Page 43 of Return to Sender
“Who says I want to remove it?” I counter, reaching out to adjust his collar with deliberate slowness. “Maybe I just want to know how quickly these fastenings come undone.”
His breathing catches, and his hands move to my waist, pulling me flush against him. “Dominique,” he warns, but there’s heat in his voice, not reproach.
“Yes?” I ask innocently, even as I let my hands trail down his chest to test the security of his belt.
“If you continue this line of... inquiry... we will be significantly delayed in our departure,” he says, but his thumbs are stroking along my hipbones in a way that suggests he’s not entirely opposed to the idea.
“Promise?” I breathe against his ear, enjoying the way he shudders at the contact.
Before he can respond, AXIS clears its artificial throat. “As fascinating as this mating negotiation is to observe, I feel compelled to remind you that Prince Dante’s forces are actively searching for you. Perhaps save the recreational activities for after we’ve successfully acquired fuel?”
Wi’kar steps back, but his hands linger for a moment before he releases me. “AXIS is correct. We have a mission to complete.”
“Fine,” I sigh dramatically, securing a small biometric scrambler to my collar—apparently standard OOPS equipment for delicate situations. “But I’m holding you to that promise about optimal outcomes.”
The look he gives me is pure heat. “I never make promises I cannot fulfill.”
“The plan?” I ask, though I’m having trouble focusing on tactics when he looks at me like that.
“We will dock at Bay 17 in the mid-level section,” Wi’kar explains, now dressed as what appears to be a ship systems engineer. The transformation is remarkable—he carries himself differently, slightly less formal, more practical. “Identity documentation identifies us as contractors from Avalon Systems, conducting routine maintenance surveys. We acquire supplies efficiently, maintain low profiles, and depart before our presence can be flagged to station security.”
“And if something goes wrong?”
His expression hardens slightly, taking on the focused intensity I saw when he fought those bounty hunters on Klethian. Even in full tactical mode, though, there’s something different now—a protective possessiveness that wasn’t there before. “Then we adapt. Together.”
The simple word—together—sends warmth through me that has nothing to do with strategy or safety. We’re partners now, in every sense. Whatever happens, we face it as a team.
“Approaching Nexus Station,” AXIS announces. “Switching to low-power mode to reduce our energy signature. Docking request transmitted under cover identity.”
Through the viewscreen, I get my first look at Nexus Station—a sprawling, utilitarian structure that speaks of function over form. Ships of various sizes and configurations dock at multiple levels, creating a hive of activity that should provide excellent cover for our mission.
“Docking clearance received,” AXIS continues. “Bay 17, Level 3. Welcome to Nexus Station, Contractors Soren and Mira of Avalon Systems.”
Wi’kar—now Soren—moves with the same precision he always has, but something in his posture has changed. He carries himself like a working engineer, slightly less formal, more practical. The transformation is subtle but complete.
“Ready, Mira?” he asks, and even his voice has altered slightly—less clipped authority, more casual professionalism.
“Lead the way, Soren,” I reply, testing out my own cover identity. “Let’s get this maintenance survey completed.”
The docking bay is busier than I expected, with maintenance crews and cargo handlers moving with practiced efficiency. No one gives us a second glance as we disembark—just another pair of contractors doing routine business.
Wi’kar guides us through the corridors with confidence that suggests he’s actually studied the station’s layout. Of course he has. The man probably memorized the deck plans, vendor locations, and emergency protocols before we even arrived.
Walking beside him through the crowded corridors, I’m acutely aware of every casual touch—his hand on my lower back guiding me through the crowd, the way he positions himself between me and potential threats. It’s protective behavior that feels different now, more claiming than professional.
“Medical supplies first,” he murmurs as we navigate the commercial section, his breath warm against my ear. “The vendor in Section 4 maintains stock of neural regenerator medication and accepts anonymous payment.”
The way he says it, low and intimate despite the public setting, makes me shiver. Everything feels different now—more charged, more meaningful. When his hand finds mine to guide me through a particularly dense crowd, the contact sends electricity up my arm.
“You’re doing that on purpose,” I whisper as his thumb strokes across my knuckles.
“Doing what?” he asks with perfect innocence, but I catch the slight smile playing at the corner of his mouth.
“Making it impossible to focus on the mission.”
“I have no idea what you mean,” he replies seriously. “I am simply maintaining appropriate contact to ensure we appear as a credibly bonded work partnership.”
“Credibly bonded,” I repeat. “Is that what we’re calling it?”
