Page 51 of Return to Sender
“However,” Mother continues, “I’ve been busy. Turns out Prince Dante has been using his authority for some interesting side projects. Illegal salvage operations, unauthorized bounty postings, abuse of diplomatic immunity . . . the list goes on. I’ve been gathering evidence.”
“Evidence for what?” I ask.
“Leverage,” Mother explains with grim satisfaction. “I’ve arranged a meeting with Concord Diplomat Merida Toner, someone with enough authority to resolve this situation permanently. She’ll be arriving at Umbra-7 in approximately eighteen hours.”
“And Prince Dante?” Dominique asks quietly.
“Oh, he’ll be there too,” Mother replies. “I made sure he received the same meeting coordinates. Should be quite the reunion.”
Mother pauses, consulting something off-screen. “One more thing, Wi’kar. Your ship’s navigation logs. Dante’s been trackingyour fuel purchases and docking fees through the Stellar Togetherness’s public records' database. Every time you’ve refueled or paid docking fees, you’ve left a paper trail he could follow.”
I feel my chest tighten with realization. “Standard courier financial protocols require documented transactions for OOPS expense reporting.”
“Exactly,” Mother confirms. “And Prince Dante has enough diplomatic authority to request STI transit records. He’s been following your route systematically, always one step behind but knowing exactly where you’ve been.”
“He’s been hunting us through bureaucracy,” I realize, anger and grudging respect warring in my chest. “Using the very protocols designed to ensure courier accountability.”
“Exactly,” Mother confirms. “Clever bastard, I’ll give him that. But now we’re playing on our terms. Umbra-7 is off-grid enough that his standard Royal Guard protocols won’t help him. And Diplomat Toner has the authority to resolve this permanently.”
The communication ends, leaving us alone with the implications of Mother’s revelation. Dominique moves to the small window overlooking the station’s main corridor, her posture tense with barely controlled emotion.
“He’s been hunting us through paperwork,” she says with bitter amusement. “Every fuel purchase, every docking fee . . . he turned your own professional protocols against us.”
I move to stand behind her, my hands settling on her shoulders in a gesture of comfort and possession. “He underestimated us,” I point out. “And he underestimated Mother.”
“Your mother is terrifying,” Dominique observes, leaning back against my chest. “I approve. She makes Dante look like an amateur.”
“She is an extremely effective dispatcher,” I agree, though privately I am reconsidering every interaction I have ever had with Mother in light of her apparent ability to orchestrate complex long-term strategies.
“So what now?” Dominique asks. “We wait for Dante to arrive with his fleet, hope your diplomat can out-maneuver a royal prince, and trust that Mother’s evidence is sufficient to clear your name?”
“Those are the operational parameters,” I confirm, though I dislike the number of variables beyond our direct control.
She turns in my arms, her hands settling on my chest with confident familiarity. “Then we have eighteen hours.”
“Eighteen hours,” I repeat, though my cognitive processes are already being disrupted by her proximity and the implications of her tone.
“Eighteen hours before everything changes again,” she clarifies, rising up on her toes to brush her lips against mine. “Before we have to face Dante, before we find out if we’re really free, before we discover what our future actually looks like.”
Her logic is sound, though her methodology for utilizing our remaining time is becoming increasingly clear as her hands begin working at the fastenings of my uniform.
“Dominique,” I say, though my protest lacks conviction as her mouth finds the sensitive spot just below my ear.
“Yes?” she murmurs against my skin.
“This is highly irregular use of operational downtime,” I inform her, even as my hands settle on her hips to pull her closer.
“Good,” she replies, her voice carrying satisfaction and heat in equal measure. “I’m done with regular. I want irregular, unpredictable, completely outside protocol.”
As her mouth captures mine with deliberate intent, I am forced to conclude that irregular operational parameters mayindeed be optimal under current circumstances. Particularly when they involve comprehensive claiming of my mate in preparation for the confrontation ahead.
“Eighteen hours to reinforce our bond before facing the consequences of our choices,” I murmur against her lips. “I find myself looking forward to highly irregular operational procedures.”
“Agent Mine,” she whispers, and the possessive endearment makes my patterns flare with fierce satisfaction.
Eighteen hours. More than sufficient time to ensure my mate understands exactly how thoroughly she belongs to me—and how completely I belong to her in return.
16
