Chapter 12
Steam billowed out of the bathroom as Harper opened the door, wrapping the thick, plush towel tighter around her chest. The humidity clung to her skin, warm and luxurious.
It was a definite change from the rattling pipes and lukewarm drizzle of her apartment shower back on Earth.
Here, the water pressure could make a girl cry tears of joy.
Stepping into the bedroom, she froze, eyes wide as she looked around.
"Holy shit."
While she'd been scrubbing the nervous sweat from the LMP panel in the shower, the room had been transformed.
The massive bed, which was big enough to sleep an entire squad of Marines, was piled high.
Silks, velvets, and fabrics that shimmered like liquid metal draped across the dark furs.
Beside the pile of dresses sat a tray of bottles, brushes, and sleek containers that looked suspiciously like high-end cosmetics.
Her hand covered her mouth.
Kirr.
He must have done all this while she was in the shower. Her chest did that funny little flip-flop thing again—whenever she thought about the massive, terrifying War-Commander acting like a thoughtful boyfriend.
Boyfriend. God, was that what he was? The word felt too small. Way too small.
She shook her head, water droplets flying, and padded over to the bedside table where she'd left the new personal device he’d given her. She needed to tell someone. She needed to process this, and the only person she ever processed anything with was currently in a medical coma in Sector 4.
Tapping the screen, she brought up the recording interface. She hit the red button and propped the device against a pillow.
"Hey, Dee." She nudged the device straighter against the pillow, like Delilah could actually see her better. Her voice came out husky in the quiet room. "Day two of being the alien commander's… what am I? Guest… Problem? Decorative hazard? All of the above?”
Perched on the mattress edge, she was careful not to crush a gown that looked like silk as she picked at a loose thread on the towel edge.
"Okay. Updates. Good news first. Kellat—the handsome doctor looking after you.
And yes, you're going to flirt with him the second you open your eyes—he says you're getting better.
Like, actually better. He thinks he can wake you up soon. "
She paused, swallowing the lump that formed in her throat every time she said it out loud. It felt fragile, that hope. Like glass that might break if she said it too loud… or one wrong word and it'd shatter.
“So… wake up soon, yeah? Because things are getting weird. Good weird, but weird. Would you believe I let a man buy me clothes?"
Lifting her arm, she turned her wrist so the camera could catch the light gleaming off the silver vines of her bracelet.
"Look—he gave me this today. Wouldn't look at me when he did either, and I’m fairly sure he shuffled his feet. It's... beautiful, Dee, see? It's the nicest thing anyone has ever given me. I can't stop looking at it."
She ran her thumb over the cool metal.
"There's an event tonight. He's taking me.
Which brings me to..." She gestured at the bed.
"This. He raided a boutique or something while I was in the shower.
I have no idea what half of this stuff is, but I'm going to try it on for you.
You can tell me which one makes me look least like a potato when you wake up. "
Standing up, she dropped her towel without worrying about being out of shot.
She and Delilah had shared an apartment the size of a postage stamp, so they were used to seeing each other in all states of undress.
She reached for the first gown, a deep crimson affair that slid through her fingers like something alive.
"Option one," she said, shimmying into it. It had long skirts that trailed the floor and a neckline that plunged so deep she was pretty sure her belly button was visible. She turned to the camera, then winced. "Yeah… no. Too much side-boob going on. Kirr might have a stroke. Passing on this one."
Peeling it off, she threw it on the rejected pile.
"Option two." A gold number that was stiff and structural. She got halfway into it before she couldn't breathe. "Nope. Nope. I enjoy breathing too much. Next."
She went through three more. There was a teal one that clashed with her skin tone, a black one that was kind of cool but made her look like she was about to attend a funeral, and something with feathers that made her sneeze.
Usually, this kind of thing—dressing up, preening in the mirror—was Delilah's domain. Harper was the one who fixed the sink or balanced the budget. She was the one who wore jeans until the inner thighs wore out because she'd spent her clothing allowance on Delilah's birthday.
But Delilah wasn't here. And this stuff... it wasn't for Delilah. It was for her.
Kirr had brought it for her.
Her hand landed on something dark and shimmery near the bottom of the pile. It was a deep, iridescent midnight blue, shifting to violet where the light hit the folds. The material was heavy enough to drape but soft as a whisper.
"Okay." She smoothed the fabric between her fingers, suddenly careful. "Let's try this one."
It was complicated. Latharian fashion apparently didn't believe in zippers. It relied on a series of hidden hooks and clever wraps that defied gravity. She struggled with it for a moment, getting her arms tangled in the long sashes, swearing under her breath.
"Shit, Dee. You know it’s bad when you need an engineering degree just to get dressed." She glared at the hooks.
Then, she found the anchor point at the waist. Pulling the sash through, she wrapped it around her back and then hooked it into place at her hip.
She turned to face the full-length mirror in the corner of the room and stopped, her jaw dropping. The dress had utterly transformed.
The fabric hugged her upper body, making the curves she usually buried under loose sweaters look.
.. holy shit. The skirt fell in a column of dark water, pooling at her feet, with a slit that only revealed itself when she moved.
The wrap style created an elegant V-neck rather than a scandalous one, framing her throat and collarbone.
She looked... tall. Regal even.
She looked like she belonged in someone else's life. Like she belonged on the arm of a man like Kirr.
The word fell out of her on an exhale she hadn't meant to give. "Wow."
She turned back to the device, doing a slow spin. "I think we have a winner. I look..." She searched for the word. "I look like a princess. Like one of those fairytales Mom used to read us when we were kids."
She touched her cheek, staring at her reflection. A thought struck her.
"Do you think aliens have fairytales?" she asked.
“And bedtime stories? Or is it all just war stories and conquering planets?
" She tipped her head back slightly. "Maybe it’s just tactical manuals or something?
" She’d have to ask Kirr. It seemed like the kind of cultural exchange she should be doing if she was going to be the plus-one of a War-Commander.
She sat at the vanity table, feeling the silk whisper against her legs, and pulled the tray of cosmetics closer. She didn’t recognize the brands or even what some of it was for, but some things were universal. Pigments were pigments. Brushes were brushes.
She popped open the first container with a decisive click. "Alright. Time to pretend I know what I'm doing with this shit."
She worked quickly, hands steady despite the knot in her stomach.
She kept it simple—a bit of dark liner to make her eyes pop, a sheer gloss on her lips, a dusting of something shimmering on her cheekbones.
Sweeping her hair up, she twisted it into a loose knot at the nape of her neck and secured it with jeweled pins she found in a small box.
When she was done, she sat back and studied herself in the mirror. A different woman stared back at her. Someone beautiful, sexy and confident. She glanced at the makeup again. Shit, it must be magic or something.
The silver bracelet gleamed against her wrist, the only piece of jewelry she wore. It was perfect. The cool metal played off the midnight blue of the dress, tying the whole look together.
"Okay, Dee," she said, reaching for the device. "I'm going in. Wish me luck. If I trip and fall on my face in front of the station dignitaries, I'm blaming you for not being there to teach me how to walk in these shoes."
She tapped the screen to end the recording, and silence filled the room.
Taking a deep breath, she stood.
“Showtime,” she murmured as she walked to the bedroom door. Her hand hovered over the panel for a second. She felt like an imposter. Like the girl who scraped together change for subway fare was playing dress-up in a castle she didn't belong in.
Fuck. That.
She was dressed like a princess, and by God, she was going to have her night.
She hit the panel, and the door hissed open.
Kirr was standing by the viewport, looking out at the starfield beyond as she stepped into the main room.
He turned at the sound of the door. He was in formal dress—black on black, the severe cut of his uniform jacket emphasizing the terrifying width of his shoulders, the silver insignia at his collar gleaming under the lights.
He froze, golden eyes locked onto her.
He didn't move. He didn't speak. He just stared at her, his gaze sweeping from the top of her pinned-up hair down to the hem of the midnight blue gown and back up to her face. It wasn’t a polite look. It wasn’t casual approval.
Instead, heat exploded in his eyes, the gold swallowed up by burnished copper, awareness prickling across her skin.
That look pinned her in place, and the imposter syndrome just... evaporated. He wasn't looking at the dress. He was looking at her.
"Harper," he breathed.