Page 56 of Alien Healer’s Mate

“That is not possible,” Amaelii said, the vorrtan warlady joining them. She wore blood like a second skin. “No one links a drakeen without a band. No one.”

“Apparently someone does,” Delilah said.

“We will unpick it later.” Amaelii shook her head once, a short, soldier’s motion, and was already turning toward the smoke. “Right now, get off this ship. Both of you. I’ll deal with what’s left here.”

Kellat didn’t argue. Instead, he bent and scooped Delilah up into his arms.

“Kellat, you’re hurt!” She squeaked. “Put me down. I can walk.”

“No.” He was already moving. “No warrior worth his braids lets his mate walk after a battle she helped win.”

“I… I don’t think that’s a thing.”

He gave her a flat look. “It’s a Latharian thing.”

“Are you sure?” She frowned.

He arched an eyebrow. “Who is the Latharian here?”

She opened her mouth to argue, but then just wrapped her arms around his neck and let him carry her.

The drakeen followed.

Kellat carried her off the ship and through the station corridors, and the sounds of the aftermath faded behind them. He pressed his lips into her hair.

“I love you,” he murmured. “I’m never letting you go.”

She didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. She pressed her face into the curve of his neck and stayed there, all the way back to the Voors’tial.

The drakeen followed them all the way to his quarters and stopped at the door, folding itself down into a crouch that filled the corridor wall to wall. She reached for it through the link and found contentment and patience. A steady devotion that asked for nothing back.

“Thank you,” she whispered, and it chirped softly as its optics dimmed to a low, watchful glow.

Kellat carried her inside, and the door slid shut behind them.

Kellat set her down on the bed with a gentleness that belied the dangerous warrior she knew that he was.

His leathers were torn and bloodied in places, and some of his braids had come loose, the silver strands falling against his bruised jaw. She winced as she looked at them, but they were already yellowing at the edges… Latharian healing was obviously much faster than humanity’s.

He was alive.

She grabbed his wrist to pull him down with her. His pulse hammered hot and frantic beneath her fingers, matching the wild rhythm in the center of her chest.

“Don’t,” she said. “Don’t leave me now.”

His gaze dropped to her mouth, violet-blue eyes darkening to midnight. A groan escaped him as he let her pull him down.

Then he kissed her.

The collision of lips was desperate, relieved, edged with deep, dark need. His tongue swept into her mouth the instant she opened for him, rough and claiming. She moaned into the kiss, her fingers tangling his hair to drag him closer.

He tasted like copper and adrenaline and home, and she shuddered. She’d been terrified that she’d lost him… that she’d never get the chance to kiss him again.

His hands slid down her sides, huge palms spanning her ribs through the thin gown. Even battered and bleeding, he touched her as though she might break. As though she was something precious.

Her breath caught as he found the fastening at her shoulder and eased it loose. Drawing the gown down, he bared one shoulder, then the other. The fabric whispered over her skin, dragging lightly across her nipples until they tightened into hard points. His breath came rougher against her lips.

“Kellat,” she murmured.