Page 7 of Signed, Sealed, Seduced
She is... not what I expected.
The human female stands barely to my chest, a diminutive figure draped in ceremonial silks that leave little to the imagination. The emerald fabric clings to curves that are subtle but unmistakably feminine, the strategic draping designed to entice rather than conceal. Her skin is several shades paler than a Zaterran’s, with a scattering of darker spots across her shoulders and face that create an intriguing asymmetrical pattern.
Her hair falls in waves of deep auburn—a color rarely seen among my people—framing features that seem almost delicate in their proportions. The way the light catches those waves suggests a texture completely unlike Zaterran hair, softer somehow, more fragile.
But it is her eyes that truly give me pause. Large and expressive, they shift between green and gold depending on how the crystalline light strikes them. And currently, they blaze with unmistakable defiance.
This is no cowering pleasure slave sent to appease a primitive warlord. This female looks ready to fight her way out of my fortress with her bare hands if necessary. The realization sends an unexpected jolt of... what? Approval? Interest?
I push the thought aside, focusing instead on the tactical assessment. Small but clearly agile, based on how quickly she recovered her balance after bursting through the doors. Alert, cataloging our positions and the room’s exits even as she speaks. Unafraid—either remarkably brave or dangerously naive.
“You’re him, aren’t you?” she demands, planting her hands on her hips. The movement causes the ceremonial chains to shift,drawing my attention briefly to the curve of her waist before I force my gaze back to her face. “The big, bad Warlord Hen-rock.”
She deliberately mispronounces my name, the subtle emphasis making it sound like a type of mineral rather than a title of respect. I should be offended. Instead, I find myself fighting an unexpected urge to correct her—and to hear her say it again.
Vex’ra makes a strangled sound beside me. “You will address the First Blade with proper respect, human!”
“The name’s Suki. Suki Vega.” She crosses her arms, the movement causing those auburn waves to shift across her shoulders. I notice how the gesture both shields her body and somehow emphasizes it at the same time—a contradiction that captures my attention longer than it should. “OOPS courier ID 87392. And I didn’t ask to be here, so maybe we can skip the formalities and get straight to the part where you let me go back to my ship.”
OOPS. The Orion Outpost Postal Service. A courier, not a concubine.
Understanding dawns, followed swiftly by a new kind of irritation. Not at the human—Suki—but at the cascading series of errors that have led to this moment.
“Vex’ra,” I say, my voice dangerously quiet. “Explain.”
My diplomatic liaison straightens, though I detect the faintest tremor in her usually steady hands. “First Blade, I... there appears to have been a misunderstanding.”
“No kidding,” Suki mutters.
I silence her with a look, somewhat surprised when it actually works. She meets my gaze directly—another surprise. Most non-Zaterrans find our eyes disconcerting at best, terrifying at worst. Yet she stares into mine without flinching, her chin tilted at an angle that suggests challenge rather than submission.
“The Corsairian delegation informed us a gift would arrive today,” Vex’ra continues. “When the human’s ship landed on the lower platform—”
“Crashed,” Suki interjects, then subsides under my renewed stare. But not before I catch the flash of irritation in those shifting eyes, the way her jaw tightens with the effort of staying quiet.
“—when her ship arrived,” Vex’ra continues pointedly, “the timing aligned with the expected delivery. The guards made an... understandable assumption.”
“They assumed I was the package, not the delivery person,” Suki says flatly. “And then they took my actual package, slapped this weird bracelet on me, and handed me over to your beauty squad for what I can only describe as the most invasive spa day of my life.”
I notice she’s fidgeting with the ceremonial bracelet as she speaks, her fingers probing for a clasp or release mechanism that isn’t there. The tracker can only be removed by a Zaterran of appropriate rank—myself, or someone with my direct authorization. The knowledge that she bears my people’s mark, however temporary, creates an odd sense of... possession? Responsibility? I’m not certain which.
“The package,” I say, addressing Vex’ra. “Where is it now?”
“In secure holding, First Blade. Standard protocol for unverified deliveries.”
Suki’s head snaps up, her eyes widening as she looks between me and Vex’ra. “Wait—you’re Lady Vex’ra? The Diplomatic Liaison?”
Vex’ra inclines her head slightly. “I am.”
“So you’re the one who was supposed to get my package.” Suki lets out a laugh that borders on hysterical, the sound unexpectedly musical despite her obvious stress. “This is perfect. Just perfect. I crash-land trying to deliver your mysterious box,get mistaken for some kind of... concubine gift, and now I find out you’ve been here the whole time.”
She turns to me, gesturing wildly. “And you! You didn’t think to ask why a courier might be dropping by? What did you think I was, the galaxy’s most confused stripper-gram?”
The question is so unexpected—and delivered with such indignant humor—that it takes me a moment to realize she’s joking. The concept of humor during a formal diplomatic crisis is foreign enough that I’m unsure how to respond.
I nod once to Vex’ra, who bows with practiced precision before withdrawing from the chamber. I note the brief flash in her markings that betrays her reluctance—and perhaps her curiosity about how I’ll handle this unusual situation.
Alone now with the human, I allow myself a more thorough assessment. Without Vex’ra’s presence as a buffer, the chamber suddenly feels smaller, more intimate. The scent of whatever oils they used in her preparation ritual—something floral with an underlying warmth—reaches me despite the distance between us.
