Page 18 of Signed, Sealed, Seduced
The way he says my name, combined with that almost-smile, does things to my insides that I really don’t want to analyze too closely.
Before I can form a response, we arrive back at my quarters. The door slides open automatically at his approach—apparently, First Blades don’t need to bother with locks—revealing the room exactly as I left it, complete with my pathetic pillow decoy still arranged under the covers.
He sets me down just inside the doorway, his hands lingering at my waist a moment longer than strictly necessary. Or maybe that’s just my imagination, fueled by oxygen deprivation from being held against an armored chest.
“Your guard will be doubled,” he informs me, stepping back to a more respectable distance. “And the security protocols will be adjusted accordingly.”
“Great,” I mutter, crossing my arms defensively. “More babysitters.”
“A necessary precaution, given your demonstrated talents.” There’s a note in his voice that sounds suspiciously like respect. “Few could have navigated those corridors undetected, let alone accessed the command center.”
Is that... a compliment? From Mr. Broody McWarface himself?
“Yeah, well.” I shrug, trying to appear casual despite the warmth spreading through me at his words. “OOPS couriers have to be resourceful. You’d be surprised how many recipients try to avoid signing for their packages.”
He studies me for a long moment, his expression thoughtful. “I begin to understand why you have survived in such a dangerous profession.”
Definitely a compliment. And one that lands with unexpected weight, warming me from the inside out. I’m used to being underestimated—it’s an advantage in my line of work. Having someone recognize my competence, especially someone like him, feels... good. Too good.
“Don’t get too impressed,” I warn, needing to break the sudden intensity between us. “I still got caught, didn’t I?”
“By me,” he points out, with what might be the faintest hint of pride. “Few intruders have required my personal attention.”
“Lucky me.”
His eyes narrow slightly, as if trying to determine whether I’m being sarcastic. I’m not entirely sure myself.
“Rest,” he commands, stepping back into the corridor. “Tomorrow, as promised, you will see your ship. And your package.”
My head snaps up at that. “Really? You’ll let me see the package?”
“I said you would, did I not?” There’s a hint of offense in his tone, as if the very suggestion that he might break his word is insulting. “My word was given. It remains.”
Something in his tone makes me believe him. Which is either a good sign or evidence that I’m developing some kind of alien warlord-related syndrome.
“Okay then.” I nod slowly, searching his face for any sign of deception and finding none. “Thank you.”
He inclines his head slightly, a gesture that somehow manages to be both formal and intimate. “Sleep well, little courier.”
With that, he turns to leave, the door beginning to slide closed behind him.
“Henrok,” I call, using his correct pronunciation for once.
He pauses, looking back over his shoulder with an expression of mild surprise—whether at my use of his proper name or the fact that I stopped him, I can’t tell.
“Thank you,” I say again, the words feeling more significant than they should. “For not letting the disco spider fry me.”
Something that might almost be a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Disco spider?”
“The security drone,” I explain, gesturing vaguely. “With the lights and the legs and the... you know what, never mind.”
He studies me for another moment, that almost-smile still playing at his lips. “Your species has... creative descriptors.”
“You have no idea.”
The door slides shut between us, leaving me alone with the lingering scent of ozone and minerals, and the phantom sensation of strong arms cradling me against an armored chest.
I press my hands to my face, feeling the heat in my cheeks. This is bad. Very bad. Developing any kind of... feelings... for the alien warlord holding me captive is exactly the kind of complication I don’t need right now.
