Aisha's POV
I smelled the infection before I even reached the tent—the metallic bite of blood, the sour sting of rot, and beneath it all, a wild, musky scent that clung to the canvas like sweat-drenched silk. Tigerkin.
He was sprawled on the operating table, chest heaving in shallow, erratic gasps. Claws half-shifted, lips twitching around gleaming canines, skin flickering between fur and flesh. I'd seen plenty of patients dragged in from border skirmishes, but never one liked him. He was barely hanging on.
"Vitals dropping," the nurse said, wide-eyed. "Should we restrain him again?"
"No," I answered quickly. "Last time nearly stopped his heart."
"But if he thrashes—"
"I'll handle it."
Truthfully, I wasn't sure I could. Not anymore.
My healing had dulled. My wolf…
