Page 90 of Cole: Bloodlines
Gabe leaned forward, the mattress creaking beneath him. “Do you want me to come with you?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper, each word carrying the weight of concern.
“I...” Cole swallowed, the room wavering through a film of unshed tears. “I'd like to talk to him alone.” His Adam's apple bobbed as he met Gabe's gaze, fingers trembling where they gripped the wheelchair's armrest. “If... if that's okay.”
Gabe nodded, tears catching the light like tiny prisms. “Of course, babe. I understand.”
Cole watched Gabe's fingers curl against his thigh, knuckles whitening slightly before relaxing—a gesture of acceptance that made Cole's chest tighten with both gratitude and guilt. The fluorescent lights caught the thin band of gold on Gabe's ring finger. Cole knew he was only trying to be the anchor he'd always been, steady and present through every storm. But this particular tide pulled Cole backward through time. He needed to beHenryagain, just for a little while—Ezra’s only friend before everything went dark.
“Maddy?” Max burst into the room with Horatio right behind him. He closed the gap in three quick steps and pulled his son into an embrace, pressing his face into the boy's hair. His shoulders trembled as the emotional floodgates finally opened. “I was so scared, son,” he whispered, voice breaking on the last word.
Maddy's fingers dug into Max's back, holding on as if he might be swept away. “I was, too,” he whispered shakily, his breath warm against Max's collarbone. When he finally pulled away, his eyelashes were spiky with tears, but he managed a wobbly smile. “I'm okay now, though.” He turned and wrapped his arms around Horatio's waist. “Really, I am.”
When he looked at Max again, there was something different in the boy's eyes—a flicker of light where there had been only clouded vacancy for months. Or maybe not different, but painfully familiar, like discovering an old photograph you thought was lost forever. The spark of curiosity, the slight upward tilt at the corners of his mouth that had been desperately missing since his traumatic experience on the island. The old Maddy—before the island, before the nightmares—stared backat him now, a small flame somehow rekindled within the depths of hell.
Max's chest tightened as he struggled to maintain his composure, swallowing hard against the knot in his throat. His vision blurred with unshed tears as gratitude surged through him—a warmth spreading from his core to his fingertips, leaving him trembling. This unexpected mercy amid so much darkness felt like God's hand reaching down personally to touch their broken world. He blinked rapidly, overwhelmed by the weight of gratitude that nearly brought him to his knees.
Horatio moved across the room with three unsteady steps and pulled Abel close to his chest, one hand gently supporting the back of the young man's head, fingers weaving through his hair. His shoulders trembled with silent sobs as he rested his cheek against Abel's temple. When he finally released Abel, his eyes were rimmed red as he turned to Savannah, enfolding her small frame in his arms like a delicate bird.
“Sweetheart...” Max's voice fractured on the word as he stepped forward for his turn. His chin quivered as he wrapped Savannah in an embrace so tight it nearly lifted her from the floor. Hot tears streamed down his cheeks, dampening her hair where he pressed his face against her crown.
“I'm okay,” she whispered, her voice muffled against his shirt collar, each word punctuated by a hiccuping breath. “We got away before...” A violent shudder rippled through her slender body, her fingers clutching at the fabric of his shirt. "We're okay."
Max stepped back, his hand trembling as he brushed her cheek with his fingertips. “Thank God you're all home safe,” he murmured, voice raw. After kissing her forehead, he turned to Abel. The young man crossed the space between them, and when their arms locked around each other, Max closed his eyes. Fragments of Devlin's account flashed through his mind—theblood, the screams, the bodies. A sob escaped him as he buried his face against Abel's hair, holding him tighter.
Over Abel's shoulder, Max caught sight of Angel perched on the bed's edge beside Dane. Angel leaned into his husband's side as if he might collapse without the support, his red-rimmed eyes tracking their movements. The same haunted look that shadowed Abel's face darkened Angel's features.
“Angel...” The name slipped from Max's lips as barely more than a breath. He moved toward the young man, who met his gaze with silent understanding—Max knew what they'd been through. Angel leaned into Max's arms, his shoulders trembling with quiet sobs against Max's chest. “We'll find our way through this, son,” Max murmured, conscious of the two teens nearby who remained unaware of last night's horrors. He reached out, drawing Abel into their circle, wrapping both young men in a protective embrace. “Whatever comes next, you face it with us. Always.”
Horatio stepped forward, drawing Angel into his arms. “I’m so sorry, son,” he murmured, voice like gravel, his cheeks glistening with tears as his gaze shifted to Abel. “What you both endured... I would have given anything to spare you that.”
When they finally separated, Max dragged the back of his hand across his damp cheeks. “How is Gabe and… Cole?” The weight of what Devlin had shared about Cole's history—about Ezra—hung in the air between them.
“Physically,” Dane said, his voice low, “they’re doing okay. Sore, but nothing some rest won’t fix.” His shoulders rose and fell with a heavy breath. “But Cole...” He looked up, eyes searching Max's face. “Has Devlin filled you in on...?”
Max nodded. “Yeah. It… It’s something straight out of a horror movie. I can’t begin to imagine what Cole is going through. And Gabe… it’s so hard to see someone you love in pain and not be able to do anything for them but just… be there.”
“Sometimes,” Dane whispered, his voice catching, “being there is enough.”
Gathering the kids to him, Max moved in close to Horatio and the others. “Yes, it is. This family,” he murmured with warm determination, “willalwaysstand together, protecting each other in our weakest moments, and rejoicing together when the storm clears.” He looked at each of his family members there with him. “Let’s take a moment to thank God for bringing our loved ones safely home yet again… and say a prayer for Ezra, that the Lord will show him the way back into the light.”
EPILOGUE: UNTOUCHED BY MADNESS
Devlin paused outsidethe main entrance doors to the IC ward, the antiseptic smell already seeping through the sealed threshold. He pressed his badge against the scanner—a soft green light blinked in acknowledgment—and the pneumatic doors parted with a whispered hiss. Cole gripped the rubber-coated armrests of the hospital wheelchair, his fingernails leaving half-moon impressions in his palms. Every muscle in his body coiled tight as piano wire as Devlin wheeled him past the patient stations. Each cubicle glowed under fluorescent lighting, the occupants' most private moments visible through glass partitions from the central nurse's desk, where three staff members tracked vitals on blue-lit monitors, their faces bathed in the cold electronic glow.
“He's right up here,” Devlin murmured as they rolled past an empty bed, its pristine sheets folded with military precision.
Cole's whole body strained forward like a compass needle finding north, his knuckles bleached bone-white from clutching the armrests. His heart slammed against his ribcage in an arrhythmic panic, each breath coming in shallow gasps that barely filled his lungs. The wheelchair's rubber wheels squeaked against the polished linoleum as they rounded a half-drawn curtain the color of faded seafoam. There, bathed in the fluorescent glow, lay the patient—cheekbones jutting sharply from a hollowed face, collarbones forming ridges beneath papery skin. His chest, visible above the thin hospital blanket, rose and fell in shallow movements.
Three separate IV bags hung from a metal stand like strange fruit, their contents dripping steadily through clear tubes that disappeared into purplish bruises on his paper-thin arms. Themonitors surrounding him pulsed with electric blue and green numbers that fluctuated with each labored rise and fall of his chest: 92/58, 97%, 112 bpm—the cold digital translation of a human life hanging by threads.
Cole sat unmoving in the wheelchair, staring at the monitors where the jagged green line stuttered across the screen. Each peak represented Ezra's heartbeat—a fragile, uneven rhythm that seemed to falter between beats, like a wounded bird struggling to maintain flight. The digital numbers flickered and changed: 92, 91, 93.
“Is he going to make it?” Cole whispered, his throat constricting around the words as hot tears blurred his vision, transforming the monitor's glow into a smeared constellation of emerald light.
“He's in bad shape,” Devlin said quietly, his fingers pressing into Cole's shoulder with gentle pressure that anchored him to the moment. His voice dropped to a whisper that barely carried over the rhythmic beeping of the monitors. “But he isn’t
giving up. The doctors are cautiously optimistic, but this will be a marathon, not a sprint. The level of abuse he endured, as well as the lack of care he received… It’s weakened some of his internal organs and even appeared to stunt his growth to some degree.” Devlin's voice dropped lower, almost a whisper. “And that's just the physical inventory. The nightmares, the panic attacks, the dissociation—those scars run deeper than anything you can see on an X-ray.”
Cole hung his head, fingers trembling as they worked the bracelet on his wrist. “Is it even possible,” his voice cracked, tears spilling onto his lap, “for someone to heal mentally... after going through something like that, for so long?”
