Page 44 of Her Orc Healer

He exhaled through his nose, slow and steady, like he was bracing himself. One massive hand gripped the edge of the doorframe, his fingers curling against the wood.

“Rowena.” His voice was lower than usual, rough with something deeper than exhaustion.

“Kazrek,” I said slowly, anger stalling beneath something else, something unfamiliar. “What in the Seven is wrong with you?”

His jaw tensed, and for a long moment, he didn’t speak. Then, with obvious reluctance, he rumbled, “Nothing.”

I arched a brow, unimpressed. “Nothing?”

“You shouldn’t be here.” His voice was rougher than usual, carrying the kind of rasp that spoke of too many restless nights and a raw throat. He shifted slightly, shoulders tensing—to block the doorway, I realized, as if he meant to keep me out. “It’s just a fever. I don’t want you to catch it.”

I stared at him, the pieces snapping into place one by one. He hadn’t stayed away because of me. He hadn’t vanished because I’d pushed him. He’d been keeping his distance because he was sick—because this big, stubborn, impossible orc had gotten himself knocked on his ass and had chosen to hole up in his clinic rather than ask for help.

A laugh—breathless, incredulous—pushed past my lips before I could stop it. “You absolute idiot,” I muttered.

Kazrek scowled. “Rowena.”

Ignoring him entirely, I pressed my palm against his chest and shoved.

It was a slight push—barely enough to move a man of his size in normal circumstances. But Kazrek was off balance, his body wavering for just a second—enough for me to step past him into the clinic.

The scent of dried herbs hit me first—sharp rosemary, the faint peppery bite of feverfew, and something warm and grounding, like cedar. Bundles of herbs hung from the beams above, their knotted twine swaying slightly in the draft I had just let in. A worktable stood against the far wall, cluttered but not messy—mortar and pestle, small glass vials carefully labeled in Kazrek’s precise hand, a basin with a cloth left soaking in now-cold water. A row of narrow cots lined the opposite wall, the thin mattresses tucked with military precision. Some were empty. One had blankets slightly rumpled, as if he had been sleeping there instead of in his own bed.

I sighed, already knowing the answer before I spoke. “You’ve been treating yourself out here, haven’t you?”

Kazrek shut the door behind me with a quiet thud. "Rowena," he started, his tone edged in warning. "You should go."

I ignored him and instead stepped forward, pressing the back of my hand against his forehead before he could stop me. His body went still beneath my touch.

“You’re burning up,” I muttered, pulling my hand back. “And instead of letting someone help you, you just—what? Locked yourself away to suffer in silence?”

Kazrek’s jaw worked. “It’s just a fever. I’ve had worse.”

“That’s not the point,” I snapped, frustration bubbling over. “You vanish for two days, let me think—” I cut myself off, shaking my head. “And you’re standing here telling me it’s nothing?”

Something flickered behind his gaze—quick, unreadable—but then he only shrugged, that infuriating calm back in place. “I didn’t want to be a burden.”

I stared at him. “A burden.”

He held my gaze without flinching, but his grip on the table tightened.

A muscle in my jaw ticked. “Kazrek, do you think I—” I stopped, inhaled sharply, let the words settle before continuing. “Do you think I would be here if I thought you were a burden?”

Silence stretched between us, thick as ink.

I sighed, running a hand through my hair. “Seven save me, you’re as bad as I am.”

His brow furrowed slightly at that, but I was already moving, shrugging off my cloak and rolling up my sleeves.

“What are you doing?” he asked warily.

“What does it look like?” I shot back. “I’m taking care of you.”

Kazrek let out a low sound that might have been a laugh—rough, breathless. “I don’t need—”

I leveled a look at him. “Finish that sentence and see what happens.”

His mouth twitched. “You’re insufferable.”