Page 22 of Return to Sender
The world tilts and blurs. I’m vaguely aware of Wi’kar moving above me, engaging both hunters with cold, efficient fury that sounds like controlled destruction. Then his arms are around me again, lifting me with surprising gentleness.
“Can you stand?” he asks, his voice tight with what might be terror—actual terror from someone who never shows anything but perfect control.
“M’fine,” I slur, though my left arm hangs uselessly, nerve endings still screaming. “Just a graze.”
His eyes narrow as he examines the injury, and something in his expression turns dark and dangerous—something that promises retribution. “Neural disruptor damage. We need to reach the ship immediately.”
More shouts from behind us—reinforcements. Wi’kar makes a decision, sweeping me into his arms in one fluid motion.
“This is unnecessary,” I protest weakly, even as my body betrays me by sagging against his chest. The solid warmth of him, the way his arms tighten protectively around me—it’s doing things to my brain chemistry that probably aren’t helping the neural disruption. “I can walk.”
“Your objection is noted and overruled,” he responds, already moving toward the fountain with that controlled grace thatsomehow makes being carried feel less like rescue and more like claiming.
“Has anyone ever told you that you smell really good?” I mumble against his shoulder, because apparently neural disruption destroys my filter.
His step falters slightly. “You are experiencing neural pathway disruption. Disregard any unusual sensory input.”
“No, seriously. Like... warm spices and something that reminds me of home, but better.” The words tumble out without my permission. “Much better than that sterile medical bay smell you usually have. This is more like... security. And danger. And something that makes me want to do very inappropriate things to your perfectly ordered schedule.”
“Dominique,” his voice carries a warning note, but also something else—something pleased and hungry that he’s trying to hide.
We reach the service corridor, Wi’kar somehow managing to access the control panel while still carrying me. Once inside the dimly lit maintenance tunnel, he sets me down carefully, supporting me with one arm while securing the door.
But he doesn’t step away. Instead, he remains close, close enough that I can feel his warmth, catch the way his breathing has changed.
“The neural disruption should be temporary,” he says, examining my injury with clinical precision, though his hands are gentler than any medical procedure should require. “However, without proper treatment, there may be residual damage.”
“Lovely,” I mutter, trying to flex my fingers and wincing. “Just what I needed to complete my fugitive princess aesthetic.”
Wi’kar produces a small medical device and presses it against my injured shoulder. Cool numbness spreads through the area, but what really catches my attention is how carefully he appliesit, how his scent carries notes of something like tenderness mixed with barely controlled fury.
“This will stabilize the neural pathways until we reach the ship,” he explains, but his fingers linger longer than medically necessary, and I notice the way his breathing has changed.
“You’re angry,” I observe.
“I am experiencing... concern regarding the tactical situation,” he says stiffly, but the tension in his shoulders and the hard line of his mouth suggest it’s much more personal than that.
“No, you’re angry. At them, for hurting me.” I study his face in the dim light. “That’s not just professional protection, Agent Wi’kar. That’s something else entirely.”
His jaw tightens, and his voice when he speaks is rougher than usual—warmer, more possessive. “Your safety is my responsibility.”
“Is that all I am? A responsibility?”
“Can you walk now?” he asks instead of answering, but his hand remains on my uninjured arm, thumb stroking softly across my skin.
I nod, determined not to be a complete liability, though standing this close to him in the dim tunnel is making me acutely aware of things I shouldn’t be noticing—like how the artificial light plays across his silver skin, or how his precise movements have an unconscious grace that’s almost hypnotic, or how he’s looking at me like something precious that someone just tried to destroy.
“You smell different too,” I observe as he helps me to my feet, apparently having lost all my filters. “Warmer. Less controlled. More...” I pause, searching for the word, “...primitive.”
He stiffens slightly. “Stress response activates certain physiological changes. It is involuntary.”
“It’s nice,” I say simply. “You seem more... real. Less like you’re performing the role of ‘perfect diplomatic courier’ and more like someone who actually cares what happens to me.”
The words hang in the air between us, and Wi’kar goes very still.
“Am I?” I ask softly. “Someone you care about?”
For a moment, neither of us breathes. Then Wi’kar’s hand tightens on my arm, and his voice when he speaks is rougher than I’ve ever heard it, like the words are being torn from somewhere deep inside him.
