Chapter 3
The world tilted and swayed as the big alien carried her toward the shuttle, her head tucked against his bare chest. Harper tried to focus on anything other than the solid warmth of him, the way his muscles shifted beneath her cheek with each step, but it was impossible.
Everything else felt distant and hazy, like she was watching herself from somewhere far away.
The shuttle loomed ahead, sleek and foreign, its hull reflecting the emergency lights in strange patterns. Nothing like the boxy flyer car that had—
No. Don't think about the crash. Don't think about the metal crumpling, the screaming, the way Delilah's head had—
"Easy," he murmured, his voice rumbling through his chest into her ear. "You're safe."
She wasn't safe. Delilah wasn't safe. Nothing was safe anymore. But his arms tightened around her and somehow her racing pulse slowed, just a fraction. Kirr… he’d said his name was Kirr.
It was… nice. Not what she’d expected for an alien name, but nice.
The shuttle door opened with a hiss that made her flinch.
Kirr paused at the entrance, adjusting his grip, and then they were inside.
The interior was all smooth surfaces and foreign design, nothing like the cramped human transport shuttles she'd seen in vids.
This was military. Purpose-built and efficient.
He settled her into a wide seat near the front. The co-pilot's seat, as he moved to the pilot's position beside her. His jacket was still wrapped around her shoulders, way too big, the leather warm from his body heat.
Behind them, voices called out in that musical language. Harper twisted in her seat, ignoring the way her ribs protested, and watched as other Latharians carried Delilah's stretcher aboard. One of them moved to the back of the shuttle, hands already working over Delilah's still form.
The doctor… or some kind of paramedic. Had to be.
Her stomach dropped. He looked like he'd been in a fight himself. Scars crossed his face and hands, visible even from here.
The shuttle lifted, smooth as silk, and her stomach lurched. She gripped the armrests, knuckles white, as the ground fell away beneath them. Through the viewport, she caught glimpses of the underground bypass, emergency vehicles still swarming the crash site like insects around a wound.
Then they were out, climbing through the night sky, and Earth spread out below them in a patchwork of lights and darkness.
Oh my god, she was leaving Earth. Actually leaving Earth.
The thought should have terrified her. Instead, all she felt was numb.
"Secure for launch," Kirr called back, his hands already moving over the controls. The shuttle hummed to life around them, vibrating through the seat into Harper's bones.
She should look away. Should focus on the fact that they were about to launch into space—actual space—but her gaze kept drifting back to Kirr.
Holy hell, those shoulders. Bare and massive, muscles shifting under his skin as his hands moved over the controls with easy competence, flicking switches and adjusting settings like he'd done it a thousand times.
Which he probably had.
"You're staring."
Harper jerked her attention back to Kirr. He hadn't looked away from the controls, but his lips quirked in what might have been amusement.
Heat flooded her cheeks. "I'm not—" She stopped. Cleared her throat. "Sorry."
"Don't apologize." He glanced at her then, those golden eyes warm in the dim light of the cockpit. "I don't mind."
The way he said it made something flutter in her chest. Something she had no business feeling when Delilah was dying in the back of the shuttle and her entire life was falling apart.
She forced herself to look out the viewport instead. They were climbing fast now, the curvature of Earth becoming visible, stars appearing in the black beyond. Beautiful. Terrifying.
A sound escaped her throat. Not quite a laugh, but close.
His attention snapped to her right away. "What's amusing?"
Harper shook her head, still staring out at the impossible view. "Nothing. I just..." She bit her lip. "I must be dead. That's the only explanation."
"You're not dead." His voice was firm, absolute.
"Yeah, well." She gestured vaguely at the viewport, at him, at everything. "This doesn't exactly feel real. So I figure I'm dead, and you're..." She trailed off, aware of how insane she sounded.
"I'm what?"
"An angel." The words tumbled out before she could stop them. "I'm dead and you're an angel and that's why you're so..." She waved her hand at him. "You know."
Silence. Then Kirr's laughter filled the cockpit, rich, warm and unexpected. It transformed his face, made him look younger somehow. Less intimidating.
"An angel?" He was still grinning when he looked at her. "That's a new one."
The corners of her lips quirked. "What else am I supposed to think? You show up out of nowhere, all..." She gestured at him again. "And you saved me, so. Angel."
"A half-naked angel?" His grin widened. "Is that standard for your human afterlife?"
A laugh burst out of her, surprising them both. It felt wrong, laughing when Delilah was—but it also felt good, like releasing pressure from a valve. "Only I could imagine a half-naked angel. Figures."
His eyes glinted with humor. "I'm only half-naked because you're wearing my jacket, little one."
Oh. Right. She looked down at the leather jacket wrapped around her, the sleeves hanging past her hands, the hem falling nearly to her thighs. It smelled like him. Something warm, spiced and foreign.
"I could give it back," she offered, though the thought of losing the warmth, the comfort of it, made her chest tighten.
"Keep it." His voice gentled. "You need it more than I do."
The viewport ahead showed a structure growing larger by the second. Devan Station, her brain supplied. Had to be. It was huge, bigger than anything she'd imagined, a sprawling complex of metal and lights hanging in space like a city among the stars.
Her breath caught. "Holy shit."
"Impressive, isn't it?" His hands moved over the controls, adjusting their approach. "Former battleship. Retrofitted as an orbital station."
A battleship. Of course it was. Because everything about this situation was insane.
The station loomed closer, filling the viewport, and her pulse kicked up again. Too big. Too much. She couldn't process it, couldn't—
A sound from the back of the shuttle pulled her attention away. Medical equipment beeped, the healer's voice murmuring something.
Delilah. She needed to focus on Delilah.
Twisting in her seat, she looked through the open door into the back. The healer was bent over Delilah's still form, hands moving with the efficiency of long practise.
"Is he sure he knows what he's doing? With humans, I mean."
Kirr glanced at her, then back at the controls. "Kellat is one of the best healers in the Empire. Your cousin couldn't be in better hands."
"He looks like he needs a doctor himself." She couldn't take her eyes off those scars. "What happened to him?"
"The scars, you mean?"
She nodded.
Kirr's expression became more serious. "They're marks of skill. The more scars a healer carries, the better they are at their craft."
Harper blinked. "Wait, what?"
"Healer trials." He tapped something on the control panel, guiding the shuttle toward what looked like a docking bay. "They undergo trials to prove they’ve mastered healing techniques. Each scar represents knowledge gained, and a skill mastered."
"That's..." She blinked. "Intense."
"It's sacred." Kirr's voice held respect. "Healers give their own bodies to learn how to save others. There's no higher calling in our culture."
She looked back at Kellat with new eyes. Not a victim of violence, but someone who'd chosen pain to help others. The scars weren't marks of damage… they were badges of honor.
"Don't you have, like, super advanced tech to get rid of scars?" she asked.
Kirr's lips quirked. "We do." He touched his shoulder, bare skin smooth under his fingertips. "See? No scars. Kellat rebuilt this entire shoulder and replaced four ribs after I was caught in an explosion three years ago."
Her eyes widened. "You were in an explosion?"
"Comes with the job." He said it like getting blown up was no big deal. "The point is, healers never remove their trial scars. They're sacred marks of their calling."
The docking bay loomed ahead, huge doors opening to reveal a cavernous space. He guided the shuttle in with easy confidence, the landing so smooth that she barely felt it.
She bit her lip, watching Delilah on the stretcher over her shoulder. Still not moving. Still—
"Kellat." Kirr's voice cut through her spiraling thoughts. "How are we doing back there? Got a little lady here who's very concerned about her--"
He looked at Harper, one eyebrow raised in question.
"Sister," she said, then shrugged. "Well, cousin really."
"Her sister," Kirr called back, then grinned at Harper. "Cousin."
He winked.
Despite everything, she smiled. How did he do that? How did he make her smile when her entire world was falling apart?
"Stabilized," Kellat's voice came from the back, with that same flowing accent Kirr had. "But I want her in the healers' hall right away. The internal injuries are extensive."
Her throat tightened. Shit. Extensive internal injuries.
"We're down," Kirr said, already unbuckling. "Emergency medical standing by. Ramp descending."
He spoke into his comm unit, rapid-fire words in that other language. She listened, confused, as the sounds washed over her without meaning. Wait. She'd understood him before. Understood both of them. But now—
"Why can't I understand you?" The question came out before she could stop it.
He paused halfway out of his seat. "I was speaking Terran before. Now I'm not." He stood, moving to help her unbuckle. "You'll need a translation matrix fitted once we're in medical. Then you'll understand everything."