Page 49 of Return to Sender
“AXIS,” I warn, though there is no true reproach in my voice. I am finding it difficult to maintain professional detachment when my mate is sprawled across my chest, tracing patterns on my skin with obvious appreciation.
“Merely observing that energy expenditure exceeded normal hyperspace transit parameters by 347 percent,” AXIS continues smugly. “Recommend increased nutritional intake to maintain optimal performance levels.”
Dominique laughs, the sound vibrating against my chest in a way that makes me want to delay our arrival indefinitely. “See? Even AXIS thinks you need to keep your strength up.”
“My strength is perfectly adequate,” I inform her, though my hands have begun their own exploration of her curves.
“Hmm,” she says, shifting to straddle my hips with deliberate intent. “Maybe I should conduct a thorough performance evaluation.”
My cognitive processes temporarily halt as she settles against me, her body responding to mine with an enthusiasm that suggests our six hours of hyperspace were merely . . . preliminary. “Dominique,” I manage, my voice considerably rougher than professional standards would dictate.
“Yes?” she asks innocently, even as she moves in a way that makes my grip tighten on her hips.
“We have thirty-six minutes until arrival,” I point out, though my protest lacks conviction.
“Plenty of time,” she replies, leaning down to capture my mouth with hers. “I believe in efficiency.”
The kiss rapidly escalates beyond anything resembling efficiency, and I am forced to conclude that Dominique’s understanding of time management differs significantly from OOPS standard protocols. Not that I am inclined to correct her methodology when it produces such . . . optimal results.
Twenty-eight minutes later, AXIS clears its artificial throat with obvious disapproval. “Approach protocols require immediate attention. Unless you prefer to dock while engaged in recreational activities?”
Dominique groans against my shoulder, her breathing still unsteady from our recent . . . efficiency demonstration. “Worst timing in the galaxy,” she mutters.
“AXIS operates on practical schedules,” I reply, though I am equally reluctant to move from our current configuration. “Umbra-7 requires manual docking procedures.”
“Fine,” she sighs, lifting herself away from me with obvious reluctance. “But after we dock, I want a full tour of this mining station. If we’re going off-grid, I want to see what that actually means.”
As we dress—her in practical clothes suitable for a rough mining station, me in standard OOPS courier attire—I observe her movements with new appreciation. Everything about her carries traces of our claiming now. The way she moves, the confidence in her posture, the casual possessiveness with which she touches my arm as she passes. She has transformed from a runaway princess into something far more dangerous: my equal partner.
“Status report on Umbra-7?” I request as we move to the bridge.
“Umbra-7 is a Class-C mining station built into a large asteroid in the Kepler Drift,” AXIS responds efficiently. “Population approximately 2,847, primarily miners, traders, and . . . individuals seeking anonymity. The station operates under relaxed regulatory oversight.”
“Meaning?” Dominique asks, settling into the co-pilot chair with natural ease.
“Meaning they don’t ask questions, don’t report to authorities, and don’t care what you’ve done as long as you pay in untraceable credits,” I translate. “It is an ideal location for those requiring discretion.”
“Sounds like my kind of neighborhood,” she says with a grin that makes my patterns flicker with both desire and concern. “Very different from palace life.”
Through the viewscreen, Umbra-7 resolves from a distant speck to a sprawling structure built into and around a massive asteroid. Docking bays, habitation modules, and industrial processing facilities create a chaotic but functional design that speaks of organic growth rather than planned development.
“It looks . . .” Dominique pauses, searching for the appropriate descriptor.
“Dangerous,” I supply.
“I was going to say interesting,” she corrects, but her hand finds mine on the console. “But dangerous works too.”
As I guide the Protocol Prime through the approach sequence, I notice her studying the station with tactical awareness that was not present when we first met. She is identifying potential threats, escape routes, defensive positions—thinking like a courier rather than a princess. The transformation is both impressive and deeply satisfying.
“Docking Bay 7 assigned,” AXIS announces. “Standard fees apply, paid in advance. No questions asked, as advertised.”
The docking bay proves to be a cramped, poorly lit space that smells of industrial lubricants and recycled air. Other ships crowd the available space—mostly older vessels with the scarred hulls and improvised modifications typical of the outer rim trade routes.
“Welcome to off-grid living,” I comment as we disembark.
Dominique surveys the gritty environment with obvious fascination rather than disgust. “It’s perfect,” she declares. “Dante would never think to look for me in a place like this.”
Her confidence is gratifying, though I note the way other occupants of the docking bay observe her with interest. Even in practical clothing, there is something about her bearing that suggests she does not belong in such rough surroundings. I position myself slightly closer to her, a subtle claim that the more observant residents immediately recognize.
