Page 5 of Signed, Sealed, Seduced
After the bath comes the drying—a process involving warm air that seems to emanate from the floor itself—and then the dressing. Or rather, the approximation of dressing.
The garment they present is unlike anything I’ve worn before. It’s a deep emerald green, the fabric so fine it feels like liquid between my fingers. But there’s precious little of it. The top is essentially a series of strategically placed panels connected by delicate silver chains, leaving my midriff and most of my back exposed. The bottom is slightly more modest—a skirt with high slits up both sides, revealing far more leg than I’m comfortable with.
“I can’t wear this,” I protest. “Where are my clothes?”
“Being cleansed,” the elder female says, which I suspect is a polite way of saying ‘disposed of.’ “This attire is appropriate for your presentation.”
“It’s barely attire at all!”
But my protests fall on deaf ears. The garment is arranged on my body with meticulous care, the females adjusting eachdrape and fold until they’re satisfied. Next comes jewelry—silver bands for my upper arms, intricate ear cuffs that clip on without piercing, and a delicate chain that loops around my waist.
The final touch is some kind of cosmetic applied to my eyes—a shimmering powder that makes the green in my hazel irises stand out dramatically.
When they finally allow me to see my reflection in a polished obsidian mirror, I barely recognize myself. The woman staring back looks like some exotic creature from a pleasure planet, not a practical OOPS courier who spends most days elbow-deep in engine grease.
But beneath the transformation, I can see something else in my reflection—a spark of defiance. Of curiosity. Whatever happens next, I’ll face it as myself, not as some empty vessel for their expectations.
“The transformation is adequate,” one of the females declares, though her tone suggests it’s high praise.
“The Warlord will be... intrigued,” another adds.
The elder female studies me with those unnerving amber eyes. “Remember your purpose, human Suki. The peace between our factions is fragile. Your presence here is meant to strengthen bonds that have frayed.”
“By being what, exactly? A concubine?” The word tastes bitter on my tongue.
She tilts her head slightly. “A companion. A bridge between worlds. Perhaps more, if the Warlord finds favor with you.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
Her expression doesn’t change, but something in her eyes shifts. “Then you will be returned to those who sent you.”
Somehow, I doubt that means a first-class ticket back to The Junction.
Before I can ask more questions, the massive doors slide open again. The guard squad has returned, though they pause noticeably at the sight of my transformation.
“The offering is prepared,” the elder female announces. “She may be presented to the Warlord.”
The lead guard nods once, then gestures for me to follow. No rough handling this time, at least. Small mercies.
As I step toward the door, the elder female catches my arm gently. “A word of advice, human Suki,” she murmurs, her voice pitched for my ears alone. “The Warlord is not what the stories claim. Approach with respect, not fear. And remember—sometimes the greatest power lies in seeming to have none.”
With that cryptic statement, she releases me. I’m escorted from the bathing chamber, back into the labyrinthine corridors of the fortress, now dressed like some fantasy concubine and headed for a meeting with one of the most feared warlords in the sector.
All because I crashed on the wrong landing pad.
And despite everything—the kidnapping, the forced preparation, the complete upheaval of my life—I find myself wondering what he’ll be like. What kind of man lurks behind the reputation. What kind of alien could command such fear and loyalty.
What kind of warlord needs a human courier delivered to his door like a gift?
Mother is never going to believe this delivery report. If I live long enough to file one.
2
First Contact
Henrok
Themissiveliesunfurledon my war table, its delicate parchment an insult among the obsidian and steel of my private chambers. I do not touch it again. Once was sufficient to memorize its contents, to catalog its presumptions, to identify the thirteen separate ways it breaches protocol.
