"You're a good man, Ruka." The words escaped quietly, inadequate for the tangle of feelings in my chest, but undeniably true.
Something softened in his expression—a crack in that warrior's facade—and that look, god, thatlookstole the air from my lungs.
"And you are a good female, Jordan."
The words landed like a physical touch, sending a shiver cascading down my spine that had absolutely nothing to do with the temperature. My body betrayed me spectacularly—pulse quickening, skin flushing hot, a liquid warmth unfurling low in my belly that made me shift in my seat and press my thighs together.
Then, like ice water dumped over my head: the memory of an article I'd skimmed in a medical journal. Orcish physiology. Enhanced senses. Particularly smell. They could track wounded prey across mountain ranges, detect lies in a heartbeat's acceleration, read desire in the chemical signatures of—
Oh no. Ohno.
My eyes snapped to his face. Could he smell what I was feeling right now? This want that had my thighs clenching, my breath coming shallow and quick? The arousal that was probably broadcasting itself like a damn beacon?
I needed to redirect this conversation before I spontaneously combusted from sheer mortification.
"Tell me about it," I blurted, the words tumbling out in a desperate rush. "The underground kingdom. What was it like?"
Ruka's head tilted, those dark eyes studying me with an intensity that made my stomach flip. The corner of his mouth curved—barely there, but unmistakable. He knew. He absolutelyknew. But bless him, he simply nodded, granting me the mercy of pretending otherwise.
"Vast," he said, his voice dropping into something almost reverent. "The great caverns stretch so high that clouds form beneath their ceilings. Our tallest warriors look like children standing in amid the halls."
His gaze grew distant, seeing something I couldn't—something that softened the hard lines of his face.
"There are places where crystals grow wild from the walls. Blue, green, violet—they glow with their own light, like captured stars." His hands moved as he spoke, painting pictures in the firelit air. "We tend them like your people tend gardens, coaxing them to bloom brighter. They illuminate our darkness in return."
I found myself leaning forward, embarrassment momentarily forgotten. "That sounds incredible."
"The rivers..." A smile ghosted across his lips—genuine, unguarded. "Underground rivers cut through the deep places. Waterfalls that thunder into pools so clear you can count every stone at the bottom, no matter the depth. The sound of rushing water is the heartbeat of Khaz'Dura—our great city. It echoes through every tunnel, every chamber, constant as breathing."
"In the lower caverns, we cultivate mushroom forests," he continued, warming to the subject. "Some grow taller than I stand, with caps broad enough to shelter a family. They feed us, heal us, light our way with their own phosphorescence."
"The great city..." He paused, and something like homesickness flickered across his features. "The ceiling disappears into shadow even when every crystal blazes. Our homes spiral upward in tiers carved directly from the cavern walls—hundreds of them, thousands, connected by bridges of stone and woven rope. At night, when the cook fires burn and the crystals pulse..." His voice dropped to almost a whisper. "It is as though the stars themselves have descended into the earth."
I tried to imagine it—this impossible underground metropolis, alive with movement and light and the voices of his people echoing off ancient stone. Nothing like the dark, cramped tunnels I'd pictured.
"The forges sit in the deepest places," Ruka said, pride threading through his words now. "Where the earth's warmth rises through the rock. Our smiths create weapons and tools using techniques older than memory. The ring of hammer on anvil never stops—it's the second heartbeat of our people."
He leaned forward slightly, firelight dancing across his features. "And the great hall... every pillar is carved with our history. Each generation adds their chapter to the stone, sothat our story never fades. You can trace your fingers over the carvings and feel the lives of those who came before."
"How long?" I breathed. "How long have your people lived there?"
"Long enough that the oldest carvings have worn smooth. Long enough that the first words are lost to us, their meaning debated by our scholars." His eyes met mine, holding them. "But we endure. We adapt. The stone shelters us, and we honor it with our lives, our art, our stories."
"It sounds..." I struggled for adequate words, my chest tight with something I couldn't name. "It sounds absolutely beautiful."
Something shifted in his expression—softened, opened like a door I hadn't known was closed. "It is home." A pause, weighted with meaning that made my breath catch. "I wish I could show you. Someday."
The words settled between us like a promise, delicate and precious. My heart stuttered against my ribs.
"I'd like that," I whispered, and meant it with an intensity that surprised me. "I really would."
The silence that followed wrapped around us like silk, intimate and charged. The fire popped and hissed, sending embers dancing upward into the night, and suddenly I couldn't remember when we'd drifted so close. Close enough that the firelight painted gold across the sharp planes of his face. Close enough that his warmth seemed to seep into my skin, chasing away the mountain chill.
His gaze locked with mine, and what I saw there stole the breath from my lungs—something fierce and tender and utterly unguarded. It was the look of a man standing at the edge of a precipice, deciding whether to leap.
"Jordan..."
The way he said my name—low and rough, like gravel wrapped in velvet—sent a shiver cascading down my spine. It wasn't just sound. It was a caress, a question, a confession all at once. Something deep inside me unfurled at the sound, reaching toward him like a flower toward sunlight.
