Page 45 of Signed, Sealed, Seduced
His mouth twitches in that almost-smile I’ve become addicted to provoking. “The Zaterran hygiene system does not require paper products.”
“Of course it doesn’t,” I roll my eyes. “Let me guess—some kind of sonic pulse that atomizes waste matter while simultaneously composing epic poetry about the experience?”
This time the almost-smile becomes an actual chuckle, the sound rumbling through his chest. “Something like that. Though the poetry is optional.”
I stand, stretching to work out the kinks from hours hunched over manifests. Henrok’s eyes track the movement, darkening slightly as my shirt rides up to expose a strip of skin. Three days since our first night together, and that hungry look still sends heat spiraling through me.
“How was the diplomatic meeting?” I ask, deliberately casual, though we both know it’s anything but. The Corsairian delegation has been in an uproar since their ship was caught trying to sabotage Zater Reach’s defenses.
Henrok’s expression hardens. “Predictable. Denials. Counter-accusations. Claims that the vessel we intercepted was acting without official sanction.”
“And you believe that about as much as I believe in free shipping,” I guess, reading his skepticism.
“Precisely.” He moves to the viewport, gazing out at the asteroid belt. “The Stellar Togetherness Initiative hassent representatives to ‘mediate’ the situation. They arrive tomorrow.”
I wince. “That sounds... bureaucratic.”
“It will be.” His shoulders tense slightly, the only outward sign of his concern. “The STI has long sought greater influence in Zater Reach. This incident provides them the pretext they desire.”
I move to stand beside him, close enough that our arms almost touch. “They’ll try to use me too, won’t they? The human courier who ‘coincidentally’ crashed with a sabotage device?”
Henrok turns to me, his garnet eyes intense. “They will attempt to. Which is why I have registered you as a diplomatic attaché under my personal protection.”
“You what?” I blink, caught off guard. “When did this happen?”
“This morning. The documentation was processed through official channels.” His expression remains impassive, but there’s a hint of uncertainty in his voice. “If this displeases you—”
“No, it’s fine,” I interrupt, processing this new development. “Just... unexpected. I’m not exactly diplomat material, Henrok. My idea of subtle negotiation involves threats and possibly airlock malfunctions.”
“Which is precisely why you are perfect,” he says with complete seriousness. “The STI expects formality and deception. You offer neither.”
“Was that a compliment or an insult?” I narrow my eyes at him.
“An observation,” he replies, but there’s warmth in his gaze that makes my chest tight. “One of many I have made about you.”
Before I can respond, a familiar whirring sound interrupts us. The ancient serving droid I repaired rolls into the chamber,its movements smoother now after my additional tinkering. Its crystalline core pulses with renewed energy as it approaches.
“Refreshments for the First Blade and his... companion,” the droid announces in its oddly melodic voice. “Tea brewed to optimal temperature and potency.”
“Thanks, Rusty,” I say, accepting a steaming cup from the tray it extends.
“I have not designated this unit with that nomenclature,” Henrok notes, taking his own cup.
“Well, he needed a name, and he’s literally rusty in spots,” I shrug. “Plus, he likes it. Don’t you, Rusty?”
The droid’s lights flicker in what I’ve come to recognize as its version of consideration. “This unit finds the designation acceptable, though lacking in grandeur. Perhaps ‘Supreme Commander of Refreshment Distribution’ would be more fitting.”
I nearly choke on my tea. “Did you just make a joke?”
“This unit is programmed with over seven thousand forms of social interaction, including humorous observations designed to ease tension in diplomatic settings,” Rusty informs me primly. “Would you prefer a limerick about the mating habits of Venturian slug-beasts?”
Henrok’s eyebrows rise slightly. “That function was not in the original programming.”
“I may have tweaked a few things,” I admit, patting the droid affectionately. “He was so formal. Needed to loosen up a bit.”
“There once was a slug from Ventura,” Rusty begins, its voice shifting to a singsong cadence.
“Not now, Rusty,” I interrupt hastily. “Maybe save the dirty poetry for after hours.”
