Page 17 of Return to Sender
I turn to find him standing rigidly beside me, looking like he’s witnessing the slow collapse of civilization. The hooded cloak from his emergency disguise kit—which he produced with the same ceremony most people reserve for religious artifacts—obscures his distinctive silver skin, but nothing can hide his perfect posture or the way he seems to physically recoil from the chaos around us.
His posture is so rigid he looks like he might snap in half, and there’s a subtle tension around his eyes that suggests he’s witnessing the slow collapse of civilization.
“I’m literally three steps away,” I point out, deliberately taking a fourth step toward a stall selling what appear to be aphrodisiac fruits. The vendor’s enthusiastic gestures abouttheir “enhancement properties” make Wi’kar’s scent spike with something that definitely isn’t just panic. “And stop calling me ‘Princess.’ The whole point of this excursion is anonymity, remember?”
“The point,” he corrects, his voice tight as his eyes track my movement toward the increasingly suggestive fruit display with what looks like horrified fascination, “is to acquire necessary supplies while minimizing our exposure to potential recognition. We should complete our transactions and return to the ship within 47 minutes.”
“Forty-seven minutes? Not forty-six or forty-eight?” I can’t help but grin at his precision, deliberately picking up one of the phallic-shaped fruits and examining it with scientific interest. Wi’kar goes very still, his breathing pattern changing as he watches me turn the fruit over in my hands. “Let me guess—you’ve calculated the optimal shopping efficiency based on crowd density, patrol schedules, and the likelihood of me touching something you consider unsanitary?”
Or affecting his composure in other ways, apparently. The way his jaw has tightened and his hands have clenched suggests the fruit isn’t the only thing disrupting his perfectly ordered thoughts.
“I have...” He clears his throat, clearly struggling with something. “The docking authority’s patrol schedule indicates a gap in surveillance at that time, providing optimal conditions for departure.”
Of course he’s memorized the patrol schedule. I’m surprised he hasn’t calculated the bacterial count of every surface we might encounter. Though judging by the way his gaze keeps flicking to my lips as I examine the fruit, bacteria might not be his primary concern right now.
“Well, Agent Stiff,” I say, taking a delicate bite of the fruit and letting the sweet juice run down my chin while maintainingdirect eye contact, “while you’re busy timing our grand escape down to the nanosecond, I’m going to actually enjoy my first taste of freedom in...” I pause, realizing with a jolt how long it’s been, “...three years.”
Wi’kar’s breathing pattern changes as he watches me lick the juice from my lips, and I notice the way his hands flex at his sides like he’s fighting some kind of internal battle.
“Your confinement at the Malren Royal Compound was not technically imprisonment,” he says, but his voice has gone rougher around the edges. “You had access to extensive grounds and facilities.”
“A gilded cage is still a cage,” I snap, suddenly irritated by his literal interpretation. The fruit vendor, sensing drama, starts openly eavesdropping. “You have no idea what it’s like to have every moment of your life scheduled, every word monitored, every ‘suitable match’ paraded before you like prize breeding stock.”
Something flickers across Wi’kar’s expression beneath the hood—and suddenly his posture shifts, becoming less rigid. Recognition? Understanding? For a moment, his head tilts slightly in that way I’m learning means he’s actually listening, not just waiting for me to finish speaking so he can recite protocol.
“I...” He starts, then stops, clearly wrestling with something. “Perhaps I have been overly rigid in my assessment of your circumstances.”
It’s not quite an apology, but coming from him, it might as well be a sonnect. The fact that he’s even considering that his precious protocols might not account for basic emotional needs sends warmth spreading through my chest.
“We require fuel cells, atmospheric filters, and non-traceable nutrient supplies,” he says, clearly deciding to change the subject before he accidentally admits to having feelings. “I willprocure the technical components. Perhaps you could acquire the food items, as human taste preferences are...” he pauses, and there’s something that might almost be amusement in the way his mouth quirks slightly, “...chaotically unpredictable.”
It’s as close to a joke as I’m likely to get from him. Progress.
“Fine. Where should I meet you?”
“The central fountain in 22 minutes.” He hesitates, then adds, “Please exercise caution, Pri—Dominique.”
My name in his precise, measured voice does something strange to my insides—something warm and fluttery that makes me want to hear him say it again, preferably in a much more private setting. I cover the sensation with a flippant salute. “I promise not to start any revolutions while shopping for snacks. Though I make no guarantees about the revolution you’ll have when you see what I consider ‘essential supplies.’”
His mouth tightens, but there’s definitely something different in his voice when he responds—warmer, less formal. “Your definition of ‘essential’ has proven... unconventional.”
“Agent Wi’kar, are you developing a sense of humor?” I tease, stepping closer. Close enough to catch that clean, precise scent of his beneath the hood. Close enough to see the way his eyes darken slightly. “Because that almost sounded like flirtation.”
“I do not flirt,” he states firmly, but the way his voice has gone slightly rougher suggests his body disagrees with his assessment. “Flirtation serves no tactical purpose.”
“Doesn’t it?” I let my voice drop lower, more intimate. “You learn quite a lot about someone when you flirt with them. Their responses, their weaknesses, what makes them lose that famous Gluxian control...”
His breathing stutters. “Dominique.”
The way he says my name—half warning, half plea—sends heat racing through my veins.
“Yes?” I ask innocently, trailing a finger along the edge of his cloak. Not quite touching him, but close enough that he can feel the heat from my skin.
For a moment, we’re frozen like that—him fighting his obvious reaction, me fighting the urge to push him up against the nearest wall and see exactly how much of that control I can dismantle. The air between us practically crackles with tension, and I can see the moment his resolve wavers, the way his eyes darken and fix on my mouth.
Then a merchant’s shout breaks the spell, and Wi’kar steps back, his movements slightly unsteady.
“Twenty-two minutes,” he repeats, his voice hoarser than before.
