Page 92 of Alien Mercenary's Wife
"You're here again."
He turned at the sound of his nephew's voice as the Lord Healer swept into the medical bay. This area was restricted to most, reserved for the patients that Laarn was dealing with personally. His nephew's expression was neutral as he reviewed Charlotte's readings on a medical dataflex.
"How is she?" Daaynal asked, not bothering to deny his presence. This was the fourth time he'd found himself here in the past two days. But he was the emperor, and that came with some privileges, like not having to explain himself.
"Her neural pathways are responding to treatment, though the damage was extensive." Laarn moved to check the monitoring equipment. "Her condition was much worse than Princess Reese's. If we'd delayed even another hour..."
He didn't need to finish. Daaynal had seen the medical scans, understood enough to know that Charlotte had been teetering on the edge of complete system failure when they'd rescued her.
"But she'll recover?"
Laarn nodded.
"Yes, she should make a full recovery. The treatment is remarkably effective once it's begun. Humans…" He hissed, his expression tightening with annoyance. "They are like children. They shouldn't be allowed to meddle with things they do not understand."
He slid a glance sideways at Daaynal. "I must admit, I'm surprised by your personal interest in her care."
Daaynal studied Charlotte's face. She looked better than yesterday. There was more color in her cheeks… less pain in her expression. She looked almost peaceful.
"She fought beside my son's mate. That makes her family."
The excuse sounded weak… hells, itwasweak. But it was all he had. He crossed his arms over his chest and declined to say anything further. Laarn's expression suggested he wasn't buyingit either, but his nephew was too diplomatic to push the issue directly.
"How is Tarrick adjusting to the succession changes?" Daaynal asked, needing to shift the conversation away from his fascination with the unconscious female on the bed.
Laarn shook his head, a small smile crossing his features. "Not at all concerned, if that's what you're asking. You know my brother… it was never about the throne for him. Or for me, for that matter. We served because we were needed, not because we wanted power."
"And now?"
"Now Tarrick gets to go back to kicking ass and taking names, and my daughter gets to grow up as a normal little girl instead of the heir to an empire." Laarn smiled. "She can play with her toys and learn to read and not worry about state dinners and diplomatic protocols until she's old enough to understand them. It's a gift, Uncle. One we're all grateful for."
The simple acceptance in his nephew's voice made something tight in Daaynal's chest ease. He'd worried that finding T'Raal would create resentment within the family, that his nephews would feel displaced or diminished by the appearance of a new heir.
Instead, they seemed... relieved. A weight lifted from his shoulders.
"T'Raal still refuses any formal role," he said, aware of the slight grumpy edge to his voice. He couldn't help it. He'd just found his son and wanted to share his life's work with him, but T'Raal was stubbornly uninterested.
"For now." Laarn's smile widened. "Give him time to adjust to being a mate before you start pressuring him about being a prince. Besides, he's got his own empire to run."
"The Warborne." Daaynal nodded. "They're impressive."
"They are indeed. And very, very dangerous." Laarn checked another readout, then moved closer to Charlotte's bed. "This one included, from what I understand."
He watched his nephew examine Charlotte, trying to conceal his impatience. "How long before she wakes?"
Laarn shrugged. "Could be hours, could be days. Her neural system needs time to fully integrate the repairs." Laarn glanced up, looking at him over the medical bed. "I can alert you when she regains consciousness, if you'd like."
Before he could reply, his comm unit chimed. He glanced at the display and sighed. The pattern was the priority one, which required the immediate attention of the emperor. Which meant it could be anything from an intergalactic war, to a shortage of toilet paper in the royal palace.
"Yes?"
"Your majesty," the voice belonged to his chief advisor. "A match has been found."
He froze.
A match. After the mate program had spent months searching the database of human females… months of hoping only for each day to pass by without them finding him a match… of accepting that even among humanity he might never find a compatible mate... they'd found her.
"Where?" The word came out rougher than intended.
