Chapter 5 #2
I hadn't realized how much weight I'd been carrying until that moment—how tightly wound I'd been since finding Ardin bleeding in the forest. He would live. Would grow strong. Would have the chance to become whatever he chose to be, warrior or scholar or something else entirely.
"Thank you," I said, knowing the words were inadequate for what she'd done.
Jordan's smile was soft, genuine, and did dangerous things to my composure. "Just doing my job."
But we both knew better. She'd stayed through the night, pushed herself past exhaustion for a child who wasn't hers, in a village that wasn't home, among people who still watched her with wary eyes and whispered suspicions.
She'd done it because it was the right thing to do. Because beneath that professional exterior beat the heart of someone truly good.
And I was beginning to understand that goodness paired with courage was far more dangerous to my carefully maintained distance than simple physical attraction could ever be.
I watched as she gathered her supplies, those long, slender fingers moving with practiced efficiency as she tucked instruments back into her medical bag.
Morning light painted her in shades of gold and exhaustion—the delicate shadows beneath her eyes, the weary slope of her shoulders that she tried so hard to hide.
"I'll arrange for an escort to take you back to the main road," I said, my mind already running through which warriors I could spare for the journey. I'd take her myself if I could, but that would set tongues wagging from here to the border. "You must be desperate for your own bed by now."
Jordan's hand stilled over a roll of bandages. When she turned to face me, something flickered in her expression—hesitation, maybe, or hope. "Actually... I was thinking I might stay a few more days. If that's okay?"
The words caught me off guard. "Stay?"
"Wounds like this are deceptive." Her gaze drifted back to Ardin, and the concern etched into every line of her face was so genuine it made my chest ache. "The next forty-eight hours are make or break. I need to be certain he's truly stable before I go."
That warm, dangerous thing in my chest unfurled its wings. "You'd do that? Stay here, among us?"
"Why wouldn't I?" She said it like the answer was obvious, like bedding down in an Orc village was as natural as breathing. "He's my patient. I don't abandon my patients."
"Then you're welcome for as long as you need," I said, and meant it with an intensity that should have alarmed me. "My village is honored."
A smile ghosted across her lips, small but radiant. "Thank you. Though I probably should ask—do I need to clear this with your mayor or village leader? I don't want to step on any toes."
I felt my mouth curve despite myself. "I am the chieftain."
Her eyes went wide as moons. "You're—oh.
" Color bloomed across her cheeks like sunrise, and I had to fight the urge to trace its path with my fingers.
"I didn't realize. I mean, I should have, the way everyone looks to you, but I just assumed.
.." She floundered, adorably flustered in a way that made something primal in me want to both protect and provoke her.
"You assumed I was simply Ardin's doting uncle," I supplied.
"Exactly." Her laugh was soft and musical, sending an unexpected shiver down my spine. "Sorry. I'm usually more observant than this."
"You were busy saving his life," I said. "I'd call that excellent prioritization."
Our eyes met, and the air between us shifted—charged with something unspoken, something that hummed like lightning before a storm. Neither of us looked away.
"So," she said finally, her voice dropping into a more businesslike register that somehow made me miss the warmth from moments before. "Where should I set up? I'll need to check on Ardin regularly, and I don't want to impose on the family more than necessary."
"You'll stay close," I said, the words coming out more commanding than I'd intended. I softened my tone. "I'll make arrangements."
Before I could elaborate on exactly what those arrangements might entail, her stomach betrayed her with a low, insistent growl that echoed in the quiet room.
The flush that had been fading from Jordan's cheeks returned with a vengeance, spreading down the column of her throat in a way that made my mouth go dry. "Sorry. I, uh—it's been a while since I ate."
I frowned, my mind flashing to the honey pastries Ryhain had brought earlier. Delicious, certainly—our kitchens rarely produced anything less—but from the sound of her stomach's protest, Jordan needed something far more substantial than sweet confections.
Another growl rumbled forth, even louder. She pressed a hand to her abdomen, her smile equal parts embarrassed and resigned.
Something shifted in my chest—a fierce, protective instinct that had nothing to do with duty and everything to do with the woman standing before me.
The urge to provide for her, to ensure she was properly nourished and cared for, hit me with unexpected force.
I shoved the feeling down, burying it beneath layers of practicality.
This was simple hospitality. Nothing more.
Any chieftain worth his position would do the same for a guest who'd saved one of their own.
"When Ryhain returns, I'll take you to the common house," I said, keeping my voice level. "You need a proper meal."
"Oh, you don't have to go to any trouble—"
"You need to maintain your strength if you're going to continue monitoring Ardin.
" The excuse came easily, wrapped in logic and reason.
Not because the thought of her going hungry created an uncomfortable tightness behind my ribs.
Not because I wanted to watch her eat, to see satisfaction replace the weariness in her eyes.
She studied me for a long moment, her gaze searching my face for something I wasn't sure I wanted her to find. Then she nodded, a genuine smile breaking through. "Okay. Thank you. That would be... really nice, actually."
"It's settled then." I glanced toward the door, straining to hear any sign of Ryhain's approach.
The sooner my sister arrived, the sooner I could get Jordan fed.
The sooner I could stop cataloging every small detail about her—the way morning light highlighted her hair with spun gold, how her scent wrapped around me like silk, clean and floral with an underlying warmth that made me want to lean closer.
It was just novelty, I told myself firmly. Something new and different in a life that had become predictable. Nothing more than that.
Nothing at all.
Footsteps approached, and Ryhain materialized in the doorway like an answer to prayer, a wooden tray balanced carefully in her hands.
Steam curled upward from a clay bowl, carrying with it the rich, golden promise of bone broth—the same recipe our mother had pressed into our hands during childhood fevers and winter chills.
The scent of herbs and marrow wrapped around us, warm and familiar.
"For when he wakes," Ryhain murmured, gliding past Jordan to settle the tray on the small table.
Despite the exhaustion still clinging to her features, something bright flickered in her eyes—hope, fragile but growing.
Her fingers ghosted across Ardin's forehead in that instinctive way mothers have, checking for heat that was no longer there.
"The fever broke hours ago," Jordan offered, her voice soft as morning mist. "He'll wake soon. The broth is perfect timing."
The breath that escaped my sister's lips trembled.
She pivoted toward Jordan, and the raw gratitude etched across her face made my chest tighten.
"You saved him." The words came out thick with emotion.
Before Jordan could deflect or minimize, Ryhain closed the distance and pulled her into a fierce embrace. "You saved my son."
Jordan went rigid—clearly unused to such displays—then melted into the gesture, her hand coming up to pat Ryhain's back with endearing awkwardness. "Of course. I'm just glad I could help."
When they finally separated, tears glittered in my sister's eyes like morning dew. "I owe you a debt that spans lifetimes."
"You don't owe me anything," Jordan insisted, her voice barely above a whisper. "Really."
I cleared my throat, breaking the moment before it could overwhelm us all. "I'm taking Jordan to the common house. She needs food."
Ryhain nodded, already sinking into the chair beside her son's bed, her vigil resumed. "Eat well."
The path to the common house wound through the heart of our village, and I found myself acutely aware of every detail—the way Jordan's shoulder nearly brushed mine as we walked, the curious tilt of her head as she took in her surroundings, the morning light catching in her hair like captured sunlight.
"That's the forge," I said, nodding toward the open-sided building where Jurik's hammer rang against steel in a steady rhythm. Sparks fountained upward with each strike, bright and fleeting. "Most of our weapons and tools are crafted there."
Jordan's face lit with genuine fascination. "It's incredible. Everything here feels so... intentional. Like every piece has its place."
"When survival hangs in the balance, chaos becomes a luxury we can't afford." I gestured toward a row of sturdy buildings. "Food stores. And that delightful aroma you're about to experience? The tannery."
Her nose scrunched in an expression so unexpectedly adorable that something warm unfurled in my chest. I looked away quickly.
But I couldn't escape the weight of attention that followed us through the village.
Eyes tracked our progress from doorways and workstations.
Conversations stuttered and died. Even though humans had woven themselves into the fabric of our community over the years, Jordan was fresh territory.
An unknown quantity walking beside their chieftain.
And she was breathtaking.
I felt each stare like a brand, assessing, speculating.