Page 9 of Return to Sender
“Well,” I say, offering him a smile that’s only slightly mocking, “I guess we’re stuck with each other, Agent Stick-Up-His-Exhaust-Port.”
“My designation is Wi’kar,” he corrects automatically, but there’s less steel in his voice than before.
“I know.” I let my smile turn predatory. “But where’s the fun in using your actual name?”
His scent glands flare again, and this time I definitely see the corner of his mouth twitch—not quite a smile, but close.
“You will refer to me by my proper designation,” he insists, but he doesn’t sound like he means it.
“We’ll see,” I reply, turning back to the stars.
For the first time in months, I feel something like hope. It’s fragile and complicated, but it’s there. I’ve escaped my cage, only to find myself bound to the galaxy’s most rule-obsessed alien.
But beneath all that blue-silver-skinned control, Wi’kar is... interesting. The way he moves with unconscious grace, the passion that breaks through when he talks about his duty, the fact that he chose protecting me over his precious protocols.
And the way he looks at me when he thinks I’m not watching—like I’m a puzzle he desperately wants to solve.
“Just so we’re clear,” I say, not looking at him, “I’m still not calling you ‘husband.’”
“That terminology would be inaccurate,” he responds promptly. “The correct term under the Consular Bonding Clause would be ‘diplomatic consort.’”
I glance back at him, taking in his perfect posture, his serious expression, the way starlight catches on his silver skin and makes him look almost ethereal.
“Romantic,” I deadpan.
“Romance is irrelevant to our situation,” he says, but his voice has gone slightly hoarse.
I turn to face him fully, letting my eyes travel slowly from his perfectly styled hair down to his regulation boots and back up again. His breathing changes, and the air fills with that complex scent that makes my pulse race.
“Is it, though?” I ask softly.
For once, Agent Wi’kar has no immediate response. But the way he’s looking at me—like I’m something dangerous and fascinating that he shouldn’t want but can’t resist—tells me everything I need to know.
This is going to be very, very interesting.
3
Laws of (Pheromonal) Attraction
Wi’kar
Ihavespentmyentire career maintaining perfect order. My vessel, the Protocol Prime, has been my sanctuary—a precisely calibrated environment where every object has its designated location, every system operates at optimal efficiency, and every protocol is followed without deviation.
Until now.
I stand at the threshold of my personal quarters, surveying the chaos that Princess Dominique has introduced in less than six standard hours. The bed coverings remain in disarray from her earlier occupation. A discarded food wrapper lies precisely 17.3 centimeters from the waste receptacle. The atmospheric composition has been altered by the lingering molecules of her sonic shower products—floral and citrus notes that have no place in my carefully regulated environment.
And then there is the princess herself, sprawled across my reading chair in a posture that defies both ergonomic principles and basic decorum, absently twirling a strand of dark hair while examining a technical manual she has extracted from my personal data collection.
“Your species’ mating rituals are fascinating,” she announces without looking up. “All those scent combinations and pheromonal codes. It’s like a chemical conversation happening right under everyone’s noses. Literally.”
I stiffen. “That is a biological reference text, not entertainment.”
“I’m educating myself about my accidental consort,” she counters, finally glancing up with that defiant spark in her eyes. Her legs are tucked beneath her in my chair, the oversized shipsuit riding up to reveal an entirely distracting length of bare calf. “Seems reasonable, don’t you think? For instance, did you know that Gluxian males can become... overwhelmed by certain pheromonal signatures, particularly from compatible speciesduring periods of stress or...” She pauses, letting her eyes travel over my form deliberately. “Arousal?”
My scent glands flare involuntarily—a physiological response I immediately attempt to suppress. Too late. Dominique’s pupils dilate slightly as the sharp, ozone-scented burst of my alarm hits the air.
“Fascinating,” she murmurs, setting the manual aside with deliberate slowness. “So that’s what panic smells like.”
