Chapter 5 #2
He dried off and climbed back into bed, the sheets cool and unwelcoming now. Through the wall, silence. Harper was asleep. Safe in the guest room, unaware that he'd just lost control so thoroughly.
Good.
She'd never know. He'd make sure of it.
Tomorrow, he'd take her to see Delilah—keep his promise, prove through actions that he was reliable. He'd maintain professional distance. Give her space. Stop letting his imagination run wild just because she'd looked at him with heat in her eyes for three seconds.
She was his responsibility.
That meant protecting her from himself too.
He closed his eyes and tried to ignore the way his body still hummed with awareness. Tried to forget the fantasy of her surrendering to him. Tried to convince himself that control was possible when every instinct screamed at him to go to her, to claim her, to make the fantasy real.
He'd controlled himself through worse. Through combat that made his blood sing with violence. Through situations where one wrong move meant death. This was no different. He just had to apply the same discipline, the same iron will he used in the field.
Except it felt different.
Because in the field, control meant survival.
Here, control meant denying himself something he wanted more than his next breath.
Meant pretending he didn't imagine her in his bed every time he closed his eyes.
Meant keeping his distance from a female who looked at him like he was safety and danger wrapped in one impossible package.
Through the wall, a soft sound. Harper, shifting in her sleep.
His entire body went taut, listening. Waiting to see if she'd wake, if she'd call out, if she needed him.
Silence settled again.
She was fine. Asleep. Safe.
And he was lying here in the dark, more aware of her than he'd been of any female in his life, trying to convince himself that discipline would be enough.
It had to be enough.
Because the alternative—admitting that he wanted her, that he craved her surrender, that the size difference and her vulnerability and her strength all combined into something that called to every dominant instinct he possessed—wasn't an option.
She deserved better.
He'd be better.
Tomorrow he'd prove it.
He stared at the ceiling and counted his breaths, using the same meditation technique that had gotten him through interrogation training. Control. Discipline. Focus.
It almost worked.
Almost.
Harper woke to the sound of Kirr's voice through the door, quiet but firm enough to pull her from sleep.
"Harper. Medical bay visiting hours start in thirty minutes."
She sat up, her body protesting the movement. Every muscle ached from tension she hadn't released, from lying rigid in bed while her mind replayed water sliding down his chest and his golden eyes watching her with that patience.
"I'm up." Her voice came out rough. She cleared her throat. "Thanks."
His footsteps retreated.
Thirty minutes. She'd manage thirty minutes of being functional.
Harper forced herself through the morning routine on autopilot.
The guest bathroom had basic supplies—toothbrush, soap, the kind of impersonal necessities that came with emergency housing.
She stared at her reflection while brushing her teeth.
Dark circles under her eyes. Hair tangled from restless sleep.
The borrowed sleep shirt hanging off one shoulder.
She looked like hell.
Good. Maybe feeling like hell on the outside would distract from the mess on the inside.
The LMP had sent over actual clothes—plain shirt, practical pants, underwear that fit well enough.
Everything was basic gray, the kind of generic clothing that screamed "charity case," but it was clean and it wasn't bloodstained.
Harper pulled it on with movements that felt mechanical, her thoughts already jumping ahead to Delilah.
What if she'd gotten worse overnight? What if the machines had failed? What if—
She bit down on her lower lip and forced herself to breathe. Delilah was alive. Kellat had said so yesterday. Alive meant time.
Time to fix this. Time to make it right. Time to figure out how to survive this mess without drowning.
When she emerged from the guest room, Kirr was waiting by the door.
He'd changed into what looked like his work uniform—dark pants, fitted shirt that stretched across his shoulders, boots that added another inch to his already impossible height.
His orange hair was styled into that high quiff again, and in the morning light streaming through the viewport, she noticed the way it caught fire-colored highlights.
Professional. He looked professional. Not like the half-naked warrior who'd stepped out of the bathroom with water everywhere and warmth rolling off him in waves.
Stop it.
"Ready?" His amber eyes found hers, and she saw no acknowledgment of last night's encounter. No teasing about her staring. Just that same calm.
"Yeah." She grabbed his jacket from where she'd left it draped over the couch. It still smelled like him—that spice and warmth she couldn't name. "Should I give this back?"
"Keep it." He moved toward the door. "You'll need it. Station corridors run cold."
They didn't, actually. The temperature was perfectly regulated. But she pulled the jacket on anyway because arguing felt like more effort than she managed, and having his scent wrapped around her shoulders made something in her chest ease.
The walk to medical bay was quiet. Harper counted her steps—forty-three from his quarters to the lift, another seventy-eight through the main corridor. Latharians moved around them, some in uniform, others in civilian clothes. A few glanced at her with curiosity, but most paid no attention.
She studied them while they walked. The height was universal—six and a half feet seemed standard, with some even taller. Their skin tones varied just like humans, from pale to deep brown. But their eyes gave them away. Gold, amber, green with that intense, non-human quality. And their hair—
Most of them wore it long, she realized. Braided with beads woven through. Intricate patterns that looked like they took hours to create.
Kirr's hair was different. Short. Styled. Nothing like the others.
The medical bay doors slid open and the antiseptic smell hit her first, followed by that herbal undertone she'd noticed yesterday. Kellat stood at a console near the back, his scarred hands moving over a display. He looked up when they entered and nodded.
"War-Commander. Ms. Sawyer." His Terran was smooth, the translation matrix in her ear doing its job. "Your cousin's condition is unchanged."
Harper's knees went weak with relief. She gripped the edge of the nearest surface—a counter or desk, she didn't care which—and just breathed.
Unchanged. Still holding on.
Kellat gestured toward the transparent panels where Delilah lay. "Brain activity is good. The swelling has decreased. Injuries are healing as expected."
"When will she wake up?" The question came out too fast, too desperate.
"Unknown." Kellat's expression was kind but honest. "We're keeping her in the medically induced coma to allow her body to heal without stress. When the time is right, we'll begin the waking process. But I can't give you a timeline yet."
Harper nodded. Swallowed past the tightness in her throat. "But she's going to be okay?"
"The prognosis is significantly better than it was immediately after the crash." Kellat moved to stand beside her, his attention on the monitors. "She's strong. Her body is responding to treatment. I'm optimistic."
Optimistic. Not certain, but optimistic.
It would have to be enough.
Kirr's hand settled on her shoulder, warm through his jacket. "Can she sit with her?"
"Of course." Kellat palmed a control and a section of the transparent barrier slid open. "Take as much time as you need."
Harper moved through the opening before her courage failed.
The medical equipment hummed around Delilah's bed, tracking vitals she didn't understand.
But her cousin's face looked better than yesterday—less gray, more color in her cheeks.
The tubes were still there, still breathing for her, but the blood was gone from her hair and the bandages looked clean.
She pulled a chair close and sat, her fingers finding Delilah's hand. Cold. Too cold. But present. Real.
"Hey." Her voice cracked. She cleared her throat and tried again. "It's me. Harper. I'm... I'm here."
Delilah didn't respond. Didn't move. Just lay there with machines tracking her existence.
Harper's fingers traced over her cousin's knuckles, careful to avoid the IV line. "You're doing good. That's what Kellat said. Healing. So you just... you keep doing that, okay? Keep healing. I'll be here when you wake up."
The words felt inadequate. Everything felt inadequate. But she kept talking anyway, filling the silence with updates about the station and Kirr's quarters and the fact that she was technically a flight risk now but at least they hadn't shipped her back to Earth yet.
She didn't mention the guilt. Didn't say that she should've stopped Delilah from taking the money, from going drinking, from hiring that flyer car. Didn't admit that every time she closed her eyes she saw Delilah's head lolled at that wrong angle, blood matting her honey-blonde hair.
Delilah already knew. Had to know, on some level, that Harper blamed herself.
Through the transparent panels, she saw Kirr and Kellat talking in low voices. Kirr's posture was relaxed but attentive, his arms crossed over his chest. Kellat gestured at something on his datapad. Neither of them looked at her, giving her privacy without leaving her alone.
He'd promised to be here. Promised she'd see Delilah, and he'd kept that promise.
Harper sat with her cousin for another ten minutes, just holding her hand and breathing. Then she stood, pressed a kiss to Delilah's forehead, and retreated through the transparent barrier before the tears fell.