Page 16 of Return to Sender
I do not correct her, instead focusing on finalizing the drone’s programming. “AXIS, prepare for emergency jump to coordinates Alpha-Seven-Tango. Simultaneously deploy maintenance hatch three for drone launch.”
“Preparing jump sequence. Maintenance hatch three standing by. Communication shield breach imminent.”
We rush back to the bridge, arriving just as the tactical display shows the Royal Guard vessel closing to intercept range.
“Communication shield breached,” AXIS announces. “Incoming transmission.”
“Launch drone,” I command. “Then initiate jump.”
Through the viewscreen, we watch as the small drone ejects from the ship’s exterior, immediately accelerating away on its programmed course.
“Protocol Prime, this is Commander Vaker of the Human Concord Royal Guard,” a stern voice fills the bridge. “You are harboring Princess Dominique of House Malren. Power down your engines and prepare to be boarded by order of the Concord High Council.”
Dominique tenses beside me, her hand unconsciously gripping the edge of the console. I notice her knuckles are white with pressure.
“Jump in three... two... one...” AXIS counts down.
The familiar sensation of reality folding around us momentarily distorts my perception. When it resolves, the RoyalGuard vessel is no longer visible, replaced by an unfamiliar field of stars.
“Jump complete,” AXIS confirms. “Current location: Sector Alpha-Seven-Tango. No pursuit detected.”
Dominique slumps against the console, tension visibly draining from her shoulders. “They actually fell for it,” she murmurs, a note of disbelief in her voice. “Royal security—outwitted by a maintenance drone and a courier with a secret poetry collection.”
The reference to my books makes me stiffen involuntarily, though whether from embarrassment or something else, I cannot determine.
“The drone is transmitting on the expected frequency and following its programmed course,” I confirm, checking the tactical display. “The Royal Guard vessel is pursuing what they believe to be our trajectory.”
For a moment, we simply stand in silence, the reality of our situation settling around us. We have now actively evaded official Human Concord forces—an action that elevates our status from merely missing to actively fugitive.
“You know,” Dominique says finally, turning to face me, “for someone who claims to live by the rules, you’re surprisingly good at breaking them.”
I should correct her assessment. I should explain that my actions remain within the parameters of diplomatic protocol, given the exceptional circumstances. I should maintain the professional distance that has defined my career.
Instead, I find myself responding with unexpected honesty. “Perhaps some rules merit reconsideration when their application conflicts with more fundamental principles.”
Her expression softens, revealing a glimpse of the person beneath the defiant facade—intelligent, vulnerable, and unexpectedly perceptive.
“Well, Agent Wi’kar,” she says, a smile slowly forming, “I think there might be hope for you yet. Especially for someone who secretly collects banned poetry about unlikely minds finding connection across the void.”
The reference to the poem I read aloud makes something warm unfurl in my chest—a sensation that has nothing to do with atmospheric conditions and everything to do with the way she looked at me while I read, as if she truly saw me for the first time.
The atmospheric filters cannot possibly be malfunctioning, yet I find myself acutely aware of her scent again—now tinged with something new. Something warm and appreciative and dangerously appealing that makes my carefully maintained control feel suddenly, precariously, insufficient.
5
Market Research
Dominique
Freedomsmellslikeengineoil, exotic spices, and unwashed bodies.
It’s absolutely glorious.
After three days confined to Wi’kar’s sterile ship—where even the air seems to follow a precise recycling schedule and I’m pretty sure he alphabetizes his spare regulation socks—the sensory overload of Klethian’s main marketplace hits me like a drug. Voices in a dozen languages rise and fall around me. Merchants hawk wares from rickety stalls while customers haggle with theatrical indignation. A street performer with six arms juggles what appear to be small, squealing creatures that change color with each toss.
Best of all? No one here gives a damn that I’m Princess Dominique of House Malren. I’m just another hooded figure in the crowd, free to touch whatever I want, smell whatever catches my interest, and—
“Princess.” Wi’kar’s voice cuts through my moment of bliss, his tone carrying that particular blend of formality and barely restrained panic I’ve come to recognize. And secretly find adorable. “We agreed you would remain within visual range.”
