The security team holstered their weapons, looking relieved they didn't have to shoot a superior officer. The alarms cut out, leaving a ringing silence in their wake.
Kirr didn't care about them. He didn’t care about any of them. He turned to Harper.
She was staring at his wrist, her eyes wide. She reached out, her fingers hovering over the mark without touching it.
"It's real," she whispered, then looked up at him. "Please… tell me it’s real. You didn't... You didn't just draw it on?"
"It is inside me," Kirr said, bringing her hand to his lips. "It appeared because I thought I was losing you. Because my soul knew what my brain was too stubborn to admit."
The last of her walls crumbled. He saw the tension draining from her shoulders, the defensive tilt of her chin dropping. She looked at him, really looked at him, and for the first time since he'd pulled her from the wreckage, he didn't see guilt. He saw hope.
"Say it." Her voice cracked. "Say it again. Don't do this if you don't mean it."
"I love you."
"I'm terrified," she admitted, tears spilling over again. "I don't know how to not be the one who fixes everything. I don't know how to be... safe."
"Then let me teach you," Kirr promised. "Again. Every day. For the rest of our lives. Come home, Harper."
She let out a long, shuddering breath. "Okay. Okay. I choose you. I choose us."
"Good girl." He swept her up into his arms, lifting her high against his chest. She buried her face in his neck, wrapping her arms around him, holding on tight.
Turning his back on Duke Kaarigan, the security team, and the LMP officials, he carried his mate out of the bay. He didn’t ask permission, and he certainly wasn’t filling out any paperwork.
There was just the soft weight of his beloved female in his arms and the lifts ahead.
They were going home.
16
The heavy door to their quarters slid shut, sealing out the sirens, the security teams, and the chaos that had been ringing in Harper’s ears since they’d left the transport bay. The silence that followed was absolute.
Kirr didn't put her down. He hadn't since he'd lifted her off the metal decking of the bay. He carried her through the living area, his stride steady and his breathing even. He was warm and solid, a massive wall of muscle and heat that shielded her from everything she’d been trying to fight alone.
Her head dropped to his shoulder. Her body felt like wet paper, limp and fragile. Only held together by his arms and the way he held her tight. The adrenaline that had driven her to steal that ID, to navigate the corridors, and try to board a ship all drained away.
But for the first time in her life, she didn't ache. She felt… light. Free.
Kirr moved into the bathroom and sat her down on the closed toilet lid. He didn't step away. Instead, he knelt, his large hands resting on her knees, and his golden eyes searching her face.
"I'm okay," she whispered. Her voice sounded scraped raw.
He nodded once, then stood. "I know."
Turning to the tub, he started the taps. All the technology in the world, she mused, and taps still worked the same. Water began to flow, the steam rising invitingly from the surface of the water. Reaching across, he picked up an ornate bottle and added something to the water… a second later, the scent of rain and cedarwood filled the air, grounding her.
She watched him. He moved with a deliberate slowness that contrasted with the violence of his arrival at the transport bay. There, he had been a War-Commander ready to level the station. Here, he was just Kirr.
He turned back to her and reached for the hem of her shirt. "Arms up."
She lifted her arms, letting him strip away what she was wearing without a word. He tossed the stolen ID she'd shoved in her pocket onto the counter without a glance. Then he peeled everything off her … her clothes, her socks, her underwear with the same careful, reverent movements. He was gentle, like she was something precious and delicate, his rough palms skimming her shins, her hips, her ribs.
When she was naked, he started stripping his own clothes. His boots thudded against the mat, his uniform jacket and pants discarded in a pile.
The sight of him stole the little breath she had left. Damn. He was magnificent. Seven feet of hardened warrior, scarred and powerful. The dark marks on his wrists stood out against his skin… his mating marks. The marks that said she was his. No, that he was hers.
“In you go, kelarris,” he murmured, scooping her up against his muscled chest and stepping into the tub with her.
