Her throat worked. Then she nodded, jaw setting with the same stubborn determination I'd seen in her brother.
The next hour became an intensive crash course in survival medicine. I demonstrated proper handwashing—not the quick rinse most people did, but the thorough, methodical scrubbing that actually killed pathogens. Soap, hot water, two full minutes of friction between every finger, under every nail. I showed them how to fashion masks from clean cloth, how to tie them snugly over nose and mouth without leaving gaps. How to read a body's distress signals—the glassy-eyed stare of dangerous dehydration, the particular flush of fever climbing toward critical, the subtle shift in breathing that meant lungs were struggling.
And most critically, I taught them to monitor themselves. To recognize when they'd crossed from caregiver to patient.
Morg absorbed it all with the focused intensity of a general memorizing battle plans. "We will do as you say, healer," she said, her voice carrying the weight of an oath.
While I worked, Ruka became the steady heartbeat of the village. Through the doorway, I'd catch flashes of him speaking with terrified families, his presence alone seeming to calm their panic. He rallied the warriors still on their feet, coordinating supply drops at each dwelling. His voice, deep and resonant, carried reassurance like a physical thing, wrapping around frightened people and giving them something solid to hold onto.
Once, I glanced up from checking a young girl's thready pulse to find him kneeling beside an elderly man's pallet. He'd tied cloth over his nose and mouth, but his eyes were visible—warm, present. One massive hand rested on the old man's bony shoulder with infinite gentleness as he spoke in tones too low for me to hear. Whatever he said worked magic. The fear-rigid lines of the patient's face softened, and he managed a weak nod, some of the terror leaving his eyes.
Something fierce and bright bloomed in my chest.
This was leadership stripped to its essence. Not barking orders from a safe distance, but wading into the darkness alongside your people. Not just wielding authority, but offering your actual presence—your time, your touch, your willingness to be vulnerable beside them.
"Your mate is a good chieftain," Morg murmured, catching the direction of my gaze. "The people trust him. They will follow his guidance through this darkness."
"He is," I whispered, my throat suddenly tight. "He really, really is."
Across the crowded room, through the haze of fear and sickness, Ruka's eyes found mine, and in the midst of all the chaos, I saw the question that passed between us.Are you alright?
I nodded, mustering a small smile.I'm okay.
His answering nod was barely perceptible, but I felt the full weight of what it carried—his trust, his faith, his absolute belief in me. In us.
I turned back to my patients, pushing up my sleeves with renewed determination. The road ahead would be brutal, no question. But watching Ruka move through his people like an anchor in the storm, I felt something solid settle behind my ribs.
Pride. The kind that ran bone-deep and unshakeable.
Pride in the man I'd chosen. The man who had chosen me back.
Whatever hell came next, we'd face it side by side.
Time became a slippery thing, hours melting into one another like wax as day bled into night. I drifted from patient to patient in a fog of exhaustion, doing what little I could with what little I had—cooling fevered skin, coaxing water past cracked lips, counting breaths that came too shallow, too fast. But the disease was relentless. With each rotation around the room, new faces joined the sick. The telltale rash bloomed across more skin.Temperatures spiked higher. My makeshift clinic swelled past its breaking point, bodies crowding every available surface.
When dawn finally crept through the windows, washing everything in cold, unforgiving light, I was a hollow shell held together by sheer stubbornness. My hands wouldn't stop shaking as I pressed the thermometer to another child's forehead. 103.8 degrees. Pustules were already erupting across her pale green cheeks and down her small arms.
The walls closed in. I stumbled outside, gulping air that tasted like failure.
Ruka materialized beside me, his hand finding my elbow before my knees could buckle.
"Jordan?"
I met his eyes, and everything I'd been holding back—all the terror, all the helplessness—rose up in a wave that threatened to drown me. I'd been playing the role of confident physician, the healer his people desperately needed. But standing there in the merciless morning light, the truth crashed over me with devastating clarity.
The facade shattered. I launched myself at him, and he was there—solid and sure—catching me like he'd been waiting for this moment. His arms locked around me, a fortress against the storm. I pressed my face into the curve of his neck, breathing him in, anchoring myself to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.
"I've got you," he whispered against my hair, one hand cupping my skull while the other banded across my back. "I've got you, my love."
I held on like he was the last solid thing in a world gone liquid and strange. My fingers twisted in his shirt, desperate. Because maybe he was the only thing keeping my head above water. My foundation. My gravity. The strength I could borrow when mine ran dry.
"I can't do this alone," I confessed, the words scraping out of me. "Ruka, I need help. Real help. Medical supplies, antivirals—I need to call for help."
Something flickered across his face—the weight of impossible choices. Calling for outside help meant cracking open the village's carefully guarded secrets, risking everything he'd fought to protect. But then his gaze shifted to the common house, to his people suffering inside, and his expression hardened into resolve.
"Get your phone. We'll take the Hummer and drive until you get service."
Twenty minutes later, we were careening down the mountain, the Hummer's suspension groaning over every rut and rock. Ruka drove like a man possessed, his jaw set, knuckles bone-white against the steering wheel. I clutched my phone like a talisman, eyes locked on the screen.
