"He'll recover, then?" The question came out rougher than I'd intended.
She rewrapped the bandage with gentle precision. "With rest and proper care, yes. He should make a full recovery."
I hadn't realized how much weight I'd been carrying until that moment—how tightly wound I'd been since finding Ardin bleeding in the forest. He would live. Would grow strong. Would have the chance to become whatever he chose to be, warrior or scholar or something else entirely.
"Thank you," I said, knowing the words were inadequate for what she'd done.
Jordan's smile was soft, genuine, and did dangerous things to my composure. "Just doing my job."
But we both knew better. She'd stayed through the night, pushed herself past exhaustion for a child who wasn't hers, in a village that wasn't home, among people who still watched her with wary eyes and whispered suspicions.
She'd done it because it was the right thing to do. Because beneath that professional exterior beat the heart of someone truly good.
And I was beginning to understand that goodness paired with courage was far more dangerous to my carefully maintained distance than simple physical attraction could ever be.
I watched as she gathered her supplies, those long, slender fingers moving with practiced efficiency as she tucked instruments back into her medical bag. Morning light painted her in shades of gold and exhaustion—the delicate shadows beneath her eyes, the weary slope of her shoulders that she tried so hard to hide.
"I'll arrange for an escort to take you back to the main road," I said, my mind already running through which warriors I could spare for the journey. I'd take her myself if I could, but that would set tongues wagging from here to the border. "You must be desperate for your own bed by now."
Jordan's hand stilled over a roll of bandages. When she turned to face me, something flickered in her expression—hesitation, maybe, or hope. "Actually... I was thinking I might stay a few more days. If that's okay?"
The words caught me off guard. "Stay?"
"Wounds like this are deceptive." Her gaze drifted back to Ardin, and the concern etched into every line of her face was sogenuine it made my chest ache. "The next forty-eight hours are make or break. I need to be certain he's truly stable before I go."
That warm, dangerous thing in my chest unfurled its wings. "You'd do that? Stay here, among us?"
"Why wouldn't I?" She said it like the answer was obvious, like bedding down in an Orc village was as natural as breathing. "He's my patient. I don't abandon my patients."
"Then you're welcome for as long as you need," I said, and meant it with an intensity that should have alarmed me. "My village is honored."
A smile ghosted across her lips, small but radiant. "Thank you. Though I probably should ask—do I need to clear this with your mayor or village leader? I don't want to step on any toes."
I felt my mouth curve despite myself. "I am the chieftain."
Her eyes went wide as moons. "You're—oh." Color bloomed across her cheeks like sunrise, and I had to fight the urge to trace its path with my fingers. "I didn't realize. I mean, I should have, the way everyone looks to you, but I just assumed..." She floundered, adorably flustered in a way that made something primal in me want to both protect and provoke her.
"You assumed I was simply Ardin's doting uncle," I supplied.
"Exactly." Her laugh was soft and musical, sending an unexpected shiver down my spine. "Sorry. I'm usually more observant than this."
"You were busy saving his life," I said. "I'd call that excellent prioritization."
Our eyes met, and the air between us shifted—charged with something unspoken, something that hummed like lightning before a storm. Neither of us looked away.
"So," she said finally, her voice dropping into a more businesslike register that somehow made me miss the warmthfrom moments before. "Where should I set up? I'll need to check on Ardin regularly, and I don't want to impose on the family more than necessary."
"You'll stay close," I said, the words coming out more commanding than I'd intended. I softened my tone. "I'll make arrangements."
Before I could elaborate on exactly what those arrangements might entail, her stomach betrayed her with a low, insistent growl that echoed in the quiet room.
The flush that had been fading from Jordan's cheeks returned with a vengeance, spreading down the column of her throat in a way that made my mouth go dry. "Sorry. I, uh—it's been a while since I ate."
I frowned, my mind flashing to the honey pastries Ryhain had brought earlier. Delicious, certainly—our kitchens rarely produced anything less—but from the sound of her stomach's protest, Jordan needed something far more substantial than sweet confections.
Another growl rumbled forth, even louder. She pressed a hand to her abdomen, her smile equal parts embarrassed and resigned.
Something shifted in my chest—a fierce, protective instinct that had nothing to do with duty and everything to do with the woman standing before me. The urge to provide for her, to ensure she was properly nourished and cared for, hit me with unexpected force. I shoved the feeling down, burying it beneath layers of practicality. This was simple hospitality. Nothing more. Any chieftain worth his position would do the same for a guest who'd saved one of their own.