Page 4 of Return to Sender
I should not hesitate. The correct course of action is clear: report the breach, return the princess to her legal guardians, accept whatever disciplinary action OOPS deems appropriate. My record until now has been flawless. Perhaps the damage can be mitigated.
And yet.
I catalogue the way she smells like freedom and rebellion and everything my ordered existence lacks. The way her defiance makes something in my chest tighten with an emotion I don’t dare name.
“The Consular Bonding Clause supersedes all prior arrangements,” I say slowly, the implications crystallizing.
“Yes.” Her eyes narrow, sensing my thought process. “Including your duty to OOPS.”
“Including your betrothal to Prince Dante.”
“Yes.”
“And it cannot be annulled without the consent of both parties.”
A slight smile curves her lips—the first genuinely warm expression I’ve seen from her. “Now you’re getting it, Agent Perfect.”
“Incoming transmission from Human Concord Royal Guard vessel,” AXIS announces with inappropriate cheer. “Protocol Prime, you are ordered to maintain position and prepare for boarding. They sound quite insistent.”
We stare at each other across my ruined cargo bay. Her wild beauty. My shattered composure. The impossible choicebetween fifteen years of perfect service and something I don’t dare name.
My scent glands are releasing something that smells like lightning and decision and the death of everything I thought I was.
“AXIS,” I say, my choice crystallizing against all logic and protocol, “delay automatic notification to OOPS Command. Authorization: Wi’kar, Emergency Protocol Override.”
“Override accepted. Notification delayed for one standard hour. Should I also ignore the Royal Guard hail?”
“Yes.” The word tastes like rebellion. “And plot a course for the Averian Fringe. Emergency jump.”
Princess Dominique’s smile turns brilliant, transforming her face from merely striking to absolutely luminous. “Smart move, Agent. Now we need to—”
“You will shower,” I interrupt, unable to tolerate her disheveled state any longer. The olfactory disruption is affecting my ability to think clearly, among other critical functions. “Immediately. The particulate contamination is registering as a minor atmospheric hazard.”
She blinks, clearly not expecting this response. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Your current state is...” I search for a diplomatic term while my scent glands release notes of distress and unwanted fascination, “...an affront to basic sanitation protocols. You’re affecting my ability to process this situation rationally. Crew quarters are located one level down. AXIS will direct you to the appropriate facilities.”
“You’re worried about my hygiene? Right now?” She gestures broadly at herself, then at our desperate situation.
“I am concerned with multiple aspects of our predicament,” I clarify, trying not to notice how the gesture draws attention to her form beneath the torn, mud-caked clothing. “However,I find it difficult to engage in strategic planning with someone who appears to have bathed in a swamp and then wrestled with a maintenance droid.”
That rich laugh again, the sound shooting through my nervous system like a controlled explosion. “Fine. I could use a shower anyway. But don’t try anything while I’m in there, Captain Alphabetizes-His-Emergency-Protocols.”
“I have given my word to delay notification,” I say stiffly, offended despite the accuracy of her assessment. “I do not break my word. And my emergency protocols are organized by severity level and implementation timeline, not alphabetically.”
“Even worse,” she mutters, but there’s something like approval in her voice, and the scent of her amusement makes my chest tighten with inappropriate warmth.
As she follows AXIS’s directions toward the crew quarters, I remain motionless in the corridor, processing the radical shift in my circumstances. In exactly seventeen minutes and forty-three seconds, I have gone from exemplary diplomatic courier to harborer of a fugitive princess and her accidental consort.
My perfectly ordered existence has been shattered by mud, metal, ancient laws, and a feral princess who smells like chaos and freedom and everything I never knew I was missing.
“Agent Wi’kar?” AXIS’s voice interrupts my thoughts. “The Royal Guard vessel is hailing again. Commander Vakerius sounds increasingly irritated. Also, should I prepare your resignation letter? I have templates for ‘Career-Ending Romantic Entanglement’ and ‘Blame It On Ancient Laws.’”
“Not yet, AXIS,” I murmur, leaning against the bulkhead and inhaling the lingering scent of mud, rebellion, and Princess Dominique Farah of House Malren. “First, let’s see if we can keep her un-kidnapped.”
“Very good, sir. Jump to Averian Fringe completed successfully. ETA to deep space: four hours, sixteen minutes.”
For the first time in my adult life, I have chosen want over duty. Chaos over order. A feral princess over fifteen years of flawless service.
