Page 24 of Alien Healer’s Mate

6

One drink. That had been the plan.

Kellat stood near the end of the long mess table with a cup of something the quartermaster swore was j’trin spirit in his hand, and revised his estimate of how long his determination not to throttle anyone would hold.

The wake was in full swing around him. Warriors packed the mess hall, and the stories about Daae were already growing in the telling, as they always did at these things. The last one had the fallen warrior taking down two krin with a broken arm and half a rifle in a way that Kellat was fairly sure violated the laws of physics and every field report he’d ever read. But nobody cared because that was the point of a wake. The dead warrior got to be a legend for a night as his friends said goodbye.

He drank, letting the spirit burn its way down to his stomach, keeping Delilah in the corner of his eye. She was a few paces away, a small figure in that shifting plum-and-silver gown. He knew exactly where she was. The problem was, every unmated male in the room knew as well. He’d been watching their sideways glances since they’d arrived, answering each one with a flat glare that sent them back to their drinks.

Then a heavy hand clapped him on the shoulder, sloshing the spirit in his cup.

“Lead Healer,” a scarred warrior demanded, shoving into his personal space, his breath reeking of j’trin. “Settle a bet. It’s true a male can survive a gut wound from a level-four drakeen, right? As long as he packs the injury fast enough.”

Kellat didn’t bother hiding his exasperation. “No. He draanthing well cannot.”

The warrior scowled. “Are you sure? Because Vaarec swore his old unit commander took a slash to the belly and walked it off.”

“Then whoever told him that story is a liar,” Kellat said flatly. “A level-four drakeen has a strike force that would cave in even null-atmosphere power armor. Nobody is walking that off. And they’re fast. Your insides would hit the ground before you did.”

The warrior blinked as he pictured it, then grumbled a curse and turned back to argue with his squadmates.

Turning around, Kellat looked for Delilah again and came up with nothing. Draanth, he’d taken his eyes off her for ten seconds, maybe twelve, and he’d lost her.

Then the sound of her laugh, bright and easy, cut through the room. He turned automatically. She’d drifted toward the far end of the table, laughing at something the pilot had said. Nivaak S’Maar. Young, broad-shouldered, and with the kind of looks females of all species stared at, he was leaning in toward Delilah. He said something, and she laughed again, her hand coming up to cover her mouth as her eyes crinkled at the corners.

The cup shattered in Kellat’s hand.

“Draanth it all to draanthing hell!” he hissed, retreating to the edge of the table to drop the broken remains of the cup. The sting where the shards had cut him and the j’trin mingling with his blood barely registered as he watched the pilot charm her.

His heart slammed, hard enough to hurt, his gut twisting after it, low and ugly. For a moment he couldn’t put a name on what was wrong with him, which was ridiculous. He was a healer for God’s sake… He could name every structure in the latharian body and diagnose a hemorrhage from across a triage tent, but he stood there like a first-year student, thinking about his own symptoms with no draanthing idea⁠—

He was jealous. Of a pilot. A boy with barely any braids, who had no claim on the female in front of him, and no reason in this life or the next to be standing that close to her.

Mine. MINE.

His control cracked, and he crossed the room in three strides.

“Delilah,” he growled, and her smile died as she turned.

Nivaak straightened and stepped back in one smooth motion, his expression carefully neutral. Smart boy. Perhaps he’d live to see his next rank after all.

“I need to run some tests,” Kellat said. “Your neural pathways. It won’t take long.”

Her brows snapped together. “What, now?”

“Yes. Now.”

He turned to leave without waiting to see if she’d follow.

She did. He could hear her behind him the whole way to the shuttle’s small medical bay, the whisper of the gown against the deck plating, the sharp little breaths of a female building up a head of steam. Palming the door open, he walked in, and had made it exactly two steps inside before⁠—

“What is your problem?”

He stopped, his back to her, and dragged a hand through his hair. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Bullshit.” The brightness was gone from her voice, stripped out and replaced with a hard note. “You’ve been hot and cold with me since I woke up. Nice one minute, growling the next. Locking me in rooms. Dragging me out of parties. And I’m done guessing, so either tell me what the hell is going on, or leave me alone.”

He turned to find her standing with her arms crossed and her eyes blazing. Junior healers went pale when he raised his voice, and warriors twice her size would never dare speak to him like that. But she did.