Page 46 of Return to Sender
“Easy,” he murmurs quietly, his voice carrying warmth and pride. “You did perfectly.”
“Fuel cells ready for pickup,” the attendant calls out, apparently uninterested in the security sweep happening around his facility.
Wi’kar completes the transaction with smooth efficiency, and we’re back in the service corridors within minutes, the specialized fuel cells secured in an innocuous carrying case.
The moment we’re alone in the dimmer corridor, the tension that’s been building all morning reaches a breaking point. Wi’kar sets down the case and backs me against the wall in one fluid motion, his mouth finding mine with desperate hunger.
The kiss is brief but intense, all the restraint and control we’ve been maintaining finally finding an outlet. When he pulls back, we’re both breathing hard.
“That,” I pant, “was definitely not contractor-appropriate behavior.”
“Emergency stress relief,” he says with mock seriousness, though his eyes are dark with want. “Medically necessary after high-tension situations.”
“Is that your professional medical opinion, Doctor Wi’kar?”
“Among other professional opinions,” he confirms, then forces himself to step back. “We should continue. The window for safe departure is closing.”
But as we navigate back toward the docking levels, using service corridors to avoid the increasing security presence, it becomes clear that our timing may not be sufficient.
“Security checkpoint ahead,” Wi’kar observes, noting the guards positioned at the main entrance to the docking level. “Alternative route required.”
He guides us to a maintenance access that should connect to the docking level from below. The passage is narrow and dimly lit, clearly not intended for regular passenger use.
“This leads directly to the dock level utility access,” Wi’kar explains as we navigate the cramped space. His body is pressed close behind mine in the narrow tunnel, and I’m acutely aware of his warmth, his scent, the careful way he guides me through the tight spaces.
“How do you even know about these passages?” I ask, trying to focus on the tactical situation instead of the way his breath feels against my neck.
“Standard courier training includes facility reconnaissance,” he replies matter-of-factly, but his voice has gone rougher from our proximity. “Emergency egress routes are always identified during approach planning.”
In the tight confines of the maintenance tunnel, every movement brings us into contact. When I stumble slightly on the uneven flooring, his hands immediately steady me, his grip lingering longer than strictly necessary.
“Careful,” he murmurs against my ear, and the combination of his voice and his touch sends heat racing through me.
“You know,” I whisper back, “if we weren’t being hunted by my psychotic ex-fiancé, I’d be tempted to find out exactly how soundproof these maintenance tunnels are.”
His sharp intake of breath tells me the comment hit its mark. “Dominique,” he warns, but his hands tighten on my waist.
“What? I’m just conducting a theoretical engineering assessment.”
“Your theoretical assessments are going to get us into trouble,” he says, but there’s humor mixed with the heat in his voice.
We emerge from the maintenance access into a utility corridor that runs parallel to the docking bays. According to the signage, Bay 17 is just ahead.
“Almost there,” I murmur, relief beginning to build.
That’s when we hear the voices—Human Concord accents, moving in our direction with purpose.
“Bay 17 shows a civilian contractor vessel,” one voice reports. “Avalon Systems registry. Should we flag it for inspection?”
Wi’kar immediately pushes me back against the wall, his body shielding me from view as the footsteps grow closer. In the dim lighting of the utility corridor, pressed against the wall with Wi’kar’s solid warmth protecting me, I’m reminded forcibly of our earlier encounter in the medical bay.
“Check the manifest first,” another voice responds. “If it’s routine maintenance, we move on. We’re looking for a diplomatic courier vessel, not contractors.”
Wi’kar’s hand finds mine, squeezing reassuringly, but I can feel the tension radiating from his frame. His other hand rests against the wall beside my head, caging me protectively.
“The vessel’s documentation appears legitimate,” the first voice continues as the footsteps grow closer. “Standard civilian configuration, filed maintenance contracts, clean operational history.”
“Then we move on,” the leader decides. “Focus on vessels with diplomatic credentials or suspicious modifications.”
