Chapter 19 #2
“No,” I said, feeling the panic. I flinched against the restraints.
“It’s medical,” he replied, as if that made it okay. “We need you lucid enough to keep the construct anchored. Completely unconscious subjects tend to…resist unconsciously.” His gray eyes met mine. “You don’t want that.”
I wasn’t sure what I wanted, other than Phoenix and a different life, and it was too late for both.
It was, wasn’t it? I hadn’t been honest with him.
"No," I tried again, and tried to jerk away.
"I don't want this. I refuse my consent.
" My father just waved a hand and they both ignored me. He swabbed the inside of my elbow, quick and practiced. The alcohol was cold. The needle wasn’t.
The dragon flinched as the fluid slid into my vein.
A bitter chill crawled up my arm. For a second the world sharpened—the overhead light too bright, my father’s cologne too strong, the beeping too loud—and then everything softened, the edges going smudged.
Sedative. Not enough to knock me out. Enough to slow my thoughts, like they were fighting through syrup.
“Good,” Hartshorne said when my shoulders finally stopped trying to climb up around my ears. “Better.”
The dragon didn’t think it was better. It paced under my ribs, restless, pressing against the old lines of the first binding. I could almost feel those lines as something physical, like scar tissue on the inside of my bones. Like a need for Phoenix. "No," I whispered, knowing it was too late.
My father stayed seated, watching. He’d moved the folder back to his lap, fingers resting on it lightly, like a threat he didn’t need to voice anymore. “I’ll be right here,” he said, and the worst part of me, the youngest part, still wanted that to be comforting.
“I don't want…” I slurred, already losing track of my thoughts.
“Mapping the current lattice,” Hartshorne said.
“Then reinforcing the weak points. Tightening the seals.” He spoke the way coaches talked about systems, about neutral zone structure and forecheck schemes.
Technical. Detached. “If necessary, we add an auxiliary band around the emotional centers. Your last flare was clearly triggered by stress.”
Was it? I squeezed my eyes shut but then opened them because they couldn’t stay shut. Hartshorne set the vials aside and picked up the thin brush. Up close the bristles were fine as hair. He uncapped another bottle—a thicker fluid this time, dark and faintly luminous.
My father stood.
“Try to be still, Cole,” he said. “Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”
“Little late,” I mumbled.
The first brushstroke hit the inside of my left forearm, and my breath caught. It felt…wrong. This seeped through, dragging cold behind it, sinking past flesh into bone, then deeper. The dragon recoiled, hissing.
“What is it?” I whispered.
“Conductor,” Hartshorne said, distracted, as he painted another line that snaked up toward my wrist. “Links surface sigils to the existing construct. Makes the binding more efficient.”
Efficient. Like we were optimizing a power grid instead of locking up a living, feeling thing inside me.
The lines crept, branching, forming a pattern that made my eyes ache if I tried to follow it. I stared at the ceiling instead. Focused on the faint hum of the ventilation system. Counted my breaths.
One. Two. Three. In. Out.
The dragon pushed against the new lines, testing them. They slid cold around it, catching, then tightening. My chest hurt.
“You’re doing well,” Hartshorne said, which was bullshit because I wasn’t doing anything. “Your system is responding. That’s good.”
The sedative dragged at me. My thoughts wanted to slip sideways into memory—crowd noise, locker room laughter, the team’s stupid dumb jokes muttered under their breath to make me smile. I clung to those instead of the crawling cold in my veins. Then Phoenix. I wanted him here. I needed him here.
Something tightened around my wrist. I looked down. Hartshorne had fastened another metal band there, the etched symbols on it flaring briefly as they touched the ink-lines and then sinking to a dull shimmer. The band felt too heavy. Too tight. Like a cuff.
“It’s just a focus,” he said when my breathing hitched. “We’ll remove it when the lattice stabilizes.”
“Promise?” I slurred. Then I hated myself for asking. Where was Phoenix?
He didn’t answer.
Another band snapped around my other wrist. Then, to my horror, cool metal closed around my throat—not tight enough to choke, but snug enough that I couldn’t forget it was there. Sigils brushed the sensitive skin at the base of my skull. The dragon snarled, pressing hard against my spine.
“Easy,” Hartshorne murmured, almost like he was talking to it instead of me.
My father stepped closer to the foot of the bed, coming into my line of sight whether I wanted him there or not. “The sooner this is done,” he said mildly, “the sooner we can address your other…distractions.”
The word snagged on something sharp inside me. “What distractions?”
He smiled, small and civilized. “The con man, for one. The potential league investigation.” He adjusted his cufflinks. “I’ve contained most of the immediate fallout, but nothing stays buried forever. Not if the wrong people keep digging.”
I blinked slowly. “Ignatius,” I breathed. “He wouldn’t just allow an investigation.”
“No,” my father agreed. “He’s being very loud about it, as a matter of fact. Calling in favors. Very tedious.”
A flicker of warmth that wasn’t fear rose in my chest. Ignatius wouldn’t give up. He’d burn everything down first.
Hartshorne drew another line of ink from my collarbone toward my heart. Cold raced behind it, making my muscles twitch. "No, stop." This was a bad idea.
“Hold still,” he said, expression sharpening. “If that sigil breaks, we’ll have to start again, and you won’t enjoy that.”
I clenched my teeth, my mind clearing. "This is wrong. I don't consent to this."I was ignored.
“He’ll find me,” I said, partly to my father, partly to myself.
“Perhaps he will,” Father said. “But it will be too late to change anything by then. Once the binding is complete, approval is academic. You’ll be stable. Controlled. No longer a danger to your teammates…or young rookies on the opposing team.”
My hand spasmed. The report flashed behind my eyes—the bolded “heat anomaly,” the words “high-force collision.”
My fault.
“I didn’t mean to…” My voice shook.
“You never do,” he replied. “That’s what makes you dangerous.”
The dragon flinched at that. Not at the word dangerous—dangerous it could accept—but at the implication: you hurt people and you can’t be trusted. But something was wrong. Very wrong.
Hartshorne’s brush reached the center of my chest. The sigils there burned cold, then hot, like someone pressing ice and fire into my sternum at the same time.
I gasped.
“Breathe,” the doctor ordered. “In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Let the construct settle.”
My father watched, something like satisfaction glinting in his eyes. “See?” he said softly. “Already better. Once this is done, you won’t have to worry about losing control. You can go back to what you’re good at—skating, shooting, winning. Leave the rest to me.”
Leave Phoenix to him. The thought slid in, thin and sharp as a blade. “What are you going to do to him?” I managed.
“To whom?” He knew. He wanted me to say it.
“Phoenix.”
My father’s smile thinned. “That depends on you,” he said. “If you cooperate, if the Council accepts my report and we demonstrate that you’re stable, then a discreet settlement, perhaps. An NDA. A relocation package.”
“Relocation?” The sedative pulled at my thoughts, but that cut through. “You can’t just—he’s not a piece on a board you can move—”
“He is precisely that,” my father said coolly. “A liability. A man with access to information that could ruin you. Ruin us.” He steepled his hands again. “Fortunately, men like him are simple. They want money. Safety. A fresh start. It’s easy enough to buy their silence and put them on a plane.”
An image slammed into me: Phoenix, shoulders hunched, disappearing into a crowd, his scent vanishing from my apartment, my life. Everything we’d started between us cheapened into a line item in my father’s budget.
“No,” I said. It came out hoarse and small. “He wouldn’t go.”
My dad’s eyes gleamed. “Everyone goes, Cole. Given the right incentive.” He tilted his head. “And if he proves…unreasonable, there are other methods.”
My dragon froze.
“What methods?” My heart hammered against the cooling lines on my chest.
“Legal, of course.” His tone went very light. “Accusations can be made. Old charges resurrected. A man with his history can disappear into the system without any…overt…intervention.”
Disappear.
The word detonated inside me.
Phoenix, locked in some cell because of me. Phoenix, dragged off a street by men who smelled like my father’s cologne. Phoenix’s eyes going flat and empty the way they must have when he’d been hurt before, used, thrown away. My mate.
My vision blurred.
“You’re lying,” I whispered. “You’re just trying to—”
“Motivate you?” he suggested. “I thought you’d appreciate knowing what’s at stake. This isn’t just about you, Cole. Or the boy you’ve allowed to compromise you. It’s about the team. The brand. The future.”
But not my future.
The dragon stopped pacing. It rose. Not gently, not slowly. In one terrifying surge, like a wave rearing up out of nowhere.
Heat flooded my veins, slamming into the sedative, shattering the chill of Hartshorne’s ink. The lines on my skin flared from dull silver to angry red. The monitor by the bed shrieked.
Hartshorne’s head snapped up. “The lattice isn’t anchored yet—”
I didn’t move. I couldn’t. The collars still dragged at my muscles, heavy as sandbags. But inside, something ancient and furious unfurled, stretching against its old scars. Threat, it snarled, wordless. Mate. Threatening mate.