Chapter 7
Jordan
I woke to knocking—gentle but insistent, like someone trying to rouse me without startling me awake.
For a moment, I floated in that strange liminal space where you can't quite remember where you are or how you got there.
The room swam into focus slowly. Dim light filtering through the window, unfamiliar walls, the weight of deep sleep still clinging to my limbs.
"Jordan?" Ruka's voice drifted through the door, low and careful. "It is time for the evening meal."
I pushed myself upright, blinking hard against the fog in my brain. "Just a minute!"
The words came out scratchy and rough. I cleared my throat as I swung my legs over the side of the bed, and that's when I spotted them—clothes, neatly folded on the table. Beside them sat several small containers and what looked like handmade bars of soap.
Zuhra must have slipped in while I was dead to the world.
I padded over to the table, curiosity pulling me forward.
The fabric was soft under my fingertips, well-made but clearly lived-in.
I picked up one of the soap bars and lifted it to my nose—immediately, I was hit with the scent of herbs and something floral.
Lavender, maybe? It was gorgeous, nothing like the artificial fragrances back home.
The shampoo in its clay container smelled even better, all earthy and clean and natural.
I started sorting through what Zuhra had left. Several tunics in different weights and colors—deep forest green, warm ochre, soft cream. Beneath those, a couple of simple dresses with practical cuts and sturdy stitching. Two pairs of loose-fitting pants. Some leggings.
And underwear. Thank God. Simple cotton undergarments that appeared blessedly comfortable. Such a small thing, really, but the thoughtfulness behind it—Zuhra taking the time to think of everything I might need—made something catch in my chest.
I reached for the cream-colored tunic, then stopped.
My skin felt grimy, sticky with the residue of sleep and stress.
Ardin's procedure had been relatively clean, but any kind of surgery left me feeling icky.
The memory of that copper tub in the bathing room flickered through my mind—I'd been too exhausted to appreciate it last night, but now. ..
Now the thought of sinking into water, of washing away the last two days before putting on fresh clothes, was almost irresistible.
"Do I have time for a quick bath?" I called toward the door.
A pause. "Yes. I will wait."
The copper tub gleamed in the soft light, its surface burnished to a warm glow. I worked the pump handle, watching clear water gush out, and was pleasantly surprised to find it warm—not hot, but far from cold.
I stripped off yesterday's clothes and sank into the water with a sigh that was probably indecent. The tub was deep enough that I could submerge up to my shoulders, and for a moment I just floated there, feeling the tension drain from my muscles like poison from a wound.
The soap lathered beautifully, rich and creamy, and I scrubbed away two days' worth of grime and stress and worry.
Washing my hair was pure bliss—the shampoo smelled like mountain herbs and left my scalp tingling in the best way.
I worked my fingers through the tangles slowly, methodically, letting the simple ritual anchor me back in my body.
When I finally climbed out, I felt almost human again.
I dried off with one of the soft cloths folded near the tub and turned to face the neatly arranged clothing.
The brown pants went on first—then immediately came off in favor of a darker pair that didn't make me look quite so washed out.
I held the blue tunic up to my chest, frowned, tossed it aside for the green one. Reconsidered. Picked up the blue again.
"Oh, for heaven's sake," I muttered to my reflection in the copper tub's warped surface.
Everything fit surprisingly well, if a bit loose—Zuhra clearly had a practiced eye for these things.
I rolled the sleeves to my elbows and worked my fingers through my damp hair, wishing for a mirror but telling myself I didn't really need one.
This wasn't a date. This was dinner. With the entire village.
Perfectly normal, perfectly professional.
Except my hands wouldn't stop fussing with the tunic's neckline.
I froze mid-adjustment, catching myself in the act. When exactly had this happened? This flutter of nerves, this sudden preoccupation with whether the blue brought out my eyes, this entirely inappropriate desire to look good for—
My stomach performed an acrobatic flip that had absolutely nothing to do with hunger.
"No," I said aloud to the empty room. "Absolutely not."
But my treacherous hands were already smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from the fabric, adjusting the drape of the shoulders.
I forced them down to my sides. Pressed my palms flat against my thighs and took a deliberate breath.
This was ridiculous. I was a doctor. A guest. Someone who'd literally fallen into this world by complete accident and would presumably fall back out of it just as quickly.
Developing feelings—and yes, fine, that's what this squirmy, fluttery sensation was—for a seven-foot Orc was a complication I absolutely did not need.
I barely knew him. Yes, he'd been kind. Yes, he had those eyes and that voice and those shoulders but that didn't mean—
I caught myself reaching up to arrange my hair again.
"Jordan," I said firmly to my blurry reflection. "Get. It. Together."
The blue tunic it was, then. Because it was practical and warm. Not because of how the color looked against my skin, and certainly not because I'd noticed Ruka's gaze linger when I wore my blue scrubs that night in the hospital. That would be absurd.
I was an excellent liar. Especially to myself.
"Okay," I called out, pulling open the bedroom door before I could second-guess myself into changing outfits a fifth time. "I'm ready."
Ruka stood waiting in the main room, and when his eyes found me, something shifted in his expression—a softening around the edges, a slight parting of his lips.
The look lasted barely a heartbeat before his usual composure slid back into place, but I'd caught it.
Heat crept up my neck. He wore the same leather pants as before but had changed into a black t-shirt, that for the life of me looked better than any formalwear I could remember.
"The clothes suit you well," he said, his voice carrying a warmth that hadn't been there before.
"They're perfect. Thank you."
He held my gaze a moment longer than necessary, then gestured toward the door with an almost reluctant movement. "Come. The clan is eager to meet the healer who saved Ardin's life."
My stomach performed an acrobatic routine worthy of Cirque du Soleil, but I followed him into the deepening twilight.
The village had settled into its evening rhythm.
An elderly female Orc passed us carrying a basket of what looked like purple root vegetables, offering Ruka a respectful nod and me a curious but not unfriendly stare.
Two young males hauling firewood stopped mid-stride to watch us, their tusked grins breaking wide when Ruka acknowledged them.
A child squealed somewhere nearby, chasing what I could only describe as a very indignant small goat around a corner.
Ruka walked close beside me—close enough that the fabric of his sleeve whispered against mine with each step. Every accidental brush of contact lit up my nerve endings like a string of Christmas lights, and I was absolutely certain he could hear my heart hammering against my ribs.
Say something, my brain urged. Literally anything. Break this tension before you spontaneously combust.
"Your village is lovely," I ventured, then immediately wanted to crawl into a hole. Lovely? Really, Jordan?
But Ruka's expression gentled. "I'm glad you think so." He paused, seeming to choose his next words carefully. "It means something, that you see it that way."
The sincerity in his voice caught me off-guard, and suddenly the silence between us felt less awkward and more... charged. Anticipatory. Like the moment before a storm breaks, when the air itself seems to hold its breath.
The common house swallowed us whole the moment we crossed the threshold—a riot of warmth and sound that crashed over me like a wave.
Laughter erupted from every corner, wild and uninhibited, weaving between the percussion of wooden cups slamming down and benches scraping across stone.
Tables stretched the length of the hall like the spine of some great beast, every inch crammed with Orcs whose shoulders jostled companionably.
I caught sight of several humans scattered among them, looking perfectly at home, and felt a flutter of surprise.
The air itself was intoxicating—roasted meat and earthy root vegetables mingling with herbs that smelled delicious.
My stomach announced its approval with a growl that could probably be heard back in Franklin.
Every table groaned under the weight of food and bodies—every table except one.
The chieftain's table.
Ruka's hand found the small of my back, guiding me forward, and I had to actively remind myself to breathe. To think about literally anything other than the heat of his palm burning through the fabric of my tunic.
Zuhra sat at the table already, flanked by a handful of Orcs whose faces I didn't recognize. But one face was notably missing.
"Where's Ryhain?" I asked as we drew closer, keeping my voice low.
Zuhra's expression melted into something softer. "I took food to her earlier. She didn't want to leave Ardin's side."
"He's awake?" Hope surged through my chest, bright and sudden.
"Awake, talking, and demanding seconds." A smile ghosted across Zuhra's lips.
"That's excellent," I said, feeling the knot of worry I'd been carrying loosen just a fraction. "All textbook signs of recovery."