Chapter 3 #2
His hands were gentle as he worked the restraints, careful not to jostle her injured ribs. This close, she saw that his hair wasn’t fully orange, it had strands of red, yellow and gold through it. Like living flames.
Who was this man? This warrior who'd pulled her from wreckage, called her "little one" and made her feel safe for the first time in longer than she could remember?
The shuttle ramp dropped with a hiss. Sound and light flooded in… voices shouting in that language, equipment rattling, footsteps echoing off metal floors.
Her breath caught. Too much. Too fast.
But Kirr was there, his hand settling on her shoulder through his jacket. "I've got you. Stay close."
She nodded, not trusting her voice.
Delilah's stretcher moved past them, Kellat calling out instructions to the medical team that materialized around them. At least a dozen Latharians in matching uniforms surrounded them.
Harper stumbled after them, Kirr a solid presence at her side. The docking bay was enormous, the size of a football field, filled with shuttles and equipment and more of them than she'd ever seen in one place. Latharians.
They all looked human, she noted with a start. Tall, yes. Broad-shouldered and muscular in ways humans rarely achieved naturally. Eyes in colors humans didn't have… that she couldn’t even begin to describe. But human in shape and structure. Just… Bigger. Much bigger.
The corridor they entered was wide enough for six people to walk abreast, the ceiling high overhead.
Harper's wet shoes squeaked on the polished floor as she hurried to keep up with Delilah’s stretcher and the medical team.
Her ribs throbbed with each step, her head felt stuffed with cotton, but she couldn't stop. Couldn't let Delilah out of her sight.
Latharians moved around them, some in uniform, others in what looked like civilian clothes. A few glanced at her with curiosity, but most paid no attention, caught up in their own business.
Her eyes darted everywhere, trying to take it all in.
Doors marked with symbols she didn't recognize.
Lights that seemed to glow from the walls themselves rather than fixtures.
The subtle hum of technology she couldn't identify.
This was real. Actually real. She was on a space station, following her dying cousin to medical, and the only thing keeping her upright was the warrior at her side.
The medical team turned a corner and she followed, Kirr's hand steady on her back. Through a set of double doors into a space that had to be medical. The smells hit her first—antiseptic and something else, something almost herbal. Equipment lined the walls, some recognizable, most foreign.
"This way." Kellat's voice cut through the chaos, directing his team toward what looked like an operating theater. The walls were transparent. Some kind of see-through material that let them observe from outside.
They wheeled Delilah through another set of doors and Harper couldn't see her anymore. Couldn't see anything but medical personnel shutting her out.
Her legs gave out.
Kirr caught her before she hit the floor, strong arms wrapping around her as he pulled her up against his broad chest. "I've got you," he murmured against her hair. "I've got you."
She clutched at his bare chest, his skin warm under her hands, and let herself lean into him. Just for a moment. Just until the world stopped spinning.
The medical bay hummed around them, strange and terrifying. She closed her eyes. Kirr was solid and warm and real, and that was enough. It had to be enough.
Because Delilah was in there fighting for her life, and Harper was out here, helpless to do anything but wait.
* * *
Delilah looked dead.
Harper knew she wasn't—the machines said otherwise—but pale skin, matted hair and tubes breathing for her looked an awful lot like death.
She counted the machines monitoring Delilah's vitals.
Seven. Seven different readouts with numbers and graphs she didn't understand, all of them tracking whether her cousin would live or die.
Delilah lay on the other side of transparent panels, pale as death under the harsh medical lighting.
Tubes ran into her arms, her chest rose and fell with mechanical precision that meant machines were breathing for her.
The honey-blonde hair Harper had watched her style yesterday was matted with blood someone had tried to clean but hadn't quite managed.
Yesterday. Had it only been yesterday?
The transparent panels let Harper see everything. Watch everything. Which meant she couldn't look away, couldn't pretend this wasn't happening, couldn't escape the knowledge that Delilah might die and it was her fault.
She should have stopped her. Should have refused to get in the flyer car. Should have been more forceful, more responsible, more—
Her throat closed up. She bit down hard on her lower lip and tasted copper.
Behind the panels, Kellat checked readouts and adjusted equipment, his scarred hands steady. The healer's voice was too low to hear through the transparent barrier, but she watched his mouth move as he spoke to the two junior healers assisting him.
Those scars. Marks of skill, Kirr had said. Each one representing knowledge gained, a trial passed.
Her stomach twisted. Delilah needed skill. Needed every bit of knowledge those scars represented. Needed—
"You should eat something." Kirr's voice came from behind her, quiet but firm.
She didn't turn around. Couldn't tear her eyes away from the monitors tracking Delilah's heartbeat. "I'm fine."
"You need to keep your strength up." He moved closer and she felt the heat of him at her back, solid and warm.
"I'm not hungry."
"Harper—"
"I said I'm fine." Her voice came out sharper than intended. She counted Delilah's heartbeats on the monitor. Fifty-three. Fifty-four. Fifty-five.
Kirr was quiet for a long moment. Then his hand settled on her shoulder, warm through his jacket, gentle despite the strength she knew he possessed.
She wanted to shrug him off. Wanted to lean into the touch. Wanted to scream.
Instead, she just sat there, frozen, while her cousin maybe died and machines beeped their steady rhythm.
"She's in good hands," Kirr said quietly. "Kellat is the best."
The best. Right. Because the best was what you needed when your cousin had extensive internal injuries from a crash you should have prevented.
Movement caught her eye. A male Latharian in medical scrubs approached, younger than Kellat, his expression professional. One of the junior healers, maybe.
"Ms. Sawyer?" His Terran was heavily accented but clear. "I can take the jacket to have it cleaned for you, and I'll bring you a blanket—you must be cold."
Harper's hands fisted in the leather. She pulled the jacket tighter around her shoulders, tucking herself deeper into folds that smelled like safety and warmth and him.
"No." The word came out too fast. Too defensive. "I'm fine."
The healer's gaze flicked past Harper to where Kirr stood. Something passed between them—some unspoken communication Harper was too exhausted to decipher. Understanding crossed the younger male's features.
"Of course." He nodded. "I'll bring some water then."
He left before Harper could protest again.
"You're attached to that jacket," Kirr observed, and she heard the smile in his voice even though she refused to turn around and confirm it.
Heat flooded her cheeks. "It's warm."
"Mmm."
The sound rumbled through his chest, warm with amusement, and she wanted to be annoyed but couldn't quite manage it. Not when exhaustion dragged at her bones, guilt sat like lead in her stomach and Delilah's heartbeat kept climbing on the monitor—fifty-eight, fifty-nine, sixty—
"Commander." A new voice cut through Harper's spiraling thoughts. Female. Crisp. Official.
Harper's head snapped up.
A Latharian woman stood in the medical bay entrance, datapad in hand, wearing what had to be some kind of uniform. Not medical scrubs. Something more formal. Navy fabric with silver trim that screamed bureaucrat.
Oh shit.
Harper's pulse kicked against her throat.
"I need to speak with Ms. Sawyer regarding her status with the Latharian Mate Program." The woman's Terran was perfect, no accent, each word precisely enunciated.
Kirr shifted, moving to stand beside Harper rather than behind her. His presence was solid, grounding, but she barely noticed. All her attention had locked onto the woman with the datapad and the official uniform and the expression that promised nothing good.
"She's not available." Kirr's voice had gone flat. Professional. Nothing like the warmth he'd used with Harper moments ago. "This needs to wait until—"
"This matter requires immediate attention." The woman's gaze found Harper, cataloged her with the efficiency of someone used to processing problems. "Ms. Sawyer, I'm with the Latharian Mate Program administrative division. We need to discuss your contract status."
Contract status.
The words landed like a punch to her already bruised ribs.
She forced herself to stand even though her legs shook. Forced herself to meet the woman's eyes even though every instinct screamed to run. "What about my contract?"
"You missed your scheduled pickup." The woman consulted her datapad, tapped something that made the screen glow. "You and Ms. Delilah Sawyer were assigned to report to LMP offices for processing and transport yesterday evening. You failed to appear."
"We had an accident." Harper's voice came out steady despite the panic clawing up her throat. "The crash—"
"The crash occurred because you and Ms. Sawyer took the signing bonus and went on what I believe humans call a 'bender' rather than waiting for authorized pickup." The woman's tone stayed professional but Harper heard the judgment underneath. "You breached your contract. Both of you."
The floor tilted. Harper locked her knees to keep from swaying.
Breached the contract.
Oh god. Oh god, she'd breached the contract.