Page 4 of Alien Protector's Mate

“Yeah, right.” Margaret scoffed. “You can’t be more than mid-twenties at most.”

“I just celebrated my twenty-first?—”

“See!” Margaret crowed. “I told you!”

“Myhundredand twenty-first,” he added.

The women’s eyes widened in surprise.

“Fuck! No way!” Elena gasped. “But you look so… young!”

“Latharians age differently than humans. More slowly.” He grinned and finished off his burger in large bites.

“My god, you’re older than my mother!”

“What about skincare?”

The conversation evolved into a rapid-fire interrogation about his life and the longer lifespan of Latharians, but then, as their meal wound down, Judith’s expression turned thoughtful. “You know, S’aad, it’s a pity you haven’t found a match of your own yet. You’re a hell of a catch. You shouldn’t be alone.”

Elena nodded in agreement. “Absolutely. You need a nice young woman of your own.”

“Or man,” Margaret added with a wink.

“I appreciate your concern, ladies,” he said with a smile, “but I’ve had my DNA in the matching program since I arrived here. So far, no hits. If I do have a match out there, she’s not registered with the program.”

“Well… shit,” Margaret muttered, her face and the other women’s falling in disappointment.

“As for preferences. Same-sex bondings aren’t unknown among us, but they’re not common. Personally…” He winked at Margaret. “I find females more attractive than males.”

“Oh my, charm like that, I’d give my Bill the heave-ho and run away with you myself!” she said, fanning herself with her hand. “You keep that under lock and key, young man, or we’ll have no chance of palming the girls off on their mates.”

Elena glanced at her wrist device, her eyes widening. “Shit. It’s late. Lunch is nearly over.”

Margaret and Elena began gathering their belongings, the soft rustling of fabric and clinking of utensils filling the air. S’aad stood, his tall frame towering over the table as he took over collecting the empty plates.

“Please, allow me,” he offered. “You ladies should head back to the office. I wouldn’t want you to be late on my account.”

“Such a gentleman.” Margaret smiled at him. “You’re spoiling us, S’aad.”

The three females hurried off, their heels clicking against the floor as they departed. He gathered the lunch things and cleared the table before following them at a slower pace. He hadn’t wanted to say anything to them in case they thought he was weird, but looking after them, even in such a small way, eased the hollowness in the center of his chest.

The hollow place where hopefully, one day, his bond with his mate would reside.

2

S’aad walked down the corridors of the Latharian Mate Program offices, his footsteps silent against the plush carpet as he made his way back to his lab. It was a dichotomy to the rest of the station with its exposed deck plating and utilitarian build. The whole of the human mates section was similarly luxurious, designed to put the human females at ease and reassure them that they hadn’t made a mistake in signing up and essentially giving themselves to an alien race they knew next to nothing about.

He walked into his lab, the soft hum of the scanning and matching equipment greeting him. With a deep breath, he settled into the chair in front of the main console and flipped his hair back over his shoulders. The honor beads woven into the ends of the braids clicked softly, the sound making his lips quirk up at the corners as he recalled the conversation at lunch.

The older females saw him as young and therefore less of a threat than any of the warriors who came in to meet their mates. He suspected his scars played into that. He’d caught a look of sympathy on their faces more than once, hastily blanked as soon as they saw that he’d noticed, of course.

They viewed him as gentle. Safe. Not dangerous.

He was anything but, as every single one of the warriors who came in here knew. He might act soft-voiced and gentle with the females, bouncy in manner and a little scatter-brained like the younger males he’d seen on their media, but he’d cemented his reputation as a warrior before most of their grandparents had been born.

His braids were packed tightly and held more than one bead each. His scars weren’t all from his healer trials. Most warriors got them removed, but he’d never seen the point when he already had so many beneath his leathers.

He caught sight of himself in the blank screen of the console and lifted a hand to rub at his jaw. His face and neck were clear, untouched by scars. It was the luck of the draw, and a lot of other healers hadn’t been so fortunate, which wasn’t a problem unless dealing with humans, who didn’t know at a glance what those scars meant.

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