POV: Lyra Sinclair
The blood wouldn't wash out of my hands.
I scrubbed harder, watching the water turn pink in the sink. Three hours of emergency surgery, trying to save wolves who'd been caught in the Council building blast. Three hours of watching people die because I wasn't fast enough.
"Lyra." Maya, one of the younger therapists, touched my shoulder. "You need to rest."
"I can't rest." I dried my hands and turned to face the medical tent full of wounded pack members. "Too many people need help."
"You can't save everyone."
"Watch me."
It wasn't just pride talking. For the past week, since the Mother cultist attack, I'd been the only senior doctor left standing. The others were dead, lost, or too traumatized to work. That left me in charge of medical care for three different packs.
I was twenty-four years old, and I'd never wanted this much responsibility.
