"I need verbal confirmation."
"Yes." The word scraped out. "I agree."
The officer made a note on her datapad. "Commander, she's your responsibility now. Standard terms apply—you're accountable for her actions, her compliance, her safety. If she attempts to leave the station or violates supervision terms, you'll face disciplinary review."
"I understand."
More tapping. Then the officer looked at Harper with something that might have been sympathy. "The review board will assess your eligibility for the mate program once your cousin's condition stabilizes. Until then, you're confined to supervised status. Violation of terms will result in immediate deportation. Are we clear?"
Harper nodded. Then remembered she needed words. "Clear."
The officer tucked her datapad under her arm. "I'll file the paperwork. Commander, she's officially under your supervision as of now."
She left without waiting for a response.
Silence crashed down. She stared at the space where the officer had stood, her thoughts moving too slow and too fast simultaneously.
Under his supervision. Living in his quarters. Confined.
Trapped.
She'd signed up for the Latharian Mate Program to escape one cage and now she was locked in another. Different bars, same result. Someone else controlling where she went, what she did, whether she ate or slept or breathed wrong.
And the worst part—the part that made her stomach twist with something that wasn't quite fear—was that her jailer smelled like safety. Made her feel protected. Had pulled her from the wreckage and grounded her through panic and she'd been starting to feel something for him on the shuttle ride up. Something warm and dangerous and impossible.
Attraction.
She'd been attracted to him. Still was attracted to him, if she was honest. Which made this whole situation so much worse.
"Harper." Kirr's voice was gentle. Too gentle. "Look at me."
She didn't want to. Didn't want to see pity or satisfaction or whatever expression went with becoming someone's supervised charge.
But she turned anyway because what choice did she have?
His golden eyes met hers, warm and steady. No pity. No satisfaction. Just that same calm certainty that had pulled her back from the edge in the wreckage.
"My quarters have a guest room," he said. "Separate space. Private. I won't invade your privacy unless you invite me to."
Heat flooded her face despite everything. "I'm not going to?—"
"You can move freely through my quarters. Kitchen, living area, even my room if you need something." His lips quirked. The smile was small but genuine. "You're more than welcome to invade my privacy anytime."
He winked.
The audacity of it—winking at her while she was drowning—should have made her angry. Instead, something warm unfurled in her chest. Something that felt dangerously close to hope.
"I give you my word you'll be safe," he continued quietly. "Protected."
Promises were sacred to Latharians. She remembered that from somewhere.
Harper looked past him to where Delilah lay unconscious behind transparent panels. Machines breathing for her. If Harper went back to Earth, they'd both end up right back where they started. Broke. Homeless.
At least here, Delilah had a chance.
"Okay." Her voice came out tight. "I'll stay."
"In my quarters," Kirr clarified. "Under my supervision."
