Page 4 of Signed, Sealed, Seduced
“Small,” she says, her voice melodic despite the critical tone. “Fragile-looking. But the coloring is... exotic.”
Another circles me slowly. “The garments are unsuitable. Primitive. They must be removed.”
“Excuse me?” I back away, bumping into a low bench. “Nobody’s removing anything. I need to speak to Lady Vex’ra. This is all a mistake.”
The first female tilts her head. “There is no mistake, human. You are the gift. The appeasement offering.”
“I’m a courier!” I pull out my ID badge, waving it like a shield. “I deliver packages. I’m not a package myself!”
A third female, older than the others judging by the elaborate silver patterns tracing her features, steps forward and takes the badge from my hand. She studies it briefly, then passes it to one of the others.
“Your previous designation is irrelevant,” she says, her tone gentler but no less firm. “You have been chosen to serve a greater purpose. To heal the rift between factions. It is an honor.”
“An honor to be kidnapped and... what? Given as a gift? To whom?”
Though I already know the answer. The Warlord. Henrok D’Vorr. The notorious commander whose fortress I had the misfortune to crash-land on.
But what would he want with me? What would a powerful alien warlord do with a human courier who’d stumbled into his domain?
“To the First Blade of Zater Reach,” the elder female confirms. “You will be prepared, presented, and if found acceptable, you will serve as his companion.”
Companion. Right. A polite word for something that sounds suspiciously like slavery.
“I’m not anyone’s companion,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady despite the panic building in my chest. “I’m a free citizen of the Orion Sector. You can’t just—”
“Your discomfort is understood, human. But resistance will only prolong the process. The sooner you are prepared, the sooner you may meet the Warlord and explain your... concerns.”
I consider my options. I’m outnumbered, in an unfamiliar fortress, with no idea where my ship is relative to this chamber. The bracelet on my wrist pulses faintly, a reminderof my tracked status. Even if I could overpower these females—unlikely given their height and strength advantage—I’d still have to navigate a maze of corridors past armed guards.
Sometimes strategic retreat is the better part of valor. Or so my first OOPS mentor used to say, usually right before abandoning me in some backwater spaceport.
And maybe—just maybe—this will get me face-to-face with the man himself. The chance to see what lies beneath the reputation. To discover what kind of alien commands such fear and loyalty.
“Fine,” I say through gritted teeth. “But I want it on record that I’m cooperating under protest.”
The elder female makes a gesture that might be their equivalent of a shrug. “Noted.”
What follows is the most thorough and invasive “preparation” I’ve ever endured. My courier uniform is removed piece by piece, despite my attempts to maintain some modesty. The Zaterran females seem unfazed by human anatomy, handling me with the clinical detachment of scientists examining a specimen.
I’m guided into the pool, where the warm, mineral-rich water immediately begins to tingle against my skin. It’s not unpleasant, exactly, but the sensation is alien—a reminder that everything here is designed for a different species.
Two females scrub me with what feels like volcanic sand, paying particular attention to my hands and feet. Another works some kind of oil through my hair, her long fingers surprisingly deft as they untangle the knots from my hasty braid.
“The coloring is natural?” one asks, examining a strand of my hair.
“Yes,” I mutter, trying to maintain some dignity as I’m essentially bathed like a child. “Auburn. Common enough for humans.”
“Uncommon here,” she replies. “It will please the Warlord.”
“I’m not here to please anyone,” I remind her, though the protest sounds weak even to my own ears.
The elder female, who seems to be overseeing the process, makes a sound that might be amusement. “All beings seek to please others in some form, human. It is the nature of social species.”
“My name is Suki,” I say, tired of being called ‘human’ like it’s a brand. “And where I come from, we don’t give people as gifts.”
“Yet your own history suggests otherwise,” she counters smoothly. “We have studied your species. Your customs. Your contradictions.”
I don’t have a good response to that, so I focus on memorizing the layout of the chamber, counting exits (just the one we came through), and looking for anything that might serve as a weapon in a pinch.
