Page 29 of Return to Sender
The medical gown has shifted during our embrace, revealing more of her shoulder, her collarbones. Without conscious thought, I trail my lips along the elegant line of her throat, tasting the salt of her skin, feeling her pulse race beneath my mouth.
“Wi’kar,” she breathes, and my name in her voice, spoken like that, nearly undoes me completely.
It is too much. It is not enough. It is—
Awareness returns like a cold wave, crashing over the heat of the moment. What am I doing? She is under my protection. She is injured. She is human royalty. She is not—
I pull away abruptly, my respiratory rate elevated beyond acceptable parameters. The luminescent patterns at my temple must pulse visibly with my heartbeat, betraying my loss of control for anyone to see.
“This is inappropriate,” I manage, my voice rough in a way I have never heard it. “A violation of protocol. Of trust. Of—”
“Of what?” she challenges, her own breathing uneven, her lips swollen from our kiss. “Of your precious rules? The ones you’ve already broken a dozen times over?”
“Of my duty,” I insist, forcing distance between us though every instinct screams to return to her arms. “You are my responsibility. My charge. Not...”
“Not what?” Her eyes flash with that particular fire that simultaneously fascinates and alarms me. “Not your mate? Is that what you were going to say?”
The word strikes like a physical blow. Mate. The Consular Bonding Clause has legally designated us as such, but the reality—the truth of what such a bond would mean—
“You are not my mate,” I say firmly, though something within me rebels against the declaration. “This bonding... it is a legal fiction, nothing more.”
She studies me for a long moment, her expression shifting from challenge to something more complex. Then, unexpectedly, she smiles—that particular curve of her lips that somehow always presages trouble.
“Maybe,” she concedes, straightening the medical gown with deliberate casualness, though I note her hands are not entirely steady. “But I never said I didn’t want to be.”
The statement renders me momentarily speechless—a condition I have not experienced since my earliest diplomatic training exercises. Before I can formulate a response, she continues.
“We’re stuck together, Wi’kar. Legally bonded. On the run. Hunted by my ex-fiancé and probably your former employers too. We’ve already broken all the rules.” She steps forward again, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from her body. “So maybe, just maybe, we should stop pretending this is just about duty or protocol or whatever other excuse you want to hide behind.”
“It is not an excuse,” I object, though my voice lacks conviction. “It is a necessary boundary.”
“Is it?” She tilts her head, studying me with unsettling perception. “Or is it just another way to avoid making a real choice? To hide behind regulations instead of admitting what you actually want?”
The accusation strikes with uncomfortable precision. I turn away, ostensibly to check the medical equipment, but in truthto escape her too-perceptive gaze and to gain control over my body’s continued response to her presence.
“AXIS,” I address the ship’s AI with perhaps more force than necessary, “run a full diagnostic on all ship systems. Extended operations in this region require optimal functionality.”
“Initiating comprehensive diagnostic,” AXIS responds with what I swear is amusement. “Estimated completion time: four hours, thirty-seven minutes. Also, Agent Wi’kar, I feel compelled to note that your current biometric readings suggest you might benefit from some... private reflection time. Shall I engage privacy protocols for your personal quarters after Princess Dominique has rested?”
Heat rises in my chest—embarrassment at AXIS’s entirely too-perceptive commentary. The AI’s suggestion regarding “private reflection time” is both mortifying and... not entirely unwelcome. The constant state of arousal that Dominique’s presence creates has been... challenging to manage through standard meditation techniques.
“That will not be necessary,” I say stiffly.
“Of course not, Agent,” AXIS replies with unmistakable amusement. “Though I note that Gluxian physiology texts do recommend regular stress relief, particularly during periods of... heightened interpersonal tension.”
Dominique’s eyes widen slightly, then a slow smile spreads across her face. “Is your AI suggesting what I think it’s suggesting?”
“AXIS’s commentary is irrelevant,” I state firmly, though I find myself entirely unable to meet her gaze.
“Irrelevant, perhaps,” she muses, “but not inaccurate?”
“We will reach Umbra-7 in approximately 3.7 hours,” I state, retreating to factual information. “You should rest during transit. The neural regeneration process requires significant energy resources from your body.”
She sighs, a sound of exasperation that I am becoming increasingly familiar with. “Fine. Avoid the conversation. But this isn’t over, Wi’kar.”
“The medical treatment is complete,” I counter, deliberately misinterpreting her statement. “There is nothing further to discuss regarding your injury.”
“That’s not what I meant and you know it.” She moves toward the medical bay exit, then pauses in the doorway. “For what it’s worth... thank you. For the treatment. For not turning me in. For everything.”
