Page 12 of Return to Sender
“Understood,” I manage.
“Oh, and Agent? Congratulations on your diplomatic union. I’m sure you’ll be very happy together. Try not to kill each other before I figure out how to clean this up. Morrison out.”
The communication ends, leaving us in absolute silence.
“Well,” Dominique says finally, “she seems nice. Is she always so... maternal?”
“Mother Morrison earned her nickname through three decades of managing OOPS’s most challenging assignments,” I explain automatically. “She has never lost a courier or failed to complete a delivery.”
“Even when that courier accidentally acquires a fugitive princess?”
“This appears to be a first for her as well.”
Dominique laughs—a genuine sound that creates unexpected warmth in my chest cavity. “Poor Mother Morrison. Though I have to say, I like her style. Very direct.”
“She is... efficient,” I agree.
“So, we’re officially hiding out in the Fringe.” Dominique’s voice carries a note of something I can’t identify. “Just the two of us, in this very small ship, with nowhere else to go.”
The implications of our isolation settle around us like a change in atmospheric pressure. We are alone, legally bound, and effectively cut off from both our former lives. The reality of our situation—fugitives together, dependent on each otherfor survival—creates a tension that has nothing to do with pheromones and everything to do with the sudden intimacy of shared danger.
I study her profile as she gazes out the viewport at the unfamiliar stars, noting the way the ship’s lighting catches the gold highlights in her dark hair, the determined set of her jaw despite everything she’s lost. She could have accepted her fate, married Prince Dante, lived a life of comfortable captivity. Instead, she chose uncertainty and freedom.
It’s... admirable. In ways that my diplomatic training never prepared me to appreciate.
“AXIS,” I say, perhaps too quickly, “run a full diagnostic on all ship systems. Extended operations in the Fringe require optimal functionality.”
“Initiating comprehensive diagnostic,” the AI responds. “Estimated completion time: forty-seven minutes.”
Forty-seven minutes of enforced proximity with a woman whose very presence is systematically dismantling my carefully constructed control systems.
This is going to be very, very challenging.
4
Secret Collections
Wi’kar
Thediagnosticwilltakeforty-seven minutes. Forty-seven minutes of enforced proximity with a woman whose very presence is systematically dismantling my carefully constructed control systems.
I observe Dominique as she explores the bridge with restless energy, her fingers trailing along consoles with casual disregard for the “do not touch” protocols that govern every aspect of my existence. She pauses at my personal workstation, noting the precisely arranged data tablets and regulation manuals.
“Very you,” she comments, then frowns slightly. “Though I notice you don’t have any personal items. No photos, no mementos, no... anything that shows who you are when you’re not being Agent Perfect.”
“Personal effects serve no functional purpose aboard a diplomatic vessel,” I inform her, though something about her observation creates an uncomfortable sensation in my chest cavity.
“Everyone has something,” she insists, studying me with those perceptive amber eyes. “Some little piece of who they really are beneath all the rules and regulations.”
“I am a diplomatic courier. That is my identity.”
She makes a sound that might be laughter or disbelief. “Right. And I suppose you materialized fully formed in a OOPS uniform, clutching a regulation manual.”
Before I can formulate a response, she’s already moving, conducting what appears to be a systematic exploration of the bridge. “AXIS,” she calls out cheerfully, “are there any sections of this ship Wi’kar has declared off-limits to his accidentally bonded princess?”
“No restricted areas for diplomatic assets,” AXIS responds with what I swear is amusement. “However, Agent Wi’kar’s personal storage compartment seven-alpha contains materials he has classified as ‘non-essential for mission parameters.’”
I feel my scent glands release an involuntary burst of alarm. “AXIS—”
