Page 3 of Signed, Sealed, Seduced
“There’s been a misunderstanding,” I say quickly, fighting down a flutter of panic. “I’m just a courier. I need to deliver this package to Lady Vex’ra, and then I’ll be on my way. My ship needs repairs, but I can handle that myself if you’ll just point me toward—”
“Silence.” The word cuts through my babbling like a blade. “The Warlord’s chambers have been prepared. You will be escorted.”
The Warlord’s chambers? As in, Henrok D’Vorr? The notorious, supposedly bloodthirsty commander whose name makes even seasoned OOPS couriers nervous?
My mind races. What would he want with a random courier? And why do I feel a traitorous flutter of curiosity beneath the fear?
“No, seriously, I’m not who you think I am. I’m Suki Vega, OOPS Courier ID 87392. I’m here on official business.” I hold up my tablet, hoping the manifest will clarify things.
The lead guard doesn’t even glance at it. Instead, he makes a sharp gesture, and suddenly my arms are pinned to my sides by one of the flanking guards. The package is plucked from my grasp by another.
“Hey! That’s a secure delivery! You can’t just—”
“The gift has been received,” the lead guard intones, as if reading from a script. “The offering is acknowledged.”
Gift? Offering? What in the seven systems are they talking about?
I’m about to launch into another protest when I feel something cold and metallic snap around my wrist. I look down to see an intricate bracelet now encircling my left arm, its surface etched with symbols I don’t recognize. It pulses once with a soft blue light, then settles against my skin like it belongs there.
“What is this?” I demand, trying to shake it off. The bracelet doesn’t budge.
“A courtesy tracker,” the guard explains, as if that makes it better. “For your safety within the fortress.”
Right. Because nothing says “guest” like being tagged like a wild animal.
“Look, I don’t know what’s happening here, but I need to speak to whoever’s in charge of deliveries. There’s been a mix-up.”
The guards exchange glances, a silent communication passing between them. Then, without warning, I’m lifted off my feet and slung over the shoulder of the largest guard like a sack of spare parts.
“Put me down!” I pound ineffectually against his armored back. “This is assault! Kidnapping! A violation of interstellar courier protocols!”
“The human female is distressed,” one guard observes dispassionately.
“The preparation chambers will calm her,” another responds.
Preparation chambers? That doesn’t sound ominous at all.
As we descend into the fortress, I crane my neck to catch one last glimpse of the Rust Bucket. My ship—my home and only means of escape—grows smaller with each step, until the obsidian stairs seal shut above us, cutting off the view entirely.
The interior of the fortress is both exactly what I expected and nothing like I imagined. The corridors are wide and tall, clearly designed for beings larger than humans. The walls are the same obsidian as the exterior, but here they’re inlaid with veins of luminescent crystal that provide a soft, ambient glow. The effect would be beautiful if I weren’t being carried against my will by a Zaterran guard squad.
We pass several intersections, each guarded by more armored Zaterrans who barely acknowledge our procession. The few who do turn to watch regard me with expressions ranging from curiosity to what might be pity.
Great. Even the locals think I’m in trouble.
But what kind of trouble, exactly? And why does a small, reckless part of me want to find out what the infamous Warlord Henrok is really like?
After what feels like an eternity of being jostled against unyielding armor, we arrive at a set of massive doors carved with intricate geometric patterns. They slide open silently at our approach, revealing a chamber that momentarily steals my breath.
It’s a bathing room. But not like any I’ve seen before. The floor is a single slab of polished obsidian, with a sunken pool in the center large enough to swim laps in. Steam rises from the water’s surface, carrying the scent of unfamiliar minerals and something floral. The ceiling arches high above, embedded with thousands of tiny crystals that shimmer like stars.
Around the pool, several Zaterran females wait. They’re tall and lithe, their slate-gray skin adorned with more elaborate crystalline patterns than the males. They wear flowing garments in deep jewel tones that contrast strikingly with their coloration.
I’m unceremoniously set on my feet before them. The guard who carried me steps back with a short bow.
“The offering,” he announces, then turns and exits with his squad, the doors sealing behind them.
I’m left facing the Zaterran females, who regard me with expressions I can’t begin to interpret. One steps forward, her amber eyes assessing me from head to toe.
