Chapter 9 Ressa
RESSA
I'm surprised by how good I feel. Not just happy but also…safe.
Not just physically protected, though Falla's presence carries that weight too.
But genuinely safe in a way I haven't felt since the Stonevein took me.
Safe enough to tease him. Safe enough to push back when he coddles me.
Safe enough to let him touch my arm, my shoulder, my ribs without my body deciding it's an attack.
The thought makes my chest tight for entirely different reasons than panic.
"Next challenge!" Drogath's voice booms across the gathering area, pulling me from the revelation that I don't know what to do with. "Partners will demonstrate their grab-and-release reflexes! First to successfully catch and hold their partner's wrists three times claims victory!"
I glance at Falla, expecting to see hesitation or that clinical assessment he wears when he's measuring my mental state. Instead he just looks at me with those blue-green eyes that shouldn't work on green skin but somehow do, waiting for my decision.
"We're doing this one too," I say, because apparently I've discovered stubbornness I didn't know I possessed.
His mouth doesn't quite smile but something in his expression shifts. "If you're certain."
"Stop asking if I'm certain."
"I'll ask until you stop lying about your pain levels."
The comment should irritate me. Would have irritated me weeks ago when every interaction with him felt like negotiating around shattered glass. Instead it pulls something that might be a laugh from my throat.
"My pain levels are manageable."
"That's not the same as 'fine.'"
"Nothing about me is fine." The words come sharp, edged with truth I hadn't meant to speak aloud. "But I'm here anyway, so unless you want me to list every ache and twinge I'm experiencing—"
"Shoulders, four out of ten. Legs, six out of ten and climbing with exertion. Ribs, minimal unless you twist wrong." He rattles off the assessment like he's reading from notes. "Your left leg favors inward when you're tired, and you grimace every time you put full weight on it."
Heat floods my face. "You're extremely irritating."
"I'm observant." He shifts his stance, raising his hands in a ready position. "And aware that you're about to push yourself past advisable limits because you're too stubborn to admit when something hurts."
"Are we doing this challenge or are you planning to lecture me about medical compliance?"
"Both, apparently."
The format is simple—one partner attempts to grab the other's wrists and hold them for a three-count. The defender tries to evade or break free. First to three successful captures wins.
Around us, other pairs begin their rounds. Ursik lunges at Kerra with zero subtlety, and she sidesteps so fast he nearly face-plants into the dirt. Kai and Saela move with the kind of coordinated grace that comes from actual combat training, their movements more dance than competition.
I focus on Falla, on the controlled stillness he carries even when preparing to move. He doesn't lunge or rush. He waits, watching me with that healer's intensity that sees through every defense I try to construct.
"Are you going to grab me or just stare?"
"Deciding on approach." His weight shifts fractionally. "You're more alert than most patients."
"I'm not your patient right now."
"I suppose you're right. You're my partner." But he moves as he says it, his hands reaching for my wrists with speed that's been carefully calibrated—fast enough to challenge me but not so fast I can't track the motion.
I jerk my arms back, pulling out of range. My shoulder protests the sharp movement but I ignore it, focusing on keeping distance between his hands and my wrists.
He adjusts immediately, changing angle to come at my wrist from the side where my range of motion is slightly better. I twist away but he's already compensated, his fingers closing around my wrist before I can fully evade.
The grip is firm but not crushing. Warm skin against mine, pressure that holds without hurting. He counts aloud—one, two, three—then releases immediately.
No lingering contact. No exploitation of the hold. Just the challenge completed and done.
"One point me," he says, stepping back to reset distance.
My wrist tingles where he touched it, and I tell myself it's just heightened awareness from the adrenaline. Nothing to do with how careful he was, how his calloused fingers knew exactly how much pressure to apply.
Nothing to do with the fact that I didn't panic when he grabbed me.
"Again," I demand, raising my arms into ready position.
This time I don't wait for him to come to me. I dart forward, reaching for his wrists while he's still assessing approach. My fingers brush his right wrist but he pulls back smoothly, evading my attempted grab with practiced ease.
I switch targets mid-motion, going for his left wrist instead. He blocks with his forearm, deflecting my reach while simultaneously attempting to catch my extended arm.
I yank back hard enough that my shoulder screams protest. The grimace breaks through my concentration for a fraction of a second—long enough for Falla to notice, to hesitate in his counter-grab.
That hesitation costs him. I twist back in while he's paused, both hands reaching for his wrists in a move that has zero technique and complete commitment. My fingers close around his right wrist and I count as fast as possible—"One-two-three!"—before he can shake me off.
"Point me," I announce, releasing his wrist and stepping back with more satisfaction than the small victory probably warrants.
Falla's expression does that almost-smile thing again. "You exploited my concern for your shoulder."
"I adapted to your observation skills."
"That's not the same thing."
"Sounds like excuses from someone who's losing."
The almost-smile becomes an actual smile—small, brief, but genuine. It transforms his entire face, softening the blunt edges and clinical assessment into something warm that does extremely inconvenient things to my pulse.
I look away, focusing on the other pairs to avoid examining why that smile affected me. Ursik has Kerra in some kind of hold that looks more affectionate than competitive, both of them laughing as they grapple. Saela's claimed another point on Kai, her smaller size letting her duck under his reach.
When I look back at Falla, he's watching me with an expression I can't quite read. Clinical assessment mixed with something else, something that makes my stomach flip in ways that have nothing to do with nausea.
"Ready for the deciding round?" he asks.
I nod, not trusting my voice to stay steady.
We circle each other this time, both waiting for opening. His patience exceeds mine—healers probably develop that kind of stillness from dealing with frightened patients. I make the first move, feinting toward his right wrist before switching to grab his left.
He sees through the feint easily, catching my extended wrist in a smooth counter-grab that happens too fast for me to prevent. His fingers circle my wrist, warm and firm, and I freeze.
Not panic. Not flashback. Just sudden acute awareness of his skin against mine, of how close we're standing, of how his grip is gentle despite the strength I can feel in his hands.
He counts—one, two, three—then releases, stepping back to give me space I'm not sure I actually want.
"Two points me," he says, voice carefully neutral. "Match point."
My wrist still feels warm where he touched it. I flex my fingers, trying to dispel the sensation while my brain tries to process what that freeze actually was.
Not fear. Something else entirely. Something that involves noticing the lean muscle in his forearms, the way his shoulder-length hair has started escaping its bun from the exertion, how his healer's hands know exactly where and how to touch without causing harm.
I am in so much trouble.
"Ressa?" His voice carries concern, probably reading my stillness as onset of panic rather than the dawning realization that I'm attracted to him.
To Falla. The orc healer who's seen me at my absolute worst, who checks on me multiple times a week despite my protests, who treats my panic attacks with patient competence and never makes me feel broken even when I'm convinced I am.
"I'm fine." The words come automatically, and his eyebrow raises in that expression that says he knows I'm lying but won't push yet.
We reset for the final exchange. My hands feel clumsy now, hyperaware of every movement and what it might reveal about the thoughts I absolutely cannot be having right now.
Falla moves first this time, reaching for my wrists with both hands in a direct approach that gives me clear defensive options. I backstep but he follows the motion, his longer reach compensating for the distance I create.
His right hand catches my left wrist. I twist, trying to break the grip, but he's ready for it. His other hand reaches for my right wrist and I have maybe a second to decide—let him complete the capture or do something impulsive.
I choose impulsive.
Instead of pulling away, I step into his space, close enough that his attempt to grab my other wrist becomes awkward geometry.
My free hand reaches for his wrist while he's adjusting to my proximity, and I manage to close my fingers around it even though I'm now standing way too close for this to be just a competition.
Close enough to see the flecks of darker blue in his eyes. Close enough to notice he smells like the healing herbs he works with constantly. Close enough that my heart is doing things that have absolutely nothing to do with exertion.
"Mutual capture," he observes, voice carefully even. "Negates both points."
I should step back. Create distance. Return to the appropriate space between healer and patient, between orc and human, between someone helping me recover and someone I definitely should not be noticing this way.