Page 4 of Warrior's Captive
“We should have put her in a tube. Why are we providing manual care?”
“You can’t tube a gravid alien, newbie. Who authorized residents on this floor? Get out.”
“Order an emergency surgical birth. And get me those downloads!”
Tai’ri stepped forward, not thinking, not even feeling, propelled by a fierce need todosomething after months of being able to do nothing. The marks on his arms flared to life as he seized the female’s wrist.
“Oh shit,” someone said. “What the fuck is he doing here? Wait, wait, what are youdoing?”
His marks split, flaring to life. He didn’t question it. Perhaps they recognized his blood in the child, nestled inside this female and about to leave the world before he even had a chance to hold this one in his arms. Not again. Never again.
“Well, fuck me, it’s stabilizing. Blood pressure dropping back to its baseline.”
“She, you fish bait. We can’t call aliens ‘it’ anymore, remember your sensitivity training?”
“I didn’t know the marks could do that with an alien.”
“Oh, Goddess. Where have you been? Why do you think . . .”
Tai’ri tuned their bickering out, his grip on the female unbreakable. It could not be a bond, not quite, because mate bonds required consent and intention. But perhaps the marks recognized the need for healing and acted in response.
He held her wrist long after the newly formed marks had slithered up her slender arms and settled into grayish blue strokes onto her skin. Her skin lost the gray tinge—not a good color for humans, he recalled—and her strained breathing and thrashing eased.
Her eyes opened once, dark and fathomless, then closed.
“The baby?” he asked.
“Heart tones normal,” a medic said. “You saved their lives. Congrats.”
“That’s the father,” someone whispered in a hushed tone. “He initiated a bond.”
“Great. We can finally fill out the damn forms then.”
Tai’ri let go of her finally, stumbling back. Vykhan caught him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders.
“Well done,” he murmured, releasing him once Tai’ri was certain his knees would not collapse.
When she woke, they would speak. But staring down at the bed, at the sleeping, vulnerable female, he knew he could not coerce her into making the decision that was already made in his heart.
2
A cell wasa cell no matter how they prettied it up. Vivian wanted out. She was so sick of having no choices, of behaving and doing what she was told, fitting in where she was told.
Of course the only time she had rebelled had landed her . . . here.
Her parents would be so proud of their only child—and would inform her she had learned a valuable lesson.
“When will I be discharged?” she asked.
It hardly mattered she had nowhere to go—she just wanted the choiceto gogiven back to her. Anger curled in her gut, but anger was useless. The princess had insisted Vivian’s decisions would be respected. Even if she chose to—she rubbed at her lower lip, flinching away from the thought.
“Well, we need to discuss your situation first,” the doctor said. They called them something else here, but Vivian’s translator must be a basic model.
The doctor sat at the edge of Vivian’s bed, dark hair slicked back, a white lab coat covering her black skin suit. A datapad dangled from her fingers and her eyes were trying, and failing, to be kind. Her slate blue skin matched the warmth of her voice, which was to say, there was no warmth.
The doctor’s bedside manner was lacking.
“I’ve spoken with Princess Ibukay,” Vivian said. “Can you clarify the chain of authority here?”
