Page 24 of Return to Sender
As he turns to the door controls, I realize that despite the danger, the bounty, and the neural disruptor injury, this is the most alive I’ve felt in years.
And it has everything to do with the silver-skinned alien leading me through the shadows, breaking every rule in hisprecious protocol to keep me safe, making me feel things I’ve never felt before.
Things that are definitely going to complicate our already impossible situation.
But as Wi’kar’s hand finds mine again in the darkness, I find I don’t care about complications. Not anymore.
Not when he looks at me like I’m something worth protecting.
Not when his touch makes me feel like I’m finally, truly free.
7
Tender Truths
Wi’kar
Myhandsshouldnotbe shaking.
Gluxian physiology is designed for precision under duress. Our nervous system includes secondary pathways specifically evolved to maintain fine motor control during combat situations. Yet as I guide Dominique through the final security checkpoint to the docking bay, I am acutely aware of a minute tremor in my fingers—an unprecedented physiological response that I cannot suppress.
The cause is evident: Dominique. Her neural disruptor injury. The way she intercepted a blast meant for me. The way her body felt pressed against mine when I carried her to safety, warm and yielding and entirely too distracting for optimal tactical awareness.
The memory of her weight in my arms, the trust implicit in her surrender to my protection, the scent of her hair against my shoulder—these details replay in my consciousness with disturbing persistence.
Unacceptable. Illogical. Inexplicable.
“We’re clear,” I inform her, my voice betraying none of my internal discord as we approach the Protocol Prime. “AXIS has maintained security protocols and reports no breach attempts.”
Dominique nods, her movements slightly uncoordinated—a concerning symptom of neural disruptor exposure. Her normally vibrant complexion has paled, and her pupils show uneven dilation. The medical stabilizer I administered in the maintenance tunnel is insufficient for the damage sustained.
“Fantastic,” she replies, her typical sarcasm dulled by pain. “I was worried someone might have stolen your collection of alphabetized regulation manuals.”
Even injured, she maintains her defiance. The way she tilts her chin up despite her obvious discomfort, the stubborn set of her shoulders—it speaks to a strength of character that I find... compelling.
It is admirable, if tactically unsound.
I activate the ship’s entry ramp, maintaining a vigilant scan of our surroundings while simultaneously monitoring Dominique’s increasingly unstable gait. When she stumbles on the incline, my hand moves to support her elbow without conscious command—another breach in protocol. The contact sends familiar heat through my system, and I find myself hyper-aware of the warmth of her skin through the thin fabric of her sleeve, the way she unconsciously leans into my strength.
Physical contact should be minimized. Yet I cannot bring myself to release her.
“I’m fine,” she insists, though her body contradicts her words as she leans more heavily into my support. The movement brings her closer, close enough that I catch the distinctive scent that my heightened Gluxian senses have learned to associate specifically with her—something warm and alive and uniquely hers that makes my chest tighten with want. “Just a little wobbly. Neural disruptors pack quite a punch.”
“You require immediate medical attention,” I state, guiding her up the ramp with more haste than caution. “Neural pathway degradation accelerates exponentially after the initial exposure period.”
The words are clinical, professional, but my awareness of her is anything but. The way her hair has escaped its restraints to frame her face. The slight catch in her breathing when pain spikes through her system. The trust she places in my guidance despite our brief acquaintance.
Once inside, I secure the airlock with triple encryption—a precaution that exceeds standard OOPS protocol by 247%. The ship’s familiar environment should provide comfort, yet I find no relief in its ordered confines. Not while Dominique’s condition deteriorates. Not while the memory of her body against mine refuses to fade from my tactile memory banks.
“AXIS, initiate emergency departure sequence,” I command. “Authorization pattern Wi’kar-epsilon-nine.”
“Acknowledged, Agent Wi’kar,” the AI responds with what sounds suspiciously like amusement. “Emergency departure sequence initiated. Warning: departure violates spaceport regulation 17-B regarding proper clearance procedures. I’m beginning to think you enjoy breaking rules, Agent. Shall I add ‘developing rebellious streak’ to your psychological profile?”
The AI’s observation is... uncomfortably accurate. Since Dominique’s arrival, I have violated more protocols than in my entire previous career combined. And despite the logical concerns this should generate, I find myself... untroubled by this development.
“Execute immediate vertical launch once pre-flight checks are complete,” I snap, ignoring the AI’s commentary.
“Executing. Pre-flight checks accelerated. Departure in approximately 47 seconds. Also, Agent, your stress indicators are elevated beyond normal parameters. Perhaps Princess Dominique’s influence is more... stimulating than previously calculated.”
