Those massive hands—hands that could probably crush bone without effort—lowered the boy onto the mattress with thedelicacy of someone handling spun glass. The child's whimper cut straight through me, a knife between the ribs.
"Tammy, I need you!" My fingers were already working, peeling back the blood-soaked fabric. Entry wound, left side, tucked just below the ribs. I searched for an exit wound, found nothing. "Now!"
The Orc retreated a single step, but his presence still dominated the space. He planted himself at the foot of the stretcher like a sentinel carved from stone, those dark eyes—no, not dark, amber, I realized, like whiskey catching firelight—locked onto me with an intensity that raised goosebumps along my arms. Not menacing. Just...aware. Tracking every twitch of my fingers, every breath I took.
I pressed two fingers against the boy's carotid. His pulse fluttered beneath my touch like a trapped bird, too rapid, too weak. Each breath came shallow and desperate.
"What's his name?" The scissors in my hand made quick work of the remaining fabric, exposing pale green skin marbled with darkening veins.
"Ardin."
"Ardin, sweetheart, my name's Jordan. I know you're scared, but I'm going to take care of you, okay?" I kept my tone soft, measured, the way you'd gentle a frightened animal. Even if he couldn't respond, some part of him might still be listening. That connection mattered—sometimes it was the only thing that did.
Tammy exploded through the door, her expression cycling through shock and professional composure in the span of a heartbeat. "Jesus. What've we got?"
"GSW, left lower quadrant, no exit wound. Pulse is 65 and thready, respirations shallow and labored. Start a line, push fluids wide open. I need a full trauma panel and type and crossfor surgery." I lifted my gaze to the Orc, whose jaw had gone rigid as iron. "Any allergies?"
A single shake of his head. "No."
"The bullet's still in there?"
"Yes." The word came out strangled. A muscle ticked beneath the angular plane of his cheekbone. "I believe it's silver."
Fuck.
Tammy's hands stuttered mid-reach for the IV supplies, just for a fraction of a second. Silver bullets. We'd learned enough about Orc physiology to know this was bad—catastrophically bad. Like werewolves in the old stories, Orcs and silver didn't mix. The metal didn't just wound; itcorrupted. It turned healthy tissue necrotic, spread like poison through the bloodstream, made natural healing impossible.
The clock was already ticking down.
"Alright." I caught Tammy's eye. "Page Dr. Reeves. Tell him we need an OR prepped five minutes ago—emergency surgery, suspected silver toxicity." I turned back to the Orc, whose entire body had gone taut as a bowstring. "You made the right call bringing him here."
He didn't answer. Just continued that unblinking vigil, those amber eyes boring into me, and despite the chaos—the blood painting my hands, the child dying on my table, the adrenaline screaming through my veins—something low in my belly tightened in a way that had absolutely nothing to do with fear.
Not now, Jordan. For God's sake, focus.
I turned my attention back to Ardin, pressing gauze against the wound to slow the bleeding. "Hang on, sweetheart. We've got you."
Tammy returned less than a minute later, her face pale. "Dr. Reeves is at Gatlinburg General. Earliest he can be here is an hour and fifteen, maybe more with traffic."
My stomach dropped. I looked down at Ardin. He was so small, about the size of a human six-year-old. His breathing was already labored, his skin taking on a grayish tinge around the wound site. The silver was spreading.
An hour and fifteen minutes. He wouldn't make it.
"Jordan?" Tammy's voice was tight with worry.
I made the decision in a heartbeat. "Bring in a portable X-ray and get me a surgical kit. Local anesthetic, forceps, irrigation supplies. Now."
"You're going to—"
"We don't have a choice." I met her eyes. "The silver is killing him. If we wait for Reeves, this kid dies."
The big Orc's hand shot out, gripping my wrist. Not hard enough to hurt, but firm. Demanding my attention. "You can do this?"
I looked up at him. Up close, I could see the flecks of gold in those amber pupils, the sharp intelligence behind them. "I'm not a surgeon. But I've removed bullets before. With it being a chest wound, I'd rather he be treated by a surgeon, but that's not an option right now."
For a long moment, he just stared at me. Weighing. Deciding whether to trust this human woman with the life of his—what? Son?
Finally, he released my wrist and issued a single, sharp nod. "Do it."
