Alien War-Commander’s Mate (Latharian Mate Program #6)

Chapter 1

She was going to scream if Delilah… didn’t. Stop. Talking.

Harper gripped the overhead rail and counted floor tiles instead. Forty-three between the door and the advertisement panel. Each one was scuffed and grimy. Each one a tiny anchor to keep her from completely losing it.

Delilah's voice cut through the rumble of the train. "And then Marcus—you know Marcus from accounting?—he actually had the nerve to ask Jennifer if she wanted to grab drinks after work. Right in front of everyone at the printer. Can you believe that?"

"Mm-hmm." Harper's fingers found the thin white scar on her left forearm, traced the familiar ridge through the worn fabric of her sleeve.

The blouse was darned at the elbow—careful, tight stitches she'd done herself three months ago.

Delilah had embroidered tiny flowers over the repair, made it almost pretty.

One of the few things Delilah ever fixed instead of broke.

"I mean, Jennifer's been dating that guy from the warehouse for like six months.

Marcus knows that. Everyone knows that." Delilah shifted her weight as the train swayed, honey-blonde hair catching the harsh fluorescent light.

She looked fresh despite the long day, bright-eyed and animated like she'd woken up moments ago instead of spending nine hours staring at data screens.

Harper bit her lower lip and ran the numbers again. Rent due in twelve days. Eight hundred forty-seven credits. They had maybe two hundred between them. Maybe. If Delilah's paycheck hit on time and she didn't spend it on something stupid first.

The math didn't work.

It never worked.

"So then Jennifer told him she was busy, but you could tell she was kind of flattered, you know? Like she did that thing where she tosses her hair and—Harper, are you even listening?"

"Yeah. Marcus. Jennifer. Hair tossing." Harper's jaw clenched. She forced it to relax, counted three more tiles. Forty-six. Forty-seven. The train lurched and someone's elbow jabbed her ribs.

Too many people. Too much noise. Too damn hot.

"You're doing the thing again." Delilah's voice went softer, almost concerned. "The counting thing."

"I'm fine."

"You're not fine. You've been weird all week." Delilah touched Harper's arm, bright blue eyes searching her face. "Is it the layoff thing? Because I'm sure they won't cut both of us. That would be crazy. The team needs at least—"

"They're cutting costs." Harper kept her voice flat. "Doesn't matter what the team needs."

Delilah's hand dropped away and she shrugged, the concern vanishing as quick as it came. "Well, we'll figure it out. We always do."

We. Like Delilah had ever figured out anything more complicated than which shade of blonde looked better with her skin tone.

Harper's fingers pressed harder against the scar. Twelve years old, trapped in twisted metal, her mother's hand going slack in hers. Twenty years of being the one who fixed it, held it together while everyone else got to be carefree and hopeful and young.

"Oh!" Delilah brightened, shifting topics with the attention span of a caffeinated squirrel.

"I meant to ask—can I borrow your navy dress this weekend?

The one with the wrap waist? I have that date with the guy I met at the bar last week, and I want to look nice, and you know that dress looks amazing on you so it'll look good on me too, right? "

The navy dress. The one Harper had saved for three months to buy, the one she wore to job interviews that never went anywhere.

"Sure." The word came out automatic. Twenty years of automatic.

"You're the best!" Delilah squeezed her arm, already moving on. "And actually, could I borrow like twenty credits? I want to grab some hair dye on the way home—my roots are showing and I look like a disaster—and I'm totally tapped until payday. I'll pay you back, I promise."

Twenty credits.

Harper stared at the flickering advertisement screens along the subway wall. A protein bar that cost more than she could afford. A vacation package to somewhere with actual sunlight. A new model comm unit that would take six months of her salary.

Twenty credits for hair dye while rent was due in twelve days.

Her gaze drifted past the commercial ads to a poster she'd seen a hundred times before.

Tropical beach. Two suns hanging in an alien sky.

Pink sand that didn't exist outside of photo manipulation, and a seven-foot alien male with his arm around a human woman who looked like she'd never worried about rent in her life.

"MEET THE ALIEN OF YOUR DREAMS - LATHARIAN MATE PROGRAM."

Harper had glazed over that poster so many times it was visual wallpaper. Background noise. Someone else's fantasy.

"Come on, Harp." Delilah's voice went wheedling. "Just twenty credits. I'll pay you back from my next paycheck, I swear."

Something inside Harper's chest cracked. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just a quiet fracture, the kind that happens when you've been holding too much weight for too long and something finally gives.

Her eyes sharpened on the poster.

Not the beach. Not the alien male with his perfect jawline and his protective arm around the smiling woman.

The fine print at the bottom.

Small white text she'd never bothered to read before because it didn't matter, it was just another ad, just another impossible thing that had nothing to do with her life.

"SIGNING BONUS PAID UPON ACCEPTANCE. ALL RELOCATION EXPENSES COVERED."

Harper's pulse kicked against her throat.

Signing bonus.

The train swayed and she grabbed the rail tighter, her mind racing through calculations. How much was the bonus? Enough for rent? Enough to set Delilah up for a few months? Enough to—

"Harper?" Delilah was watching her now, head tilted. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." Harper pulled out her comm unit, hands steadier than they had any right to be. She aimed it at the poster, zoomed in on the fine print, captured the image. The small act felt significant. Like reaching out and grabbing something instead of just letting life happen to her.

"Oh my god." Delilah's eyes went wide. "Are you—are you thinking about signing up for that?"

Harper didn't answer. She was reading the fine print again, committing it to memory. Signing bonus on acceptance. Relocation covered. Contact information. Application process.

A way out.

"Harper, that's so romantic!" Delilah clutched her arm, bouncing. "Imagine marrying an alien warrior and having this whole adventure! Living on a space station! It's like something out of a movie!"

Romantic.

Right.

Harper let Delilah spin her fantasy. Easier than explaining the truth—that Harper didn't give a damn about romance or adventure or alien warriors. That she was drowning in twenty years of responsibility and poverty and she'd just spotted the only life raft in sight.

The signing bonus… it would give her breathing room.

She could be selfish.

For once in her life, she could choose herself.

"You'd be so good at it," Delilah was saying, words tumbling over each other. "You're so responsible and smart and you always know what to do. Some alien guy would be lucky to get you, and think about it—you'd get to travel, see new places, start over fresh. It's perfect!"

Harper's throat went tight. Start over fresh. Leave everything behind. No more counting tiles or darning blouses or lying awake at night doing math that never worked.

No more being the one who held it all together while everyone else got to fall apart.

"I mean, I could never do it," Delilah continued, oblivious. "I'd miss Earth too much, and can you imagine marrying some scaly alien? But you're braver than me. You always have been."

Brave.

The automated voice cut through the noise. "Approaching Station Forty-Seven. Doors opening on the right."

Their stop.

Harper shoved her comm unit in her pocket and moved toward the doors with the press of other passengers. Delilah followed, still chattering about alien warriors and romantic adventures and how exciting it all was.

The doors slid open. Harper stepped onto the platform, shouldered through the crowd, breathed air that tasted less like recycled desperation.

And then she turned.

Looked back through the closing doors at the poster one last time.

The alien warrior's arm around the human woman. The promise of somewhere else. Someone else. Something else.

The signing bonus paid upon acceptance.

All relocation expenses covered.

The doors slid shut. The train pulled away, taking the poster with it.

But Harper had the image saved on her comm unit. Had the contact information. Had the first real choice she'd made in twenty years.

This or nothing.

This or they were both homeless by Christmas.

Delilah linked her arm through Harper's as they climbed the station stairs toward street level. "So are you going to do it? Sign up for the alien thing?"

Harper's fingers found her scar again, pressed against the ridge of tissue that proved she was a survivor.

She always survived.

Maybe it was time to do more than just survive.

"We'll see," she said, and let Delilah interpret that however she wanted.

Kirr hit the transport bay at a pace just short of a run, Kellat keeping stride beside him.

The emergency call had pulled them both from Maax's bonding celebration—multiple females in critical condition, underground location, garbled transmission that cut off before they got clear coordinates.

Every second mattered when lives hung in the balance.

The bay stretched out before them in familiar lines—high ceilings, massive docking stations, the hum of idling ships mixing with the clank of maintenance equipment.

Night shift meant reduced personnel, but the assigned drop ship should be prepped and ready.

They'd be in the air within five minutes. Had to be.

Kirr's jaw clenched as he spotted the cluster of junior officers near their assigned berth and the maintenance crew swarming the drop ship like ants on a carcass.