moment, neither of us moves. The room is thick with unspoken tension, both of us locked in a silent battle of wills. But then the strength drains out of Kayla, her fever making it impossible to keep up the fight. She collapses back onto the bed, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she struggles to breathe through the waves of heat and cold that washed over her.

I don't waste any time. I sit on the edge of the bed and gently dab the cool cloth across her forehead. Kayla closes her eyes, too exhausted to resist any longer.

The door opens again, and this time it was Janet, my younger sister, who steps inside. She pauses, her eyes widening at the sight of me taking care of Kayla in my own bed.

"This is... weird, Michael," Janet says, her voice laced with discomfort. "Why is she in your room? You could've put her anywhere else in the house."

I don't look up, my focus entirely on Kayla as I continue to tend to her. "She was freezing in the basement. She needed warmth."

"There are other rooms, Michael. Ones that don't send mixed signals."

"Not that are warm enough," I reply flatly, finally turning my gaze to my sister. "I'm doing what needs to be done. That's all."

Janet studies me for a moment, trying to read my expression. After a tense silence, she sighs and shakes her head.

"Fine," Janet says, clearly still uneasy. "But this doesn't feel right, Michael. She's a hostage, not a guest."

I don't respond, my attention already back on Kayla. Janet hesitates for a moment longer before turning and leaving the room, closing the door behind her.

Kayla lay still, her mind hazy from the fever and exhaustion. She is too weak to argue, too tired to care about the implications of being in Michael's bed. As I continue to care for her in silence, she is drifting in and out of consciousness. All she can focus on is the warmth that surrounds her.

—

Kayla Webber

Blinking away the remnants of sleep as awareness slowly settles in, I feel something cold snap against my wrist. I try to clutch my chest as I feel the familiar sense of panic set in, but I am restricted. I notice I have been handcuffed to one of the bedposts . Feverishly, I try to yank my hand free.

"You're not getting out of those," a voice growls through the darkness.

Michael, the boss, emerges from the shadows and silently approaches me. I continue to tug at my wrist in the handcuffs, each pull sending sharp twinges of pain up my arm. The metal digs into my skin, but I can't stop myself from trying, even as my breath quickens and the room starts to blur. Michael's presence looms closer, his gaze cold and calculating, as if he's savoring the sight of my helplessness. As he's barely two feet away from me, I give up.

"Are you done?" he asks point blank.

I look away from him and pull my knees to my chest. In his hands, he is holding a small plate and a cup of water. This is the same meal that I have had for the last three, maybe four days. I don't know how long I have been here.

The only difference is that Michael is serving it to me this time. Up until this point, his sister is the only one feeding me— and remembering that I exist at all.

Michael stares at me while my gaze is on the sandwich in front of me. It lies on a small tray table that was given to me yesterday.

"Can you, um, can you unlock these?" I ask, shifting my attention back to the handcuffs.

"Not happening," he responds.

He turns his back to me and turns on the standing lamp next to the bed. My eyes follow the slight curvature in his arms from his muscles. They aren't prominent, but it's obvious that he isn't frail. Still, I think I could take him down, given the chance.

The lamp does nothing to illuminate the room. It's still dim.

I watch Michael walk over to a wooden armoire on the farthest side of the room. He pulls it open, and my eyes widen at the sight. It's deep, wide, and tall. Every piece is occupied by a gun, some that I have seen before and others that look like they came from a science fiction movie.

The room is eerily silent, the only sound the soft scrape of metal on wood as he retrieves a firearm from its hiding place. His movements are methodical, deliberate, each action steeped in an almost ritualistic calm. Slowly, he approaches me. I gulp dryly.

With a practiced hand, he carefully checks the magazine, sliding it out with a smooth motion. His fingers brush over the bullets, feeling their weight. He slots the magazine back into the grip, a faint click echoing through the quiet room, sending a shiver down my spine.

He reaches for the slide, pulling it back with a deliberate force to chamber a round. The metallic clack reverberates, a harsh, definitive sound that cuts through the silence. His eyes narrow, focusing intently on the weapon, as if assessing its readiness and his own resolve.

Each motion is precise, controlled, a testament to his skill and the gravity of what's to come. The firearm now stands poised, a cold reminder of the impending danger, its presence heavy in the charged atmosphere.

He lifts the gun to his shoulder, gripping it firmly with both hands. It's aimed at the wall opposite his bed, where I sleep,. Without a word, he fires. The shot reverberates through the room, and I flinch, clamping my hands over my ears, struggling to hold back tears.

The wall remains unmarked, but a wisp of smoke curls from the shotgun's barrel. I stare at the weapon in disbelief.

Just as Michael opens his mouth to speak, a loud crash and hurried footsteps interrupt us. We both turn toward the door, bracing for the arrival of whoever is coming.

"You did it?!" a woman's voice bellows from outside.

A girl, younger I assume— I've seen her before—appears with a huge smile on her face. Upon seeing me untouched, she scowls instead.

"I was showing her what's to come. She still thinks she is leaving here alive," Michael answers while holding eye contact with me.

The girl folds her arms and laughs. I look back to Michael. He shrugs, unbothered.

"You don't know what you're in for," the girl tells me when a smirk.