This was insanity. I was a doctor with a job to do. We'd barely known each other a day. Yet every logical protest crumbled to dust when he looked at me like I was the answer to a question he'd been asking his whole life.
I lurched to my feet, graceless and panicked. "I should—it's late. I need to sleep."
He rose with predatory grace, and suddenly the space between us felt both too big and not nearly big enough. All that controlled strength, all that barely leashed intensity—it made my knees weak and my heart race. "Of course. Forgive me—you've had a long day."
"Yes. Long. Extremely long." I was babbling now, backing toward the door. "Thank you. For everything. The fire, the stories, your city—it all sounds amazing."
"Rest well, Doctor Jordan."
The sudden formality cut deeper than it should have. I fled—there was no other word for it—practically stumbling to my room and shutting the door between us. My back hit the wood and I slid down, pressing shaking hands to my flushed cheeks.
What was wrong with me? This place, these people,him—everything I'd been taught said I should be terrified. Instead, I was drawn like a moth to flame, and just as likely to get burned.
I changed into the sleeping shift Zuhra had provided—soft cotton that whispered against my overheated skin—and burrowed under the covers. But sleep played coy, dancing just out of reach. My mind insisted on replaying every moment. Ruka's casual dominance when he'd shielded me from the other males. The gentleness threading through his voice when hespoke of his nephew. The raw grief shadowing his eyes as he'd described his sister's pain.
The molten heat in his gaze when firelight flickered between us.
When exhaustion finally dragged me under, my dreams were a fever of sensation. Firelight and amber eyes. Strong hands and that devastating voice murmuring my name. I wandered through crystal-lit caverns with Ruka at my side, his presence an anchor in the dark. And in those dreams, I was brave. When he reached for me, I reached back. When his eyes asked questions, mine answered yes. When he pulled me close, I melted into him and let myself imagine a world where staying was possible.
Chapter 8
Ruka
Jordan's presence in the village felt like stumbling upon water in the desert—unexpected, precious, life-giving. My nephew was healing in ways I'd barely dared hope for. Just yesterday, he'd been bouncing off the cabin walls like an overexcited pup, pleading with his mother to let him tear around outside with the other tusklings.
When she wasn't fussing over Ardin, Jordan threw herself into clan life with an enthusiasm that both warmed and wounded me. Mornings belonged to Zuhra, who'd claimed Jordan as her personal project in all things village-related. I'd spot them making rounds together—Zuhra's hands painting pictures in the air as she explained hunting party logistics, territorial dispute mediation, winter food storage and distribution. Jordan absorbed it all, firing off questions about our customs and history with such genuine interest that Zuhra practically preened.
Afternoons found Jordan elbow-deep in the communal kitchens, flour streaking her face as she worked beside our cooks. She picked up rootmash preparation like she'd been making it her whole life, learned which streambed herbs could transform a basic stew into something worth fighting over, discovered the secret to making even the stringiest game meat melt on the tongue. In return, she introduced concepts from her world—safe food temperatures, preservation methods that had already prevented spoiled meat from poisoning half the village.
But watching her with Morg—that's when Jordan truly came alive. The old healer had claimed Jordan as the apprentice she'd always wanted, and they'd disappear into Morg's workshop for hours, surrounded by hanging herb bundles and clay pots reeking of medicinal salves. Morg shared the mysteries of fever-breaking mountain flowers, joint-soothing bark teas, and the delicate art of poultice application.
And Jordan revolutionized Morg's practice in return. She demonstrated infection-preventing wound care, showed bone-setting techniques that ensured proper healing, and taught blood-staunching methods that had already kept two overzealous sparring partners from bleeding out. Watching them collaborate—heads together over some new concoction, voices hushed and focused—I didn't see teacher and student anymore. I saw equals. Partners building a bridge between two worlds.
But the evenings? Those belonged to me alone.
As twilight painted the mountains, we'd slip away from the village's warmth and chatter. My home became our sanctuary—a space where the rest of the world fell away with each log I added to the fire. Jordan would claim her corner of the sofa, tucking her legs beneath her in that peculiar way of hers, and I'd settle nearby, close enough to catch the subtle shifts in her expression as firelight danced across her features.
Our conversations wandered like mountain streams—sometimes deep and rushing with meaning, other times meandering through shallow, pleasant territory. She'd describe the metal birds that carried people through her sky, and I'd counter with tales of the great eagle-like fowl that nested in our highest underground peaks. We'd debate the merits of her world's healing magic versus our traditional remedies, argue playfully over which realm had superior cuisine, share fragments of our pasts like precious gifts.
The dangerous moments came without warning. A shared glance that lingered too long. Her scent—that maddening sweetness—intensifying until it wrapped around us both like invisible silk. The air would thicken, charged with everything we weren't saying, and I'd watch her pupils dilate, her breath catch, her lips part slightly as if she might finally—
But she never did. And neither did I.
Instead, we'd retreat to our separate rooms, seeking refuge in sleep and dreams where the barriers between us didn't exist.
Days blurred together in this exquisite torture. Jordan had stopped being the stranger who'd stumbled into our world. She'd become essential—as vital to the village's rhythm as the changing seasons, as necessary to my existence as air.
She'd become home. My home.
And that terrified me more than any battle I'd ever faced.
The transformation sweeping through my clan bordered on the miraculous. Elder Subik's persistent cough—that wet, rattling wheeze that had plagued him for three brutal winters—had simply evaporated within days of Jordan's intervention. Old Throk's festering wound, angry and defiant despite Morg's most potent remedies, now sealed itself with clean pink flesh. Even the expectant mothers gathered in excited clusters, trading whispers about the breathing techniques and positioning methods during birth that Jordan had demonstrated, their faces glowing with newfound hope.
She'd slipped into the fabric of our lives as naturally as rain soaking into thirsty earth, as if the gods themselves had guided her stumbling steps into our village. Children shadowed her everywhere, their small voices pleading for just one more story about her world. The elders actively sought her wisdom now, their initial suspicion melting like spring snow into genuine admiration. And I...
I was drowning in feelings I had absolutely no right to harbor for someone destined to leave.
The cruelest twist? I wasn't the only one who'd noticed her worth.