Chapter 9
Jordan
I could still feel Ryhain's arms around me, her tears dampening my shoulder as we'd watched Ardin dart between the houses, shrieking with laughter, blissfully unaware of how close he'd come to never playing again.
The weight of her gratitude, the warmth of all those faces gathered to say goodbye—it settled somewhere deep in my chest, heavy and sweet all at once.
These people had become more than patients. They'd become friends.
And Ruka, what exactly had he become?
The morning sun painted everything in shades of amber and gold, and I found myself hoarding details like a dragon hoards treasure—the way light pooled in the crevices of stone walls, the distant melody of children's laughter floating on the breeze, the solid warmth of Ruka's presence beside me.
Each moment felt precious, something to clutch close when I was back under fluorescent lights breathing in the antiseptic smell of the hospital.
The breakfast had been overwhelming in the best way. Zuhra had outdone herself, preparing every dish I'd mentioned liking over the past week. The elders had spoken blessings in their ancient tongue, words I didn't fully understand but felt thrumming in my bones.
I stole a glance at Ruka. The morning light worshipped him—tracing the strong lines of his jaw, turning his skin to bronze—and something in my chest cracked open.
How was I supposed to climb into that truck and just..
. leave? Pretend the past weeks had been nothing more than a professional obligation?
Last night played on repeat in my mind. His kiss under the stars had started as a question, gentle and uncertain, before transforming into something desperate—like he was trying to brand himself into my memory.
His arms had wrapped around me with a fierceness that made me feel safer than I had in years, maybe since before my parents died.
The way I'd fit against his chest, his heartbeat steady and sure beneath my ear—it had felt like coming home.
After the kiss, he'd just... held me. For hours.
We'd sunk down onto the grass together, my back against his chest, his arms a warm circle around my waist. Neither of us spoke—we didn't need to.
The stars wheeled overhead while his thumb traced absent patterns on my hip, and I'd memorized the rhythm of his breathing, the way his chin rested perfectly on top of my head.
The ride back on Drakkar had been exquisite torture.
Pressed against Ruka's chest, his arms wrapped around my waist, feeling every shift of his muscles as he guided his mount through the darkness.
The heat of him had seeped through our clothes, and I'd caught myself pressing closer, my cheek against his chest, breathing in the scent of him—smoke and pine and something uniquely Ruka.
When we'd finally reached the cabin, I'd been seconds from inviting him to my bed. The words had been right there, trembling on my tongue. But he'd cupped my face in his hands, pressed a kiss to my cheek—so tender it made my throat ache—and whispered goodnight.
Respecting my wishes. Even when my traitorous body had screamed at me to grab his hand, pull him inside, damn the consequences.
I'd fallen for him. Somewhere between the desperate hours treating Ardin and the quiet meals with his clan, between learning to love his village and understanding their language and the electric shock of every accidental touch, I'd tumbled headfirst with Ruka.
And it was utterly, completely impossible.
Two more years. The number circled my thoughts like a vulture.
Two more years shackled to Franklin Memorial by a contract I'd signed in grief and desperation.
ER doctors were rare commodities in rural hospitals, and they'd written their penalty clauses accordingly—meant to maim anyone who tried to escape.
If I'd been in my right mind, if I hadn't been drowning in grief, maybe I would have signed so quickly.
But Mom and Dad were barely cold in the ground, and suddenly their debts had become mine—a mortgage underwater by forty thousand, credit cards I'd never known existed, medical bills from Dad's cancer that had metastasized into collections.
The American dream, rotting from the inside out.
When Franklin Memorial offered a signing bonus and loan assistance, I'd snatched it like a drowning woman grabbing driftwood. Signed my name in triplicate without understanding I was trading one kind of debt for another.
Now that lifeline felt like an anchor.
I couldn't just walk away. Couldn't pack my life into boxes and build something new here, even if the village would have me.
The financial penalties would annihilate me—six figures I didn't have, destroying what little credit I'd managed to salvage.
And what would I even do in this place? They had their healer, their traditions stretching back centuries.
My expertise was in trauma bays and code blues, not in the gentle rhythms of village medicine.
But God, every cell in my body was screaming at me to stay.
We reached my truck in silence, the weight of everything unsaid pressing down like storm clouds.
Ruka lifted my medical bag with the same reverence he might show a sacred talisman, settling it in the passenger seat as if it were made of glass.
Then he pulled out another bag—cloth, tied with twine in that practical, beautiful way the village did everything.
"From Zuhra," he said, his voice like gravel and honey. "She wanted you to have these."
I peered inside and felt my heart crack open.
The cheese I'd raved about at dinner two nights ago, the one that tasted like sunshine and salt.
Fresh flatbread wrapped in linen, still warm.
A jar of pear preserves that caught the morning light, golden and luminous as captured summer. My throat went tight.
"She didn't have to—"
"She wanted to." Ruka's hand lingered on the bag, his fingers tracing the edge of the cloth like he was memorizing the texture. "She also put in the clothes. The blue ones you wore often."
My favorite outfit. The dark blue pants and tunic that had made me feel, for just a little while, like maybe I belonged here. I touched the fabric through the bag, soft and worn from the village's careful washing, and had to blink back the sting in my eyes. "Tell her thank you. For everything."
"You could tell her yourself." The words came out quiet, almost a question, almost a prayer. "If you stayed."
My chest ached like something vital was tearing loose. "Ruka—"
"I know." He stepped back, giving me space even though I could see it cost him. The morning light caught the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw worked like he was physically holding words back. "I know you can't."
The silence stretched between us, filled with all the things we couldn't say, all the futures we couldn't have.
"I wish you could," he finally said, his eyes searching mine with an intensity that made my breath catch and hold. "Stay, I mean. I wish—" He stopped, jaw working like the words were lodged somewhere painful, somewhere deep.
"I wish I could too." The admission slipped out before I could stop it, raw and honest and bleeding. And it was true. God, it was so true it hurt to breathe around it, hurt to stand here and pretend I had a choice.
Ruka's expression softened, something hopeful and fragile flickering there like candlelight before he tamped it down.
"Maybe... maybe you could visit sometime?
When you have time off from the hospital.
" He cleared his throat, and I could hear the forced casualness in his tone, the way he was trying so hard to sound like this wasn't killing him too. "You are always welcome here. Always."
"That would be nice," I said, forcing a smile that felt like it might crack my face open and spill everything inside. "I'd like that."
The lie tasted bitter on my tongue, acrid and wrong and cruel.
Because even as I said it, I knew I wouldn't come back.
I couldn't. Leaving once was already tearing me apart—doing it again and again would be impossible.
Better to make a clean break now, cauterize the wound, than to keep ripping it open and watching it bleed fresh each time.
But I couldn't tell him that. Not when he was looking at me with that spark of hope in his amber gaze, like maybe we had a future after all. Like maybe the universe wasn't as cruel as we both knew it was.
"I should get back," I said, the words making my tongue ache.
"My shift starts in a few hours, and I need to—" I gestured vaguely, unable to finish the sentence.
Unable to say that I needed to go back to my real life, the one that didn't include him, the one that suddenly felt like a prison sentence.
Ruka nodded, but his feet stayed planted. Mine did too. We existed in that suspended moment, morning light painting everything gold, neither of us brave enough to be the first to move.
"Wait." I yanked open the driver's side door, hands already diving for the notepad I kept buried in the console.
The page tore with a sound like ripping fabric.
My pen—where was my damn pen? There. I scrawled my address and cell number, my fingers shaking so badly the numbers looked drunk, tilting and stumbling across the paper.
"Here. If you ever need me—if Ardin needs me, or anyone else—"
He accepted the paper with both hands, reverent, like I'd handed him something sacred instead of my chicken-scratch handwriting. His fingers folded it once, twice, before it disappeared into his pocket. "Jordan—"
"I mean it." The words came out fierce, almost desperate. I caught his gaze and held it, pouring everything I couldn't say into that look. "If you ever need me, you come find me. Promise me."