Cole’s father looked at me the way someone looked at a stain they wished they hadn’t noticed. His suit was immaculate. His expression unreadable. His eyes—those same sharp Armstrong eyes—held none of Cole’s warmth.
Just ice.
He approached with slow, deliberate steps. “You,” he said to Ignatius, though his gaze never left me. “Why are you here?”
Ignatius didn’t back down. “Cole has friends who care about him.”
Wells allowed himself the faintest flicker of disdain. “Friends,” he repeated, like the word was offensive. He turned to the nearest nurse. “No one enters my son’s room without my authorization. No exceptions.”
The nurse hesitated. “Sir, hospital policy requires—”
“I have full next-of-kin authority,” Wells interrupted, producing a folder of documents as if he’d been waiting for this moment. “These override your policy.”
The nurse faltered, unsure. Wells didn’t care. His attention swung back to me. “You are not welcome here,” he said quietly. “And you will not see him.”
My chest tightened painfully. “I’m not trying to interfere. I just—”
“You have no place in his life,” he said, voice soft but lethal. “Or in his recovery.” He turned without waiting for a response and disappeared through the double doors.
The moment he was gone, Ignatius swore under his breath. “He’s moving too fast.”
“He can’t just—” I started, voice cracking.
“He can,” Ignatius said grimly. “As next of kin, he has legal control. For now.” The last two words hung heavy between us.
Ignatius pulled out his phone immediately. “I’m calling the Council.”
“The…dragon council?” I asked, still shaking.
“They outrank him,” Ignatius said. “If anyone can override his access, it’s them.” He paced while talking, sharp and controlled, explaining the situation in clipped bursts. I sat in one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs, gripping the edge so tightly my fingers hurt. Every second stretched unbearably, each one without news of Cole slicing deeper into my nerves.
Finally Ignatius’s phone buzzed with a reply. He answered sharply—and his expression changed.
Not to relief.
To horror.
“What do you mean he’s not listed as an admitted patient?” Ignatius demanded. “He was brought in by ambulance less than an hour ago!”
My stomach dropped. “Ignatius…?”
He listened another moment, then closed his eyes. “No discharge paperwork…no internal record… You’re saying—”
He broke off and turned toward me fully. “He’s gone.”
I stared at him, the words not sinking in. “Gone where?”
“Wells signed him out,” Ignatius said, fury vibrating through every word. “Before the council could intervene. He pulled Cole out of this hospital and transferred him privately.”
My breath left me in a single, sharp sound. “Transferred? To where?”
Ignatius shook his head. “A private facility. Somewhere with no oversight. Somewhere he controls.”
The realization hit like a physical blow. “He’s going to bind Cole again,” I whispered. Saying it made it real. “That’s why he moved so fast.”
Ignatius didn’t argue. He didn’t have to. His expression said everything. “That was his plan,” he said. “And tonight gave him the excuse he needed.”
I felt dizzy. The room tilted. “The hit… The ambulance… He must’ve been waiting for something like this.”
