Hours later, I finally had a moment to breathe. As I did, my head swam, and I stumbled back. Roger was instantly at my side, his hand supporting my back.

"Cora," he said, pulling me close and tilting up my face. "Are you all right? You're—"

"I'm fine," I muttered, frustrated, trying to push away and return to work. I needed a moment, but there was so much more to do for these men.

"No," Roger insisted. "You're pushing yourself too hard. You're pregnant, Cora—"

"Roger," I sighed, glaring at him and placing a hand on his chest. "This cannot be a constant refrain for the next nine—or however many—months, all right? I'm not going to stop doing my job, stop healing people, just because I'm pregnant."

I heard Roger begin to growl, but I locked my teeth together, staring at him intently. Slowly, I saw him relent, remembering the person he'd chosen as his mate.

"This is my life, Roger," I whispered, "my identity. I'm a doctor—I made an oath! I'm going to help them."

"All right," he replied, stepping back. "But Cora, please—"

"I know," I said, nodding and looking around the room. "I'll be careful. I'll stop before I'm totally exhausted. I won't put myself or the baby at risk."

"And how close are you to exhaustion now?" he asked, examining me from head to toe, his eyes lingering on my stomach.

I paused, closing my eyes and checking in with myself. Honestly, I wasn't far off, but these men still needed so much. The extent of their burns—some down to the bone—made me cringe.

"Can I…" Roger asked. Looking up, I felt his hand on my stomach.

"Okay," I breathed, nodding, remaining still while he checked on the baby. Roger closed his eyes and concentrated. I felt a pang of sympathy; it seemed difficult for him. I remembered Sinclair's communication with Rafe during Ella's pregnancy; it seemed simpler.

Roger's connection to the baby was stronger when touching me, but I wished it were easier for him. I wanted him to have the full experience of fatherhood, with all its blessings. It broke my heart that my human limitations were diminishing that for him.

"Baby's okay," Roger murmured, opening his eyes and kissing my forehead. "Just…let's not push, all right?"

"Okay," I agreed, nodding. Then, noticing the redness on his face, I asked, "How is your healing going?"

"Slow," he murmured, his voice barely a growl. "Much slower than usual. It's like whatever that priest did had a curse attached."

I nodded, listening, then turned my attention to his blistered forearms. Slowly, I unwrapped one bandage; he hissed in pain. I glimpsed the underlying skin before re-bandaging it. "You're healing," I said, "but yes, the pace is worse than I'd hoped for a werewolf, especially one with your abilities."

"It will be all right," he sighed, I think bravely for my sake. As he gently touched my face, Ella approached. "Cora," she whispered, glancing around. "What can I do?"

I opened my arms to my tired sister, inviting a hug she readily accepted. "How is Sinclair?" I asked, looking towards the corner where he napped lightly, Rafe secure in his arms. Sinclair's burns were worse than Roger's, but superficial compared to some of the men's. Only the two men who waited outside the sewer emerged unscathed.

"I think he's all right," Ella replied, pulling away. "More his pride than anything. He's frustrated," she added, offering a chagrined smile to Roger. "I know you guys are disappointed the priest escaped."

"Such a missed opportunity," Roger murmured, shaking his head. "And he burned all his supplies, along with us, so we have little information." He sighed, full of regret.

"Your dad seems optimistic about the interviews," I pointed out, nodding towards Henry, who was moving between beds, speaking kindly to conscious men willing to report what they'd seen and heard. "He's sure you'll get something useful."

"Not enough to compensate our losses," Roger murmured, looking around. "We are so…so lucky everyone survived."

Alive, I thought, but certainly not unscathed. Roger and Sinclair, I suspected, were relatively unharmed due to their genetics. Like their wolf size, their access to other wolf powers—enhanced senses, reflexes, healing—was amplified. I wondered if that healing ability had saved them; their magic protected their skin, and their greater reserves resulted in minor burns, unlike some of the others…

I paled, realizing again that some men would bear lifelong scars, and at least three would need major reconstructive surgery—as soon as possible. And, as much as Roger wouldn't want to hear it, there was only one person best suited to perform those surgeries. I was still considering how to broach the subject when Ella provided the perfect opening.

"Cora," she said, wiping her brow. "Are you all right? Are you tired?" I resisted pointing out that Ella, as a nursing mother, was just as susceptible to exhaustion, and instead continued.

"I can keep going for a little while," I said, holding her gaze. She'd been such a good nurse today; I thought she'd missed her calling. "But I can't go all night. And some of these men will need extended care."

Ella nodded, understanding, glancing between me and Roger. "What should we do?" she asked Sinclair. "Should we wake him? Ask him for ideas?"

"No," I said, taking Ella's hand as she impulsively started towards her mate. "Honestly, Ella," I said, then turning to Roger, because my words were actually for him, "we need…more help. We need more hands."

Roger instantly understood, his eyes darkening. "No way in hell," he snapped, shaking his head. "Roger," I pleaded, moving closer. "Don't make this about jealousy—we need him—"

"Need who?" Ella asked, confused.

"Hank," I said, turning to her and sighing. "We need Hank."