Chapter 7
Harper dropped onto the low couch in Kirr's quarters and grabbed a dataflex from the side table.
She had no idea what was on it and didn't particularly care.
The glowing text swam in front of her eyes as she pretended to read, her mind still cycling through everything Kellat had said in medical.
The medical data. Delilah's condition… all the things she knew the healer wasn’t telling her.
Kirr settled at his desk across the room. The soft tap of his fingers against some kind of interface filled the silence. Working. Giving her space.
The dataflex went blurry. She blinked hard, forcing herself to focus on…
what the hell was it? Some thriller novel she’d picked from the station’s database.
She couldn’t even remember the character’s names right now.
Her chest felt tight. Too tight. Like someone had wrapped bands around her ribs and was pulling them taut, inch by inch.
"I'm exhausted," she said, and her voice came out steadier than she expected as she put the dataflex on the side table. "I think I’m going to turn in early."
Kirr's fingers stopped tapping the interface. A pause stretched between them. "Do you need anything? Water? Something to eat?"
She shook her head, already standing. “No, I’m good, thanks. I’m just really tired.”
"Of course, sleep." His voice was low. Gruff. She didn’t look at him. "If you need anything, just call."
She stood on legs that felt distant and odd and headed for her room. She didn't look back, because if she looked back, she might crack, and she couldn't crack here, not in front of him, not when she'd spent the whole day holding herself together through sheer stubborn will.
The door slid closed behind her, and the bands around her chest snapped tight.
Her knees buckled. She caught herself on the edge of the bed, fingers digging into the mattress as the room tilted sideways. Her lungs wouldn't work. She dragged in air, but it wasn't enough, it was never enough, the oxygen wasn't reaching her blood and gray crept in at the edges of her vision —
Delilah on the ground. Blood on her temple. Not moving.
No. No, she was fine. Kellat said she was healing. She was going to be—
You didn't stop her.
The thought slammed into her. She could have grabbed Delilah's arm. Could have said something. Could have done anything except sat in that passenger seat and--
Your fault. This is your fault.
Harper hit the wall. She didn't remember sliding down it, but now she was on the floor with her knees pulled to her chest and her hands fisted in her hair. Her breath came in sharp, useless gasps. Too fast. She knew it was too fast. Couldn't stop.
Smoke. Twisted metal. Mom's hand through the gap in the wreckage, so still, so fucking still—
Trapped. Screaming until her throat bled raw and no one came.
Then the silence.
You always survive. That's the problem, isn't it? You always, always survive while everyone around you—
Pressing her palms over her eyes, she tried to breathe. Tried to count. Tried to do any of the things that were supposed to help when your brain decided to eat itself alive.
Nothing worked. Nothing ever fucking worked.
The door opened.
Her head snapped up. Kirr filled the doorway, massive shoulders squared and blocking out the light from the living area.
"Harper." His voice cut through the static in her skull. Calm. Commanding. He lowered into a crouch, blocking her view of the room. "Eyes on me."
Tremors ran through her body, her teeth clacking together in a sharp tattoo.
He crossed the room in two strides and dropped into a crouch in front of her. This close, he was enormous, his shoulders blocking her view of the wall behind him.
He held his hands open near her knees… just there, not touching. "Three things you can see. Now."
She sucked in a ragged breath. "I can't—"
"Three things." Same deep tone. Commanding. No pressure. "Here. This room."
She forced herself to focus and the gray retreated, just a little. "Your... your eyes. The light. Behind you. And—" Her gaze dropped to his chest, did a sideswerve from the expanse of pure male muscle on display. "Your jacket."
A nod. "Good. Two sounds."
She listened past the roaring in her ears. "Your voice. And..." A faint hum, almost subliminal. "The station. I can hear the station."
"Good, one thing you can touch."
Her hand moved before she thought about it. Her palm pressed flat against his chest, over the warmth of his satin over steel skin.
"You.” The word slipped out on her exhale as her palm pressed harder to his chest.
His hand settled over hers—huge and warm, an anchor. "Breathe with me. In."
She breathed in.
"Good girl. Now out."
She breathed out.
They stayed like that for what felt like hours. Maybe it was minutes. Her lungs started working again. Her heartbeat slowed from a frantic hammer to something approaching normal. The flashbacks receded, slinking back into whatever dark corner of her mind they lived in.
When she finally came back to herself, she was pressed against Kirr's chest with his arms wrapped around her.
Her face was tucked into the curve of his neck.
She didn't remember moving closer. Didn't remember him pulling her in.
But here she was, surrounded by his warmth and the faint warm scent of his skin.
She should pull away.
She looked up instead.
His face was inches from hers. His gaze burned, fierce and locked on her, and his jaw was tight again.
"Thank you," she breathed.
He frowned. “For what?”
“For not leaving.” Most men she knew would have.
His jaw loosened and he reached up to cup her face, his thumb stroking across her cheekbone with a tenderness that made her chest ache.
"I'm here." The words were low and rough, like they’d been dragged out of somewhere deep. "I’m not going anywhere."
She'd been alone for years. Learned to survive it, learned to make it work, built walls so thick she forgot there was anything behind them.
And this alien warrior she'd known for days just walked through them like they weren't even there.
So she kissed him.
She didn't decide to do it. Didn't even think. Her body just moved, surging up, her hands fisting in the edges of his jacket as her mouth found his.
It was desperate and graceless. Seeking connection—proof she was still alive.
He went still for a heartbeat. Then, with a growl, his hand slid from her cheek to the back of her skull, cradling her head, and he tilted her face up and kissed her back.
He was careful at first. Restrained. Letting her lead, letting her take what she needed.
She made a sound against his mouth—needy, broken—and then it was like his control cracked.
He hauled her into his lap and deepened the kiss, his tongue sliding against hers.
He was so much bigger than her. His hand covered the entire back of her head.
He had to bend down to reach her, and holy shit, that shouldn't be as hot as it was.
She pressed closer. Wanted to crawl inside his skin and never come out.
Reality slammed back. Hard.
Everyone you get close to gets hurt.
She jerked back so fast her shoulder hit the wall. Pressing her hand to her mouth, she stared at him with wide eyes, her breath ragged.
"I'm sorry—" she gasped. "I shouldn't have—"
Kirr's jaw flexed. "Don't." The word came out scraped raw. "Not for that. Ever."
She shook her head. "You don't understand. People around me don't do well." The name cracked in her throat. "Delilah—"
It's like I'm fucking cursed.
"I'm not dragging you into my wreckage."
She pushed to her feet and backed toward the far wall, putting distance between them, her arms wrapped around herself like she could hold her crumbling pieces.
He rose, looming over her even though he was nowhere near her. “Harper…”
"Don't." She wrapped her arms tight, wouldn't meet his eyes. "Just... give me a minute."
He didn't advance, didn't push, didn't try to close the distance she'd created. His hands hung loose at his sides. His expression was impossible to read, but his gaze burned.
"I'll be in the main room." He paused at the door, as if to argue. Then: "The door stays unlocked."
She stiffened. "No."
His jaw tightened, but he didn't push. "I'll be outside."
He turned and walked out.
The door slid closed behind him.
Slumping against the wall, she pressed her palm flat against the cool surface. Her pulse throbbed in her temples. She listened to the quiet sounds as he moved in the living area.
Her fingers drifted up to her lips. She could still feel the imprint of his mouth, the heat of him, the way he'd held her like she was something precious instead of something broken.
She was in so much trouble.
Because hope was a dangerous thing. Hope got people killed. Hope made you soft, made you believe in things that couldn't last.
But standing here in the dim light of a room that wasn't hers, on a ship full of aliens who shouldn't care whether she lived or died, her ribs ached with it. Small and desperate. Hope, maybe, and she had no idea how to make it stop.
* * *
"I cannot believe you people consider this a reasonable hour to be awake." Harper's voice echoed behind him in the corridor, thick with sleep and irritation. "What kind of asshole alien warriors schedule training in the middle of the fucking night?"
Kirr bit back a smile. Draanth, Harper’s sleep-grouchy state was far more appealing than it should be.
"If this station has a 'war crime' setting," she muttered, loud enough for him to hear, "I'm pretty sure this hour qualifies."
His lips quirked. He didn't turn around.
"It's oh-six-hundred," he said. "The day is well begun."
"The day hasn't even bloody started yet. The day is still in bed where normal people belong."