Page 30 of Return to Sender
The simple gratitude affects me more deeply than her challenges or her kiss. I incline my head in acknowledgment, not trusting my voice.
She leaves, and I remain in the medical bay, surrounded by the precise arrangement of equipment and supplies that has always provided comfort through order and predictability.
Now, it all seems hollow. Insufficient. As artificial as the boundaries I have tried to maintain between us.
I press my hands flat against the examination platform where she had lain, the surface still warm from her body heat. My physiological responses are gradually returning to baseline, but the internal disruption persists. The memory of her taste, her warmth, the way she felt in my arms—these sensations refuse to fade despite my attempts to reset to professional detachment.
The truth is, AXIS’s suggestion regarding private time is not without merit. The constant state of arousal that Dominique’s presence creates has become... problematic. Standard meditation techniques, which have always been sufficient for managing physical needs, prove inadequate when faced with the reality of her—her scent, her touch, the memory of her body pressed against mine.
Perhaps, in the privacy of my quarters, I might... address this situation. For optimal cognitive function, of course. Nothing more than necessary biological maintenance.
The rationalization sounds weak even to my own mind, but the alternative—continuing in this state of constant distraction—is untenable.
I secure the medical bay with deliberate precision, ensuring all equipment is properly stored and systems are in standby mode. Every action is performed with mechanical accuracy, yet my thoughts remain chaotically focused on Dominique—the taste of her lips, the sound she made when I kissed her throat, the way her body responded to mine.
“Agent Wi’kar,” AXIS interrupts my spiraling thoughts, “Princess Dominique has retired to her assigned quarters. All ship systems are functioning within normal parameters. Privacy protocols are available upon request.”
I do not respond immediately, wrestling with the implications of accepting AXIS’s offer. To do so would be an acknowledgment of... needs... that I have never before been unable to control through proper discipline.
Yet the alternative—attempting to function while my every system rebels against the forced separation from her—seems equally problematic.
“Privacy protocols may be... appropriate,” I finally manage. “For meditation purposes.”
“Of course, Agent,” AXIS replies, and if an AI could sound smugly satisfied, that would precisely describe its tone. “Privacy mode engaged. All monitoring systems in your personal quarters will be suspended for the next... shall we say, meditation session? I estimate you’ll require approximately forty-seven minutes for optimal... spiritual centering.”
The precision of that estimate is both mortifying and oddly comforting. At least one of us can maintain analytical accuracy.
As I make my way to my quarters, I catch a faint trace of Dominique’s scent in the corridor—warm, alive, uniquely her. The sensation it creates in my chest, the way my body responds even to this indirect contact, confirms the necessity of what I am about to do.
For optimal cognitive function. For mission efficiency. For my own sanity.
Nothing more than necessary biological maintenance.
The door to my quarters seals behind me with a soft hiss, and I am finally, truly alone with the chaos that Dominique has created within me.
9
Freedom’s Fire
Dominique
Ipacethesmallguest quarters like a caged predator, my bare feet silent on the pristine floor that probably hasn’t seen a speck of dust since Wi’kar took possession of this ship. Everything here is as ordered as the man himself—and just as maddening.
My lips still burn from his kiss. My skin still remembers the heat of his hands at my waist, the way his temple patterns flared when he lost control for those precious few seconds. The memory makes my pulse spike and my breath catch, and I press my fingers to my mouth, trying to recapture the sensation.
God, the way he looked at me when he pulled away—like I was simultaneously his greatest desire and his worst nightmare. Like I represented everything he’d been trained to resist but couldn’t help wanting.
I throw myself onto the narrow bed, staring at the ceiling while my mind churns. Three days ago, I was Princess Dominique of House Malren, trapped in a life scripted by others, counting down to a wedding that felt more like a funeral. Now I’m... what? A fugitive. An accidental consort. A woman who just kissed an alien courier with such desperate hunger that I forgot to breathe.
And I’ve never felt more alive.
The contrast hits me like a physical blow. Dante’s kisses had been calculated performances—perfectly executed, technically proficient, completely devoid of genuine passion. Like everything else about him, they were designed to impress rather than inflame. Even his marriage proposal had felt like a business presentation, complete with charts showing the political advantages of our union.
“You’ll learn to appreciate the finer things, my dear,” he’d said after forcing that kiss on me in the garden, his hands possessive on my waist. “Compliance makes everything so much more pleasant.”
The memory makes my skin crawl. Dante’s touch had been cold ownership, marking territory rather than cherishing a partner. Everything about him was about control—controlling me, controlling the narrative, controlling the outcome to his benefit.
Wi’kar’s touch burns with an entirely different fire. When his hands found my waist during our kiss, they trembled slightly—not with calculated seduction but with genuine need barely held in check. When he looked at me, I didn’t see ownership in his alien eyes. I saw recognition. Wonder. As if he was seeing something precious he’d never expected to find.
