Page 85 of Alien War-Commander's Mate
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."
