Ruka gave a single nod, already moving to position himself beside the bed. One massive hand settled on the edge of the mattress, hovering near—but not quite touching—Ardin's shoulder. The gesture was so careful, so protective, it made something tighten in my chest.
Tammy and I slipped out quietly, pulling the door most of the way closed behind us. In the hallway, Tammy caught my arm, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Jordan, we're supposed to call the sheriff. Gunshot wound—it's protocol."
I paused, glancing back at the exam room where Ruka kept his silent vigil. "Would it do any good?"
Tammy's expression turned grim. "No. Everyone knows Sheriff Dawson doesn't like Orcs. He'd probably come down here and make their night even worse, ask a bunch of questions, try to make the Orcs look like the bad guys."
I thought about it for a moment—about the fear in Ruka's eyes when he'd carried Ardin through our doors, about the careful way he'd answered every question, about a father who'd done nothing wrong except have a son who'd been in the wrong place at the wrong time.
"We'll make the call," I said finally. "But later. After they leave. We'll say we were too busy stabilizing the patient to call right away, which isn't much of a lie." I met Tammy's gaze. "That way they'll be gone when Dawson shows up."
Tammy nodded slowly, relief crossing her features. "Later. After they're gone."
"After they're gone," I confirmed.
The waiting room stood empty, leaving the ER in that strange liminal space between night and morning. I grabbed Ardin's chart and started filling in the details—patient chartsdidn't complete themselves, no matter how much I wished they would, especially at three in the morning.
But I couldn't focus.
My gaze kept wandering back to that exam room, drawn to the sliver of space where the door stood ajar. Through it, I could make out Ruka's silhouette—motionless, steadfast. In the half-light, his features were all dramatic contrasts. The heavy ridge of his brow casting shadows over those luminous amber eyes, the strong cut of his jaw, the ivory curve of his tusks breaching past his lower lip, the powerful breadth of his shoulders that seemed to fill the small room.
I'd seen Orcs before, of course. On the news, in Franklin's downtown, always at a careful distance. Everyone had, ever since the Integration. The media couldn't get enough of them—usually framed to inspire either fear or fascination. They were imposing, undeniably powerful, their masculinity almost mythic in its intensity.
But I'd never looked at one and thought:beautiful.
The word ambushed me, stealing my breath. Yet there it was, undeniable. Ruka was beautiful—not despite the orcish features that made him so different from me, butbecauseof them. The raw strength evident in every line of his frame. The keen intelligence burning in those golden eyes. The exquisite gentleness with which those battle-scarred hands had cradled Ardin. It wove together into something that made my heart stumble in my chest, a flutter that had nothing whatsoever to do with the adrenaline crash I was riding.
"Earth to Dr. Bennett?" Tammy's voice cut through my reverie.
Heat flooded my cheeks. "What? Sorry. Just—tired."
"Mm-hmm." The sound dripped with skepticism, and when I risked a glance up, her expression was far too knowing for comfort.
I ducked my head, focusing intently on the chart in front of me. The words blurred together. I told myself not to look at the exam room again.
I looked anyway.
The rest of the night passed in that peculiar stillness that settles over emergency rooms in the hours before dawn like a held breath. I found myself drawn back to Ardin's room more times than strictly necessary, each visit revealing Ruka standing vigil beside the narrow bed, one massive hand resting on the boy's shoulder with a tenderness that seemed impossible from someone so formidable. Those amber eyes never left the monitor, tracking each heartbeat, each breath, as if he could will the child to heal through sheer force of attention.
He never sat. Never slumped. A mountain keeping watch.
By the time sunrise painted the waiting room windows in shades of honey and rose, I was held together by nothing but coffee and stubborn determination. The day shift would arrive soon to relieve me, but I wanted to hang one more bag of antibiotics before I surrendered Ardin to their care.
I was adjusting the IV drip when I heard it—the staccato percussion of expensive heels against linoleum, sharp as gunfire.
Everyone in the ER knew that sound. It was the harbinger of judgment, the drumbeat of bureaucratic fury.
Medical Director Nadine Fletcher materialized in the doorway. Her light brown hair was scraped back into a bun so severe it could have been classified as a weapon, and behind wire-rimmed glasses, her eyes—pale blue and pitiless—swept from me to Ardin to Ruka. I watched her expression curdle from mere irritation into something far more venomous.
"What," she said, each word dripping acid, "isthis?"
I straightened, forcing my voice into professional neutrality. "This is Ardin. Six years old, presented with agunshot wound to the lower chest. I performed emergency surgery to—"
"I can read a chart, Jordan." She snatched the clipboard from the footboard, her mouth compressing into a bloodless line as she scanned the notes. "What I want to know is why you thought it was appropriate to squander hospital resources on—" Her gaze sliced toward Ardin with naked revulsion. "—onthis."
The air itself seemed to freeze.
"On a child?" The words came out sharp and disbelieving. "A child who would have bled to death otherwise?"