Page 19 of Return to Sender
“Let go of me,” I warn, my voice dropping to the dangerous register I learned from palace guards who thought a princess couldn’t possibly understand real threat assessment.
“I should call the authorities,” she continues, not heeding my tone because she’s never seen me as anything more than a pretty political bargaining chip. “Or better yet, contact Prince Dante directly. He’s stationed a personal envoy on Klethian specifically to monitor for your arrival. He’ll be so grateful when I—”
I never find out what Dante will be grateful for, because at that moment, Annelise’s eyes widen in shock, looking at something over my shoulder.
I spin around to see three figures approaching—humanoid, heavily armed, with the unmistakable swagger of bounty hunters who’ve just spotted their payday.
“Target confirmed,” one of them says into a wrist communicator, his voice carrying through the marketplace noise. “Princess Dominique of House Malren, located in the eastern market district. Moving to intercept.”
Annelise’s grip on my arm tightens possessively. “I’m helping you, Dominique,” she hisses. “You’re clearly not in your right mind. Prince Dante will be so grateful when I deliver you safely—”
I don’t think, I react. Years of secret combat training—sessions I bribed the palace guard to provide when my parents thought I was attending embroidery lessons—take over. I twist sharply, breaking Annelise’s grip with a technique that probably uses more force than strictly necessary, then drive my elbow into her solar plexus with what I might generously call enthusiasm.
She doubles over with an undignified wheeze, and I shove her into a display of fabric bolts, creating satisfying chaos and probably ruining her ridiculous gown.
“That’s for three years of your insufferable dinner party gossip,” I mutter, then add, “And for thinking I’m too weak to make my own choices.”
The bounty hunters are already moving, pushing through the crowd with purpose. I duck into the stream of market-goers, keeping my head down and moving against the flow of traffic. My heart pounds against my ribs as I weave between stalls, heading toward the central fountain where I’m supposed to meet Wi’kar.
Where I’m supposed to meet Wi’kar, who has no idea he’s about to walk into a trap.
“AXIS,” I whisper urgently into the communication device Wi’kar insisted I wear, “alert Wi’kar. Bounty hunters. Eastern market, moving toward central fountain. Also, tell him his 47-minute timeline was optimistic and that I’m sorry.”
“Alert transmitted,” the AI responds in my ear with what sounds like amusement. “Agent Wi’kar is en route to your position. He also wishes me to convey that his calculations were based on your cooperation with established parameters, and that apologies are unnecessary given the circumstances.”
Even in a crisis, the man can’t resist being technically correct. And somehow, that precision—that absolute reliability even when everything’s falling apart—makes something warm and desperate unfurl in my chest.
I can’t let him get hurt because of me. I won’t.
6
Underground Truths
Dominique
Anenergyboltsizzlespast my ear, striking a metal container and sending shoppers screaming in all directions. The market erupts into panic, bodies pushing and shoving in their rush to escape. I use the chaos to my advantage, darting through gaps and changing direction frequently.
Another shot, closer this time. I dive behind a merchant’s cart just as the energy bolt scorches the ground where I’d been standing. The cart owner, a tall, insectoid being, chitlers in alarm and abandons their wares, scuttling away on multiple legs.
“Tell him I’ll cooperate with his parameters when he learns to appreciate fine exotic cuisine,” I mutter back to AXIS, because if I’m about to die, I’m going out being a smartass.
I peek around the cart. Two hunters are methodically searching the area, weapons drawn, while the third coordinates via communicator—probably calling for backup. I need to move before they box me in completely, but more importantly, I need to warn Wi’kar before he walks into their trap.
Grabbing a heavy metal container from the abandoned cart, I hurl it in the opposite direction of my planned escape route. It crashes into a display of glassware, creating a beautiful, distracting symphony of destruction. As the hunters turn toward the noise, I sprint toward a narrow alley between market buildings.
I’m halfway there when a fourth hunter—one I hadn’t spotted—steps out directly in my path, weapon leveled at my chest.
“That’s far enough, Princess,” he says, his voice modulated through a tactical mask. “Prince Dante wants you back in one piece, but he didn’t specify completely unharmed.”
The threat in his voice makes something cold and angry unfurl in my chest. After three years of being treated like property, I’m done with men who think they can handle me.
I freeze, calculating options. The alley is still ten paces away. The other hunters will have spotted me by now. I could try to dodge, but at this range...
A blur of dark motion drops from above—a cloaked figure landing with predatory grace directly between me and the hunter. Wi’kar. His hood has fallen back during his descent, revealing his distinctive silver features now set in an expression I’ve never seen before: cold, focused, absolutely lethal.
And somehow, impossibly, the most attractive thing I’ve ever witnessed.
“Dominique,” he says without taking his eyes off the hunter, his voice carrying a note of possession that sends heat racing through my veins despite the circumstances, “step back.”
