Chapter 7 #2
Ruka gestured to the bench beside him, and I slid onto it, hyperaware of every eye that swiveled in our direction.
The buzz of conversation had dimmed, replaced by a weighted silence thick with curiosity.
Some gazes held simple interest. Others—particularly the males—held something decidedly less simple.
Something that made my skin prickle with awareness.
I studied my empty plate like it held the secrets of the universe.
Then Ruka rose to his feet, and the entire hall went silent as a tomb.
"My clan." His voice rolled through the space like thunder, commanding without effort.
"This is Jordan. She is a healer from the human world.
" He let the words settle, let them sink into every corner of the room.
"Most of you know that my nephew suffered a grave injury.
Doctor Jordan saved Ardin's life. Without her skill and her bravery, Ryhain's son would not be with us. "
A ripple of sound moved through the crowd—whispers, murmurs, the rustle of bodies shifting.
"Doctor Jordan will remain in our village until Ardin is fully healed," Ruka continued, his gaze sweeping the room. "She has earned your welcome. She has earned your respect."
He sat, and the silence stretched taut as a bowstring.
Then someone thumped their fist against the tabletop—once, twice. The sound detonated through the hall like a war drum. Others joined in, the rhythm spreading like wildfire until the entire common house thundered with it. A primal percussion that rattled my bones and set my heart galloping.
Ruka leaned in, his breath warm against my ear. "It is a gesture of respect from my people. They honor what you have done."
I exhaled shakily and managed what I hoped was a gracious nod, praying it conveyed gratitude rather than the mild terror currently coursing through my veins.
The meal proved to be a revelation—succulent meat that surrendered at the gentlest pressure, roasted vegetables kissed with char and smoke, and bread so pillowy-soft it dissolved on my tongue like butter.
I devoured it all with an enthusiasm that would have mortified me under normal circumstances, but hunger had stripped away my self-consciousness.
As plates emptied and the meal wound down, Orcs began gravitating toward our table.
The females and elders came first—kind faces, warm words of gratitude delivered in charmingly accented English.
I found myself relaxing into their genuine warmth.
The human villagers followed, effusive in their welcome and eager to sing the praises of their adopted home.
Then the males started arriving.
A veritable parade of them.
Each one announced himself with that double chest-thump I was beginning to recognize, their gazes lingering on me with an intensity that made heat crawl up my neck. They maintained a respectful distance, yes, but there were so many of them. An endless procession of broad shoulders and curious eyes.
"Jordan," one said—a younger Orc with elaborate braids woven through his dark hair. Thump. "I am Jarik. If you require anything at all—"
"She has what she needs." Ruka's voice sliced through the offer like a blade through silk. He'd materialized on his feet, positioning himself between us with the casual authority of someone who'd never questioned his right to do so.
Jarik's eyes darted to Ruka, and something unspoken passed between them—some wordless exchange in a language I couldn't begin to decipher. The younger Orc dipped his head and melted back into the crowd.
Another stepped forward. Thump. "Doctor Jordan, I am—"
Ruka shifted, his imposing frame creating an impenetrable wall. "The healer is weary from her travels."
The male retreated without argument.
It happened again. And again. And again.
Each time, the pattern repeated itself with the precision of a well-rehearsed dance.
A male would approach with that distinctive chest-thump, Ruka would materialize between us like some kind of territorial shadow, and the would-be suitor would retreat with varying degrees of disappointment etched across his features.
By the fourth interception, I should have been annoyed. Should have bristled at the presumption, at the way he kept inserting himself between me and every male who dared approach. I was a grown woman, perfectly capable of handling my own conversations, thank you very much.
Except... I wasn't annoyed.
The attention had been flattering at first—even thrilling in that heady, ego-stroking way that comes from being the center of so much interest. But somewhere around suitor number seven, flattery had curdled into something closer to panic.
The weight of all those expectant gazes, the pressure of so many hopeful introductions, the sheer relentlessness of it all—it had started to feel less like admiration and more like drowning.
And Ruka? Ruka was the lifeline I hadn't known I needed.
He wasn't aggressive about it, wasn't posturing or puffing out his chest in some primitive display of dominance.
He simply... existed. A solid, immovable presence that somehow communicated my unavailability without ever saying the word.
His interventions were smooth, almost gentle—the verbal equivalent of a firm but courteous hand on the shoulder, guiding overeager males back into the crowd.
When the last of them finally dispersed—a particularly persistent warrior who'd required two separate dismissals—Ruka turned to me with something that might have been concern flickering in those dark eyes.
"Ready to leave?"
"God, yes," I breathed, perhaps a bit too emphatically. The relief in my voice was palpable, embarrassing in its intensity.
The corner of his mouth twitched—the ghost of a smile, there and gone so quickly I might have imagined it. "Come."
We stepped out into the cool mountain air, and I inhaled deeply, letting the crisp night wash away the lingering claustrophobia of the common house.
The settlement had transformed in our absence, shedding its earlier bustle for something quieter, more intimate.
Soft amber light spilled from windows, painting golden rectangles on the packed earth.
Somewhere in the distance, I caught the low murmur of conversation punctuated by warm laughter—the sounds of a community settling into evening.
The peace of it struck me with unexpected force. This place, these people—there was a gentleness here that contradicted every story I'd ever heard about Orcs.
"We should stop by Ryhain's house," I suggested, breaking the comfortable silence. "I need to check on Ardin."
Ruka nodded, already adjusting our trajectory. The walk was mercifully short—just a few houses down from the common area. When Ruka knocked—a surprisingly gentle sound, considering the size of his fist—Ryhain opened the door almost immediately, as if she'd been waiting.
Her face transformed when she saw us, worry melting into something brighter. "Doctor Jordan. Ruka." She stepped aside, gesturing us in with obvious relief. "He's been asking for you."
The interior was warm, fragrant with herbs and something sweet I couldn't quite identify.
Ardin lay nestled in what could only be described as a cocoon of cushions and blankets, his small frame nearly swallowed by the makeshift bed.
The pallor of recent illness still clung to his features, but underneath it, I could see the flush of returning health painting his cheeks.
The moment his eyes found mine, they sparked with unmistakable delight.
"Hi, Ardin," I said softly, carefully settling onto the edge of the mattress beside him. The cushions gave beneath my weight, and I had to adjust to keep from sliding. "How are you feeling?"
"Better," he announced, his voice surprisingly strong for someone who'd been at death's door just yesterday ago. "Mama made me eat so much soup."
The slight whine in his tone made me smile. Complaining about being force-fed was a good sign—it meant he had the energy to be annoyed. "Good. That's exactly what you need."
I reached for his wrist, my fingers finding the pulse point with practiced ease. Strong and steady, no irregularities. My other hand pressed gently against his forehead—cool to the touch, no fever. Carefully, I peeled back the bandaging, half-afraid of what I might find beneath.
But the wound was beautiful. Well, as beautiful as a healing injury could be.
The edges were knitting together with remarkable speed, the tissue bright green and healthy, no signs of infection or inflammation.
The resilience of Orc physiology continued to astound me.
A human child with similar injuries would still be bedridden for weeks.
The medical journals seemed to be mistaken about pre-pubescent Orcs.
"You're healing wonderfully," I told him, tucking the blanket more snugly around his shoulders. "Keep resting, keep eating your mama's soup, and you'll be running circles around everyone before you know it."
His small tusks peeked out as his face split into a delighted grin. "Promise?"
The hope in his voice squeezed something in my chest. I held up my pinky finger, the gesture automatic. "Promise."
He stared at my extended finger for a moment, confused, before understanding dawned. His own tiny finger hooked around mine, and he squeezed with all the solemnity of someone sealing a sacred oath.
"What does this mean?" he whispered, as if afraid speaking too loudly might break the spell.
"It means I can't break my promise," I whispered back. "It's magic."
His eyes went wide, and I heard Ryhain's soft laugh from somewhere behind us.
She walked us to the door when we finally took our leave, her eyes glistening in the lamplight. "Thank you. Both of you. I don't know what we would have done without—"
"He's going to be just fine," I assured her, catching her hand and squeezing. Her fingers were rough with work, warm with gratitude. "He's strong. Stronger than he knows."