Chapter 8 #2
Her expression softened into something that made my heart stumble. She reached out, her hand finding my arm, her touch burning through skin and muscle straight to bone.
"Ruka..."
But Morg's voice sliced sharply through the moment—another patient, another emergency, another stark reminder that Jordan belonged to everyone who needed her, not just to me.
She squeezed my arm once, the gesture carrying the weight of both promise and apology, before she turned and hurried away.
I stood there like the world's greatest fool, watching her retreat, memorizing the way her hair caught the light.
Just as I would stand and watch her leave for good tomorrow.
The urge to roar my frustration at the indifferent sky nearly overwhelmed me. Instead, I went to find Kael. Someone needed to make it crystal clear that Jordan was forbidden territory—even if I had no actual claim to enforce.
Even if she could never truly be mine.
Jordan returned an hour later, sleeves shoved to her elbows, satisfaction radiating from her like heat from forge-fire. A smudge of something—dirt, ash, perhaps both—decorated her cheek, and rebellious strands of hair had escaped their binding to frame her face in glorious chaos.
She was absolutely devastating.
"Morg's incredible," she announced, scrubbing her hands at the basin with that focused intensity she brought to everything.
"Give her a few more weeks and she could run a field hospital single-handed.
" She dried off and spun toward me, eyes bright as stars.
"I'm absolutely famished. When do we eat? "
The thought of the communal table made my jaw clench. Sitting there surrounded by well-meaning farewells, watching Kael or some other fool make one last desperate attempt to capture her attention, enduring the countdown to her departure like a death sentence—I couldn't stomach it.
Tomorrow she'd be gone. Tonight was mine. I'd claim that if nothing else.
"I have something better in mind," I said, the plan crystallizing even as I spoke. "A picnic."
Her eyebrows climbed toward her hairline. "A picnic?"
"There's a place I want to show you." I paused, then offered her the truth like a gift. "It reminds me of home. Of the underground."
Her features melted into something achingly tender. "I'd love that."
"We'll take my horse. It's too far on foot, and we have to wait until nightfall."
"Why wait?"
"Tourists visit during daylight hours. Too many humans." I managed something between a grimace and a smile. "They get skittish around Orcs. Can't imagine why."
Jordan's laugh rang out, that luminous sound I'd become hopelessly addicted to. "Their loss entirely. Give me ten minutes to change?"
I nodded, tracking her movement as she vanished into her room, already mourning the loss of her presence. Ten minutes to gather provisions, saddle my horse, and fortify myself for what would be our final evening together.
Ten minutes to prepare for goodbye.
I moved with purpose, my strides devouring the distance to the common house. The evening air kissed my skin, but I was burning from within—time slipping through my fingers like sand through a clenched fist.
Zuhra was prepping for the evening meal when I entered, her weathered hands dancing through their familiar choreography. She glanced up, and whatever storm she read in my expression made her freeze mid-motion, wooden spoon suspended like a question mark.
"Chieftain," she said, her voice rich with knowing. "What brings you here looking like a lovesick tuskling?"
Heat crawled up my neck, betraying me. "I need a picnic basket. Food for two. Something... special."
Her lips curved into a smile that could've launched a thousand conspiracies—equal parts mischief and maternal warmth. She set down the bowl with a decisive thunk. "For Doctor Jordan's last night, yes?"
The words stuck in my throat like thorns. I managed a nod.
"Finally." She clucked her tongue, the sound somehow both scolding and celebratory.
"I was beginning to think you'd let her leave without saying a proper goodbye.
" Already she was moving toward the larder, her weathered frame suddenly possessed by surprising speed.
"I'll pack you something worthy of the occasion. "
I stood there feeling flayed open, as if every tangled emotion in my chest had been inked across my skin in bold script.
Zuhra worked with the precision of a general marshaling troops for battle—wrapping still-warm bread that steamed when she cut it, adding wedges of aged cheese that crumbled at the edges, tucking in slices of cold roasted meat glistening with herbs and fat, nestling sweet berry tarts that perfumed the air with summer itself, and finally producing a flask of berry wine that caught the lamplight and held it captive like liquid rubies.
"Here." She pressed the basket into my hands, then reached up to cup my cheek—I had to bend low, making myself small for her touch, and the tenderness of it made something behind my ribs constrict. "Enjoy your evening, Ruka. Whatever happens, you deserve this moment."
Her blessing settled over me like armor as I thanked her and headed for the stables, the basket suddenly feeling like it held more than just food—it held possibility.
The stable doors creaked open to release their familiar symphony—the sweet musk of hay, the rich tang of leather, the warm earthiness of horse.
Drakkar's great head swung toward me, ears pricked forward, nostrils flaring wide to drink in my scent.
My Friesian. Black as a moonless sky and built like a fortress on hooves.
His greeting rumbled from somewhere deep in that barrel chest, a sound that vibrated through the floorboards beneath my feet.
His kind seemed bred specifically for Orc riders—massive enough to carry my weight as if I were nothing more than a child, powerful enough to traverse mountain passes that would break lesser horses.
We'd been companions since my first days in the sunlit world, and he knew my moods better than most people ever would.
"Easy, boy." My palm found the familiar warmth of his neck, sliding along the obsidian gleam of his coat. Even in the stable's half-light, he shone. "We have somewhere special to be tonight."
I set Zuhra's basket carefully aside and reached for his tack.
My hands knew this dance by heart—the saddle blanket smoothed just so across his broad back, the saddle settled into its perfect position, the cinch tightened with practiced efficiency.
The bridle slipped over his ears as it had a thousand times before, and through it all Drakkar stood like carved stone, patient and steady.
Only his ears betrayed his awareness, swiveling constantly—forward toward me, back toward the door, forward again—as if he could sense the wild current of anticipation crackling beneath my skin.
My fingers trembled on a buckle. I had to pause, draw breath deep into my lungs, begin again.
When everything was secured and the basket tied safely to the saddle, I led Drakkar out into the evening's embrace. The air had cooled, turned soft and welcoming. And there, silhouetted against the porch with sunset painting gold across her shoulders, stood Jordan.
Time stuttered.
Her hair tumbled loose around her shoulders, catching the dying light like spun copper.
She'd abandoned her usual practical braid, and the transformation stole the breath from my lungs.
The borrowed clothes—a simple tunic and pants in soft brown that some village woman had lent her—draped her frame with an effortless grace that made my chest tighten.
Beautiful didn't begin to cover it.
I'd been aware of her beauty from the start, of course. From that first moment in the hospital when our eyes met. But awareness and this—this visceral punch of longing—were worlds apart. Tonight, with goodbye looming like a shadow between us, her beauty felt almost cruel in its intensity.
The curve of her mouth when she smiled. The spark in her eyes as they found mine. The fluid confidence in her stride as she descended the porch steps—I wanted to burn every detail into my memory, to carry these images with me through all the empty days to come.
"Is this your horse?" She approached Drakkar with the measured respect of someone who understood the language of large animals. "He's magnificent."
"This is Drakkar." My voice emerged rougher than I'd intended, scraped raw by emotion. "He may look fearsome, but he's gentle as morning rain. Have you ridden before?"
"A few times, though never on anything quite so..." She extended her hand slowly, allowing Drakkar to investigate her scent. He exhaled warm breath across her palm, and her smile bloomed wider. "...majestic."
I swung myself up into the saddle, then gazed down at her upturned face, haloed in amber light. "You'll ride with me. Give me your hand."
She placed her hand in mine without a heartbeat's hesitation—small and warm and trusting. I lifted her as though she were made of breath and wishes, settling her sideways before me, then gently guiding her to shift until she sat astride.
And then she was there, cradled against my chest, and the entire world contracted to the places where our bodies met.
She fit perfectly. Impossibly, devastatingly perfectly.
Her spine curved against my torso as if we'd been carved from the same stone.
Her head tucked just beneath my chin, her hair whispering against my throat.
Her body nestled between my thighs, her hips settling into the cradle of the saddle and my embrace with a rightness that made my heart ache.
The scent of her—herbs and soap and something uniquely, intoxicatingly Jordan—flooded my senses with every breath.
My arm encircled her waist to steady her, and her hand came to rest over my forearm, her fingers feather-light against my skin.
"Comfortable?" I managed, though my voice had dropped to something barely above a whisper.