Epilogue
The silence in the office was heavier than the vacuum of space.
Kellat sat in his chair, the leather creaking softly as he shifted his weight, but he didn't look at the dataflex in his hand. He didn't look at the roster of incoming patients or the inventory of medical supplies that needed his authorization.
All his attention was on the observation window in front of him.
Down in the main bay, the lights were dimmed to the station’s night cycle, casting long, soft shadows across the floor. Most of the beds were empty... the occupants had either been discharged or moved to the recovery ward. Only one bed remained occupied in the critical care sector.
Delilah.
From this angle, she looked small. Fragile. The white sheets were pulled up to her waist, her honey-blonde hair fanned across the pillow. He could see the steady rise and fall of her chest, and the rhythmic blink of the monitors keeping time with her heartbeat showed on the console on his desk.
Beep... beep... beep.
It was the most beautiful sound in the galaxy and the most terrifying.
He'd told Harper and Kirr that he had a plan.
He'd projected confidence, the calm, unshakeable authority of the station's Lead Healer.
He was the expert here. The one who fixed broken things.
The one warriors came to when they were bleeding out, trusting him to stitch their limbs back into their bodies.
But his hand trembled as he reached for the slate-gray document sitting on the corner of his desk.
It wasn't a medical chart. It wasn't a scan result. Instead, it was a Mate Program notification.
Match Confirmed. Subject A: Healer Kellat V'Raav. Subject B: Delilah Sawyer (Human). Compatibility: 99.8%.
He traced the edge of the screen.
Ninety-nine point eight percent.
He set the dataflex down, the plastic clicking against the metal desk, and rubbed a hand over his face.
His eyes were gritty and raw, and the scrape of stubble was rough against his jaw.
He hadn't slept properly in days. Not since he'd pulled her from that wreckage, broken and bleeding, and something had locked up in his chest the moment he'd touched her skin.
He hadn't had the confirmation then, but he’d felt the pull, the primal, bone-deep urge to tear the station apart to keep her breathing.
Now he knew, and she didn't.
She didn't know he existed beyond a voice in the dark or a hand checking her pulse.
Unable to sit still, he walked to the window and pressed his hand against the cool surface.
This was torture.
He wanted to go down there to her bedside. Sit by her bed, take her hand, and tell her everything. Court her. To bring her gifts—soft fabrics, sweet fruits from the hydroponic gardens, jewelry that would catch the light in her eyes. He wanted to hear her voice.
Harper said she was loud. Fun. That she loved parties and hated sleeping in. That she never stopped talking.
He knew her blood pressure, the topography of her brain waves, and the density of her bones. But he didn't know the color of her eyes when she laughed. He didn't know if she liked the rain or the sun.
He was a healer. He dealt in facts, in biology, in the tangible mechanics of life and death. But staring down at the female who held his soul in her unconscious hands, he felt like a novice.
"I am going to heal you, kelarris," he whispered to the glass. "I swear it."
Thank you so much for reading Alien War-Commander’s Mate!