Chapter 5
Ruka
Dawn crept through the window in pale fingers of light, and with it came the certainty that Ardin would live.
The tuskling's breathing had settled into the deep, steady rhythm of true sleep—not the fitful tossing of fever.
His skin had cooled, the dangerous flush faded to healthy warmth.
The knot of tension I'd carried through the endless night finally loosened.
Jordan had surrendered to exhaustion sometime in those small, dark hours before sunrise.
I'd felt it happen in stages. The gradual softening of her posture, the subtle lean of her weight, until finally her head came to rest against my shoulder.
Her breathing slowed and deepened, her body going slack with the trust of sleep.
I should have shifted away. Should have woken her, suggested she find a proper bed.
I didn't.
The warmth of her against me felt... right. Dangerously so.
She was beautiful in a way that had nothing to do with the softness of her features or the curve of her sleeping form.
It was something deeper—something that showed in how she'd looked at me.
Not with the revulsion I'd grown accustomed to seeing in human eyes.
Not with that particular tightening around the mouth, that instinctive recoil when they took in my tusks, my markings, the brutal architecture of my face.
Jordan had simply seen me. Had spoken to me as though my appearance was unremarkable, as though what mattered was the words between us, not the shape of the mouth that spoke them.
And Ardin—gods, the way she'd treated Ardin.
Most humans would have found excuses. Would have wrung their hands and spoken of how unfortunate it all was while doing precisely nothing.
Or worse, would have suggested with false sympathy that perhaps it was simply the tuskling's time, that nature should take its course.
Jordan had taken one look at my nephew's fevered, suffering form and rolled up her sleeves.
She'd been gentle with him. Patient. Speaking in low, soothing tones even when delirium had stolen his ability to understand. She'd touched him without hesitation, without disgust, treating him not as some beast-child but as exactly what he was—a boy who needed help. A life that mattered.
That alone would have earned something from me. Gratitude, certainly. Respect.
But it went deeper than that. I'd watched her work through the night, seen the fierce concentration on her face as she fought the infection, witnessed the visible relief that had flooded her features when his condition finally turned.
This wasn't duty or obligation. This was compassion woven into the very fabric of who she was.
I shifted slightly, careful not to disturb her, and caught the scent of her hair. Something floral and clean, layered over the earthier notes of travel and worry. Human, yes—but not unpleasant.
Not unpleasant at all.
I should wake her. Her neck would be stiff from this angle, her back protesting the awkward position.
But I found myself reluctant to break the spell of this moment.
This quiet peace where she trusted me enough to sleep against me, where the boy breathed easily, where the complications of the world hadn't yet come crashing back in.
Just a few more minutes, I told myself. Then I'd face whatever came next.
The soft scrape of wood against wood announced my sister's arrival before I saw her. Ryhain nudged the door open with her hip, arms laden with a tray that threatened to overflow—a clay pitcher beaded with condensation, honey pastries still steaming from the oven, their golden surfaces glistening.
She looked like herself again. The haunted desperation that had carved her face into a stranger's the night before had melted away with the dawn.
Exhaustion still clung to the shadows beneath her eyes, but color had returned to her cheeks, and she'd taken the time to weave her hair into the intricate braids our mother had taught us as children.
Her gaze found me first, then drifted—deliberately, I noted—to Jordan's sleeping form nestled against my shoulder. The smile that bloomed across her face was absolutely wicked.
"Not one word," I growled, though I kept my voice barely above a whisper.
That only made her grin wider. She crossed to Ardin's bedside with the practiced silence of a mother who'd learned to move through a child's room without waking them, setting the tray down with barely a clink.
When she looked at her son, everything else fell away from her expression.
Pure relief softened every line as she took in his peaceful sleep, the healthy flush of his skin, the steady rhythm of his breathing.
"His fever broke just after midnight," I murmured.
"Because of her." Ryhain's eyes cut back to Jordan, gleaming with meaning. "And because of you, brother."
"I did nothing worth mentioning."
"You did everything." She poured juice into two wooden cups, the liquid catching the morning light like liquid rubies.
The scent of wild berries sweetened the air between us as she pressed one into my hand.
"You brought her to us. This human healer who works miracles.
" Her attention lingered on Jordan's sleeping face, and that dangerous smile crept back. "She's lovely, isn't she?"
Heat crawled up my neck. "Ryhain—"
"For a human, I mean." My sister's tusks flashed as her grin turned positively feral. "Absolutely lovely. And she seems quite at ease with you."
"She's exhausted from saving your son's life. She fell asleep. There's nothing more to it."
"Mm-hmm." Ryhain bent to press the back of her hand against Ardin's forehead, humming her satisfaction at what she found there. When she straightened, mischief danced in her eyes. "Tell me, brother—when was the last time you allowed anyone to use you as a pillow?"
The question hung in the air like smoke. I had an answer—aside from Ardin when he was smaller, never—but giving it would only feed the fire I could see building in my sister's expression.
There had been others, of course. Brief encounters in the dark, bodies seeking warmth and release with no promises exchanged.
No lingering. No mornings after where someone's weight rested trustingly against my shoulder while sunlight painted the walls gold.
I'd never wanted that—never even let myself imagine it, not with the weight of leadership pressing down on my shoulders.
But Jordan fit against my side like she'd been carved to rest there. Like this was exactly where she belonged. The realization made something in my chest pull tight, a knot of want and impossibility tangled together.
I shoved the feeling down deep. She was human. I was Orc. She'd saved my nephew and earned my eternal gratitude, my respect. Nothing more.
Even if every instinct I possessed whispered otherwise.
"Eat," Ryhain commanded, gesturing at the pastries with the authority only an older sister could wield.
"I'll return shortly to take over the watch.
I need to prepare some broth for Ardin when he wakes.
You and your healer both need proper rest." She moved toward the door with a satisfied air, then paused on the threshold.
The look she threw over her shoulder held equal parts gratitude and gleeful scheming.
With that parting shot, she swept from the room, leaving me alone with a sleeping human tucked against my side and the creeping suspicion that my sister was orchestrating something far beyond simple gratitude.
The cabin's front door clicked open somewhere in the distance, and Jordan stirred.
The change was immediate. Her breathing shifted first—deepening, catching—then her whole body went taut against mine. When she jerked upright, it was with such force I nearly reached out on instinct to keep her from toppling sideways.
"Oh my God." Her hand flew to her hair, fingers raking through the tangled strands as crimson bloomed across her cheeks. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to—I must've just crashed on you like that—"
"You were exhausted," I said quietly, mindful of Ardin still sleeping nearby.
"Still." She wouldn't look at me, her gaze skittering away like a startled deer. When she stood, she put half the room between us in three quick steps. "That was completely unprofessional."
Part of me wanted to tell her the truth—that I hadn't minded.
That the weight of her had felt right in a way I couldn't explain, that I'd memorized the rhythm of her breathing, the way she'd unconsciously pressed closer in sleep as if seeking shelter.
But admitting any of that felt like stepping off a cliff with no idea what waited below.
So instead, I simply gestured toward my nephew. "He's improved."
Relief flickered across her features—whether at the subject change or Ardin's condition, I couldn't tell. She crossed to his bedside with that focused efficiency I'd come to recognize, the healer sliding seamlessly into place over the flustered woman.
Her palm pressed flat against his forehead first, testing for fever. Then her fingers found his wrist, counting heartbeats with her eyes half-lidded in concentration. When she leaned down to examine the chest wound, peeling back the bandage with careful hands, I found myself holding my breath.
The tension melted from her shoulders. The hard line of her mouth softened into something almost like a smile.
"Everything looks so much better," she murmured, and the relief threading through her voice made my own chest loosen. She glanced back at me, finally meeting my eyes. "The fever's broken completely. His pulse is strong and steady. The wound is healing cleanly—no infection, no complications."
"He'll recover, then?" The question came out rougher than I'd intended.
She rewrapped the bandage with gentle precision. "With rest and proper care, yes. He should make a full recovery."