Page 16 of Signed, Sealed, Seduced
“The protocols were minimized out of respect for your status as a guest,” he continues, looming over me now. “A courtesy you have abused.”
“Yeah, well.” I tilt my head back further, refusing to be intimidated by his height advantage. “Where I come from, guests aren’t tagged and monitored like specimens in a lab.”
“Where you come from,” he counters, his voice dropping even lower, “is irrelevant. You are here. In my fortress. Under my protection.”
The possessive edge to his voice sends an unwelcome shiver down my spine. There’s something about the way he says “my fortress” that makes it clear he’s not just talking about the building. The intensity of his gaze, the way he’s positioned himself between me and the exit—it’s all very... territorial.
And I really, really shouldn’t find that as attractive as I do.
“Look, just let me go, okay?” I spread my hands in what I hope is a universal gesture of reasonableness. “Give me back my package, let me fix my ship, and we can both pretend this never happened. I won’t even file a complaint about the whole concubine mix-up.”
For a long moment, he simply studies me, his expression unreadable. Then, without warning, he reaches for my wrist—the one with the tracking bracelet.
Pure instinct takes over. I jerk back and swing with my free hand, aiming for his face.
My fist connects with solid armor instead of flesh, sending a jarring pain up my arm. “Ow! Stars and void!”
Before I can recover, his hand closes around my wrist—not the one I swung with, but the one with the bracelet. His grip is firm but not painful, his skin surprisingly warm against mine even through the armor’s gauntlets.
“You would strike me?” he asks, and there’s something almost like wonder in his tone. Not anger. Not offense. Just... surprise.
“You grabbed me first,” I point out, trying to pull away without success. His hold is unbreakable, like being caught in a steel trap lined with velvet. “Where I come from, that’s called personal space violation.”
A low sound rumbles from his chest—not quite a growl, but something primal enough to make the hair on the back of my neck stand up. The sound vibrates through his armor, and I feel it where our skin touches.
“Where you come from,” he says again, his voice dropping to a register that does strange things to my insides, “you were not trespassing in the command center of a Zaterran First Blade.”
He tugs gently on my wrist, pulling me a step closer. I could resist—well, try to—but something about the intensity of his gaze keeps me rooted in place. This close, I can smell him—that same combination of wood and minerals from dinner, but underneath it something warmer, more distinctly him.
“You are either very brave,” he continues, studying me as if I’m a puzzle he can’t quite solve, “or very foolish.”
“I get that a lot,” I admit, trying for nonchalance despite the fact that my heart is hammering against my ribs. “Usually right before someone tries to shoot me.”
“I have no intention of shooting you, Suki Vega.” The way he says my name—careful, precise, as if tasting each syllable—sends another unwelcome shiver through me. “Though you are testing my patience in ways few have dared.”
“Yeah, well.” My voice comes out slightly breathless, and I hate how obvious my reaction must be. “Filter malfunction. Chronic condition. Very sad.”
Something that might, in another species, be amusement flickers in his eyes. “You speak too freely for someone in your position.”
“What position is that, exactly?” I challenge, though the words lack their usual bite. It’s hard to maintain proper indignationwhen he’s this close, when I can feel the heat radiating from his body even through the armor.
His gaze drops briefly to my mouth, then back to my eyes, and the air between us suddenly feels too thick to breathe properly. “Trespasser. Prisoner. Guest.” He pauses, his thumb brushing almost unconsciously across my pulse point. “The distinction seems... fluid.”
I swallow hard, trying to ignore the way that simple touch makes my skin tingle. “I vote for guest.”
“Guests,” he says softly, “do not break into restricted areas.”
“And hosts don’t typically carry weapons to dinner conversations.”
His lips quirk slightly—not quite a smile, but close enough to count as progress. “You noticed.”
“Kind of hard to miss.” I gesture with my free hand toward the very obvious arsenal he’s wearing. “What’s the occasion? Expecting an invasion?”
“You,” he says simply, and there’s something in his tone that makes my breath catch. “You are the occasion.”
Before I can process what that means, his expression shifts back to something more formal. “We will discuss your... condition... tomorrow. For now, you will return to your quarters.”
“And if I refuse?”
