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stomach rolled, and she quickly looked away, finding more beds, more tortured auras, more unconscious loved ones. Her vision blurred as the heartbreaking scene closed in on her – the pain, sadness and mental anguish – and her stomach tightened, like someone had reached down her swollen throat and enclosed the organ in their angry fist.
    She slapped a hand over her mouth and pushed away from Quin, letting her blanket fall as she flew from the tent. As soon as she reached open air, she dropped to her hands and knees and vomited. The grave scene flashed through her mind, hauntingly clear in its details, and she hurled again. With the third gag and heave, one of her healed ribs cracked, but she didn't care. She’d crack them all to take the place of her wounded family.
    Someone gathered her hair as she heaved again, yielding little more than saliva. Then she wiped her mouth and sat on her heels. Thick arms pulled her to a hard chest, moving her away from the vomit. Then warm lips swept across her clammy forehead.
    She should have known it was Quin. Of course he’d leave his dad's sickbed to help her.
    “They're going to be okay,” he assured, using magic to clean her up. “None of the injuries are fatal.”
    “You have to go back,” she insisted, trying to climb from his lap. “Your dad needs you.”
    Quin tightened his hold. “My dad’s getting the help he needs.”
    “Stop,” she objected. “You have to go back.”
    “No,” he refused.
    “Get your priorities straight,” she scolded, pushing on his chest while twisting away. Another rib snapped, followed by a much sharper pain, and a yelp burst from her throat as she went limp.
    “You are my priority,” Quin replied, sliding a hand to her cheek.
    Layla gasped between sobs, fighting to fill her lungs, but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t catch her breath. The night sky started spinning, and her head swayed on her useless neck. “Quin . . . ” Her struggle was over. She needed help.
    Quin pulled his lips from her hair and looked at her face. “What's going on?”
    “Can't breathe,” she rasped, slapping his shoulder with the control of a drunkard. “My ribs.”
    His eyes grew huge as he ascertained her panic. “Serafin!”
    Layla clutched Quin’s sleeve as he laid her on the grass. Then she jolted when he ripped open her dress. Her lips grew numb, her head throbbed, and red spots peppered her vision. “Quin…” She could no longer feel his shirt in her fingers, or hear him breathing, or see him searching her body. Her senses had flown.
    Quin felt a tiny tug on his sleeve and looked down, watching Layla’s hand fall to the grass. He flipped his gaze to her face, looking for the eyes he’d fallen in love with, but they were veiled by pale lids, their thick lashes pointed toward purple lips. “Nuh-uh,” he protested, taking her blanched cheeks.
    “What's going on?” Serafin asked, flying from the tent.
    “She's suffocating,” Quin clamored.
    Serafin dropped to his knees and reached for her chest. “What happened?”
    “I don't know. Punctured lung maybe? She said something about her ribs.”
    Serafin shouted at Caitrin while examining Layla’s torso, and Quin looked at her face, its lovely features drained of color.
    “Layla,” he called, begging for a response, but it didn’t come. “Well?” he urged, looking at Serafin.
    “It's her lungs,” Serafin confirmed.
    “What's wrong with her lungs?” Caitrin demanded, flying from the tent.
    “Collapsed,” Serafin answered. “Her pleural cavity's nearly full of air. Two broken ribs.”
    “Fix it,” Quin urged, searching her neck for a pulse. He found it, but couldn’t find relief.
    “There’s a detrimental tear in her left lung,” Serafin told Caitrin. “Repair it and the rib that punctured it, while I siphon the air from her chest cavity. Quin?”
    “What?”
    “Monitor her heart.”
    “I got it, just fix her.”
    “What’s going on?” Daleen asked, emerging