Page 8 of Signed, Sealed, Seduced
“Courier Vega,” I say formally, testing the unfamiliar name on my tongue. It suits her somehow, practical yet distinctive.
She blinks, clearly not expecting the sudden shift to formality. “Oh. Well. That’s... something, I guess.”
“Your ship. You said it was damaged?”
“Yeah. Nothing I can’t fix, but I’ll need access to my tools and about fourteen hours of uninterrupted work.” She shifts her weight, the movement causing the ceremonial skirt to swish around her legs. She tugs at it self-consciously, and I find myself wondering what her own clothing looked like—practical courier wear, no doubt, designed for function rather than aesthetics. “And my actual clothes would be nice. No offense to your fashion sense, but this outfit isn’t exactly practical for engine repairs.”
I consider her request. The diplomatic implications of the situation have shifted, but remain complex. A courier is neutral territory—protected by interstellar conventions that even predate the treaty. Detaining her unnecessarily could create precisely the kind of incident I wish to avoid.
And yet... something about this situation feels orchestrated. Too convenient. A courier with mislabeled coordinates arriving precisely when we expect a diplomatic gift? My warrior instincts reject such coincidences.
“Your ship crashed within our security perimeter,” I point out. “That alone would typically warrant investigation.”
Her expression darkens, and I notice how the change in mood affects her coloring—a slight flush across her cheekbones that makes the scattered freckles more pronounced. “I told you, it wasn’t my fault. Something pulled me off course.”
“Our defensive systems include gravitational stabilizers,” I acknowledge. “However, they should not affect properly registered vessels following approved flight paths.”
“Well, I was following the coordinates I was given,” she insists, her voice rising slightly. The passion in her tone is... unexpectedly appealing. “If your fancy stabilizers grabbed me anyway, that’s a you problem, not a me problem.”
Vex’ra would be scandalized by such casual disrespect. I find myself more intrigued than offended. There is something refreshing about this female’s directness after cycles of carefully worded diplomatic exchanges.
“The matter will be investigated,” I decide. “In the meantime, you will remain as our guest until your ship is repaired and your delivery verified.”
“Guest?” She arches an eyebrow skeptically, the expression transforming her features in a way that draws my attention to the elegant arch of her brow, the way her eyes narrow withintelligent skepticism. “Does that mean I get this fancy bracelet removed and my clothes back?”
“The tracker remains until our security protocols are satisfied,” I say firmly. “However, your personal belongings will be returned, and suitable accommodations arranged.”
She opens her mouth as if to argue, then seems to reconsider. I watch the play of emotions across her features—frustration, calculation, resignation—far more expressive than any Zaterran would permit themselves to be in a formal setting.
“Fine. But I need to contact my dispatcher at OOPS. They’re expecting confirmation of delivery, and if I don’t check in, they’ll assume the worst.”
A reasonable request, though one that requires careful handling. “Vex’ra will arrange a supervised communication. You may inform your superiors of the delay, but not of the specific circumstances or your location within the fortress.”
Suki frowns, the expression causing a small crease to form between her brows. “They already know where I am. It was on my manifest.”
“Nevertheless.” I hold her gaze, making it clear this point is non-negotiable.
She sighs dramatically, the sound accompanied by a slump of her shoulders that somehow manages to be both defeated and defiant. “Whatever. Can I at least see my ship? Make sure nothing was stolen or damaged worse than I thought?”
“Tomorrow,” I decide. “After you have rested and been properly briefed on fortress protocols.”
“But—”
“Tomorrow,” I repeat, with enough finality to end the discussion. To my surprise, she doesn’t push further, merely presses her lips together in obvious frustration. The gesture draws my attention to her mouth—soft lines that seem designed for gentler expressions than the scowls she’s been favoring.
I turn toward my desk, ostensibly to review documents, but actually to regain my composure. This human’s presence is... distracting in ways I didn’t anticipate. “Suitable quarters will be arranged in the diplomatic wing. Your belongings will be returned.”
“And dinner?” The question comes from directly behind me, much closer than she’d been moments before.
I turn, surprised to find her only an arm’s length away. She’d moved silently—another skill not typical of civilian couriers. Up close, I can see the faint lines of exhaustion around her eyes, the slight tremor in her hands that betrays how much this day has cost her.
“Dinner?” I repeat.
“You know—food? The thing people eat when they’re hungry?” Her lips quirk upward in what might be the beginning of a smile. “Or do mighty warlords sustain themselves purely on intimidation and strategic planning?”
Again, that casual irreverence that should offend but somehow amuses instead. “You wish to dine with me?”
The question seems to surprise her as much as it does me. She blinks, then shrugs. “Well, I figure if I’m stuck here overnight, I might as well eat something better than crash rations. Plus...” She hesitates, then meets my gaze with renewed directness. “You’re curious about me. I’m curious about you. Seems fair.”
