Immediately Elena stepped off the train, the falling rain carried a damp frost that pressed against her skin. She fished out her phone, the grip of worry already tightening in her chest, and rang Marcus.
“How is Lyra doing?” Elena asked, her voice sharp with fear.
Marcus froze on the other end of the line. His throat locked tight. He held back, unwilling to pierce her with the truth just yet, so he forced it past clenched fangs of truth, “Lyra is still in surgery.”
The second the call dropped, Elena was already in motion. Her instincts, sharp as fangs, pushed her to move without pause. Without slowing, she wove through the humans waiting for taxis and slid into the first car.
The driver shot her a sharp look, about to lash her with words, But at the sight of her tears glinting raw and
