Page 5 of Return to Sender
And beneath my outward composure, beneath the shock and the logical calculations, I detect something unexpected: anticipation. A faint, wholly inappropriate fascination with whatever comes next.
The taste of her name on my tongue should terrify me.
Instead, it feels like coming alive.
This, perhaps, is the most disturbing development of all.
2
Just Drop Me Somewhere Hostile
Dominique
I’mstillseethingwhenI emerge from the sonic shower, skin tingling and hypersensitive from scrubbing off layers of grime. Every nerve ending feels raw, electric. The clothes AXIS directed me to—a plain gray shipsuit that’s clearly Wi’kar’s spare—hang loose on my frame, but the fabric carries his scent. Clean, precise, with an undertone of something uniquely him that makes my pulse skip in ways I absolutely refuse to analyze.
I find Wi’kar waiting outside the washroom, standing at perfect parade rest like a silver statue. Not a hair out of place, not a wrinkle in his uniform. The contrast between his pristine perfection and my still-damp chaos should be irritating. Instead, I wonder what it would take to mess him up completely.
“This way,” he says, voice carrying the emotional range of a navigation computer, but I catch the subtle flare of his scent glands when his eyes flick over my appearance. Just for a microsecond, but I see it.
He leads me through corridors so spotless they practically gleam, his hand hovering near my elbow without actually touching—probably terrified of triggering some other ancient law that would make us cosmic pen pals or force us to share a toothbrush.
“Careful,” he warns when I immediately start examining a wall panel, like I’m some feral creature who can’t be trusted around technology.
I jerk away from both him and the panel, surveying what must be his personal quarters. The space is sterile. Immaculate. Not a wrinkle on the bedding, not a speck of dust anywhere. Even the air smells faintly antiseptic. It’s like being trapped inside someone’s idea of perfection, and I hate it immediately.
Well, mostly hate it. There’s something oddly appealing about having a space where everything has its place, where chaos can’t touch you. Not that I’d ever admit that to Captain Control Freak.
“Your quarters are secure and will serve as temporary confinement,” Wi’kar informs me, standing with perfect posture near the door. “AXIS will monitor all activity.”
“Cozy.” I run a hand through my still-damp hair, deliberately letting droplets scatter onto his spotless floor. His left eye twitches almost imperceptibly. “Nothing says ‘welcome to my ship’ like being told you’re under surveillance.”
“Do you comprehend the severity of your actions, Princess Dominique?” he asks, folding his hands behind his back. The formal stance makes his uniform stretch across his chest, and I notice his build is leaner than I first thought—all controlled strength and precise lines.
Focus, Dominique.
“Oh, I don’t know,” I drawl, pacing his small room just to watch his eyes track my movement. “Breaking out of a forced marriage? Escaping political imprisonment disguised as royal duty? Avoiding being sold like prized livestock to cement a military alliance?” I stop and face him, close enough to see the blue-silver in his skin shift subtly with his pulse. “Seems pretty reasonable to me.”
“You have compromised a diplomatic mission of the highest security clearance,” he counters, but I notice how his breathing pattern changes when I move closer. “You have potentially created an interstellar incident. And you have—”
“Inconvenienced you?” I finish, batting my eyelashes with mock sympathy. “Poor Agent Perfect. Did I mess up your filing system too?”
His scent glands—those iridescent patches at his temples—flare bright silver. The scent that hits the air is sharp, complex, and does things to my nervous system that I definitely shouldn’t be enjoying.
I’ve studied Gluxians at court functions, but academic knowledge didn’t prepare me for this. Wi’kar’s blue-silver skinhas an unusual luster—almost pearlescent under the ship’s lights—and his features are more symmetrical than most of his species. The way his uniform fits suggests he’s built for more than just paperwork, despite his bureaucratic tendencies.
What he just released into the air probably translates to infuriating human female, but there’s an undertone to it that makes my pulse quicken.
Good. Let him be as affected as I am.
I spot a console embedded in the wall. Maybe if I can slice into his systems, I can find some dirt on Mr. Perfect. I lunge for it, fingers flying over the interface.
“Access denied,” AXIS announces smugly. “Unauthorized user.”
Wi’kar doesn’t even look smug about it. “AXIS is programmed to recognize only my biometric signature for command functions.”
“Of course it is.” I glance around for another target and spot what looks like a food replicator. “Fine. I’m starving anyway. Your diplomatic cargo pods aren’t exactly five-star accommodations.”
I stalk over to the replicator, very aware of how Wi’kar’s eyes follow my movement. “Let’s see what this thing can do. Something complicated. With layers.”
