She rose like someone moving through deep water, every motion weighted with bone-deep fatigue. Her pause beside me lasted only a heartbeat, her hand settling briefly on my shoulder. "Thank you," she breathed, then dragged herself from the room.
The chair she'd abandoned still held the warmth of her vigil. I claimed it without hesitation, positioning myself close enough to catch every subtle shift in Ardin's breathing, every degree of temperature change beneath my fingertips.
Footsteps retreated, then returned. Ruka materialized with a second chair, its legs scraping softly against the floor as he positioned it beside mine. The space between our shoulders measured barely an inch—close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from him.
"You don't have to stay," I said, though the words contradicted the relief flooding through me at his presence. "I can watch him."
"I know I don't have to." Those dark eyes found mine, holding steady. "I want to."
I nodded, my attention drifting back to Ardin. My fingers sought his pulse point again, counting the beats like prayer beads. Still elevated, but the rhythm had steadied—no longer the frantic gallop of before.
"I want to stay a while." The confession slipped out quiet and certain. "Until I know he's truly okay. Until the fever breaks and I'm sure the infection is retreating." I risked a glance at Ruka.
His expression transformed—surprise melting into something warmer, something that sent heat spiraling through my chest and made my pulse forget its steady rhythm.
"Of course you can stay." The words emerged soft as smoke. His hand found mine, fingers intertwining with a gentle pressure that felt like an anchor. "You are welcome here. You are welcome as long as you need—or want."
The weight of those words settled between us, heavy with implications that extended far beyond this room, this vigil, this moment.
"I'd like that," I whispered.
Chapter 5
Ruka
Dawn crept through the window in pale fingers of light, and with it came the certainty that Ardin would live. The tuskling's breathing had settled into the deep, steady rhythm of true sleep—not the fitful tossing of fever. His skin had cooled, the dangerous flush faded to healthy warmth. The knot of tension I'd carried through the endless night finally loosened.
Jordan had surrendered to exhaustion sometime in those small, dark hours before sunrise. I'd felt it happen in stages. The gradual softening of her posture, the subtle lean of her weight, until finally her head came to rest against my shoulder. Her breathing slowed and deepened, her body going slack with the trust of sleep.
I should have shifted away. Should have woken her, suggested she find a proper bed.
I didn't.
The warmth of her against me felt... right. Dangerously so.
She was beautiful in a way that had nothing to do with the softness of her features or the curve of her sleeping form. It was something deeper—something that showed in how she'd looked at me. Not with the revulsion I'd grown accustomed to seeing in human eyes. Not with that particular tightening around the mouth, that instinctive recoil when they took in my tusks, my markings, the brutal architecture of my face.
Jordan had simply seen me. Had spoken to me as though my appearance was unremarkable, as though what mattered was the words between us, not the shape of the mouth that spoke them.
And Ardin—gods, the way she'd treated Ardin. Most humans would have found excuses. Would have wrung their hands and spoken of how unfortunate it all was while doing precisely nothing. Or worse, would have suggested with false sympathy that perhaps it was simply the tuskling's time, that nature should take its course.
Jordan had taken one look at my nephew's fevered, suffering form and rolled up her sleeves.
She'd been gentle with him. Patient. Speaking in low, soothing tones even when delirium had stolen his ability to understand. She'd touched him without hesitation, without disgust, treating him not as some beast-child but as exactly what he was—a boy who needed help. A life that mattered.
That alone would have earned something from me. Gratitude, certainly. Respect.
But it went deeper than that. I'd watched her work through the night, seen the fierce concentration on her face as she fought the infection, witnessed the visible relief that had flooded her features when his condition finally turned. This wasn't duty or obligation. This was compassion woven into the very fabric of who she was.
I shifted slightly, careful not to disturb her, and caught the scent of her hair. Something floral and clean, layered over the earthier notes of travel and worry. Human, yes—but not unpleasant.
Not unpleasant at all.
I should wake her. Her neck would be stiff from this angle, her back protesting the awkward position. But I found myself reluctant to break the spell of this moment. This quietpeace where she trusted me enough to sleep against me, where the boy breathed easily, where the complications of the world hadn't yet come crashing back in.
Just a few more minutes, I told myself. Then I'd face whatever came next.
The soft scrape of wood against wood announced my sister's arrival before I saw her. Ryhain nudged the door open with her hip, arms laden with a tray that threatened to overflow—a clay pitcher beaded with condensation, honey pastries still steaming from the oven, their golden surfaces glistening.