Page 26 of Return to Sender
“Relaxing while being pursued by bounty hunters and my psychotic fiancé. Sure, no problem.” Despite her words, she reclines on the examination platform, her eyes fixed on the ceiling. The position causes her remaining clothing to pull taut across her form, and I find myself grateful for the clinical focus required by the medical procedure. “Distract me.”
“Distract you?”
“Yes, talk to me. Tell me something. Anything to focus on besides what’s about to happen to my poor, innocent nerve endings.”
I activate the regenerator, and she immediately tenses, a sharp intake of breath hissing between her teeth. Her reaction triggers an unfamiliar sensation in my chest—a constriction that defies physiological explanation. Her uninjured hand clenches into a fist, and without conscious thought, I reach out and cover it with my own.
The contact sends electricity up my arm, but I tell myself it is merely to provide comfort during the procedure.
“The Gluxian diplomatic corps,” I begin, my voice slightly unsteady from the contact, “maintains seventeen distinct classifications of formal greeting, each calibrated to the specific status of the receiving party.”
A strained laugh escapes her, and her fingers curl around mine, gripping tightly as another wave of regeneration pain washes through her. The touch sends electricity up my arm, and I find myself stroking my thumb across her knuckles in what I tell myself is merely a calming gesture.
“Of course that’s what you choose to talk about. Protocol even now.” Her grip tightens as the regenerator targets a particularly damaged cluster of nerves. “God, your hands are warm. I never noticed before.”
The observation affects me more than it should. Gluxians do run warmer than humans—a basic physiological fact I have never given much consideration. Yet hearing her acknowledge it, feeling her reaction to my touch, creates a feedback loop of awareness that makes maintaining clinical detachment increasingly difficult.
“Each greeting classification,” I continue, adjusting the regenerator’s intensity while maintaining contact with her uninjured hand, “includes specific requirements regarding physical proximity, duration of contact, and appropriate verbal responses.”
“Physical proximity?” she asks, her voice breathless from pain. “How close do diplomats get during these greetings?”
“It varies according to species and cultural context,” I explain, noting how her skin has developed a faint sheen of perspiration from the treatment. The sight is far more affecting than medical observation should permit. “Some require minimal contact—a formal bow at precisely 23.7 degrees. Others involve extensive physical contact to exchange pheromonal information.”
“Pheromonal information,” she repeats, her voice taking on a different quality. “What kind of information?”
I adjust the regenerator’s focus to a new cluster of damaged nerves, the movement requiring me to lean closer to reach the proper angle. The position brings my face mere inches from her shoulder, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from her skin.
“Health status, emotional state, reproductive availability,” I state, my voice slightly strained from our proximity. “For speciesthat communicate through chemical signals, such exchanges are equivalent to detailed biographical data.”
“And what would your pheromones tell someone about you right now?” she asks, her voice soft but intense.
The question creates a moment of silence broken only by the regenerator’s low hum. What would my pheromones reveal? That I am aroused beyond any previous experience. That her proximity is affecting every system in my body. That I am fighting the most basic biological urges with decreasing success.
“That would be... inappropriate to discuss during a medical procedure,” I manage.
“Would it?” Her eyes find mine, and the intensity of her gaze makes my chest feel tight. “Or would it be honest?”
The regenerator completes its second cycle. I deactivate it temporarily, allowing her neural pathways a brief recovery period before the final treatment. In the sudden silence, I can hear the subtle changes in her breathing, the way it catches slightly when she shifts position.
And I realize I am still holding her hand.
“You should remain still,” I advise, making no move to release her fingers. “Movement can disrupt the neural regeneration process.”
“Answer me,” she persists. “The real reason you’re helping me. Not the logical justification you’ve constructed.”
I should withdraw from her touch. I should maintain professional distance. I should redirect the conversation to relevant tactical considerations.
Instead, I find myself answering with a truth I have barely acknowledged even to myself.
“I received a coded directive from OOPS Command,” I admit finally, the words emerging with unexpected difficulty. “Specifically from Mother.”
Dominique’s expression sharpens with interest. “When?”
“After our encounter with the Royal Guard patrol. While you were resting.”
“What did it say?”
I recall the message with perfect clarity, each word etched into my memory. “I was instructed to report your location and status immediately, then maintain position until a specialized OOPS extraction team could rendezvous with us. You were to be... transferred to their custody and returned to the Human Concord authorities.”
