Page 47 of Lords Of Ruin: Christmas

“She just needed air,” he says quickly. “You know how she gets. Hospitals mess with her. Seeing Penny hooked up like that messed with her worse.” He scrubs a hand over his face. “She said she just had to clear her head. She took her phone.”

“Which means nothing,” I mutter, already moving. The hall outside hums — fluorescent lights, machines, the low murmur of nurses. Too clean. Too quiet. “You’ve checked on her since then?”

“No,” he says slowly. “But she is okay, Cast. Don’t freak out.”

“Fuck.” The word tears out of me before I can stop it.

The hum of fluorescent lights above seems louder now, the soft beeps and voices from nearby rooms distant, muffled. I scan the corridor—no sign of her.

Damien’s footsteps follow me into the hall. “Cast,” he says carefully, “slow down. She probably just needed a few minutes.”

“Two hours is not a few minutes,” I snap, already halfway down the corridor. The white walls feel like they’re closing in—too bright, too clean. “And you know she doesn’t justwalk offwithout saying where she’s going.”

“Cast.” His voice drops lower, softer. “She’s not thinking clearly.”

“Exactly,” I say, rounding the corner. “Which is why I’m finding her before something happens.”

The elevator doors at the end of the hall slide open, and a nurse steps out with a clipboard. I reach her fast enough that she startles.

“Excuse me,” I say, forcing my voice to stay even. “The woman who was here with us earlier—Willow Beaumont. Brunette. Long coat. Have you seen her?”

The nurse frowns, thinking. “She came in with a little girl a few hours ago?”

“Yeah.”

“I saw her pass through maybe two hours ago. Said she needed some air. I think she went out to the patio near the café.”

“Thanks.” I nod once and hit the elevator call button.

Behind me, Damien’s voice follows. “Cast, you’re overreacting?—”

The words hit my back like static. I don’t answer.

When the doors open, I take the ride down in silence, jaw locked tight. The lobby opens up in front of me—bright, sterile, humming with low conversation. My gaze flicks to the glass wall facing the courtyard: gray sky, snow-dusted benches, a few people smoking under the overhang.

No Willow.

I head toward the café anyway. The barista looks up as I approach, his polite smile fading when he catches my expression.

“Hey,” I say, clipped. “You see a woman come through here? About this tall—brown hair, beige coat?”

He thinks, then nods. “Yeah. She was sitting on the patio earlier. Left a while ago.”

“Left where?”

He shrugs. “No idea. Thought she went back upstairs.”

My stomach twists. I glance toward the glass wall again—cold light spilling across the tiles, flakes drifting past the windows. The courtyard’s nearly empty now, just a few figures hunched in their coats. None of them her.

I push through the doors.

The cold hits like a slap. My breath fogs the sharp air instantly. I scan the space—benches, planters, the frozen fountain locked mid-splash.

No Willow.

“Shit,” I breathe. My hands are already shaking when I pull my phone out. I call her. Once. Twice.

Voicemail.