"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.