Page 8 of Return to Sender
“Protocol Prime, this is your final warning,” Dante snarls through the comm.
“Or,” I continue, my lips almost brushing Wi’kar’s ear, “you could help me stay escaped. Maybe we figure out how to undo this cosmic joke without either of us ending up executed.” I pull back just enough to meet his eyes, to see the war between duty and something else playing out across his features. “Your choice, Agent Perfect. But choose fast.”
The silence stretches for three heartbeats. Four. I watch something shift in his expression—resolve crystallizing, walls falling away. Then Wi’kar turns to address the comm, his voice perfectly calm despite the chaos I can smell in his pheromones.
“Human Concord vessel, this is Agent Wi’kar of the Protocol Prime. I am on a diplomatic mission with time-sensitive materials. I cannot permit boarding at this time.”
My breath catches. He’s not turning me in.
“Agent,” Dante’s voice drops to a dangerous purr that I remember too well, “I believe you are harboring Princess Dominique of House Malren, my betrothed. This is a domestic matter. Stand down immediately.”
Wi’kar’s response is measured, controlled, but I catch the slight tightening around his eyes that suggests this is costing him. “I am not at liberty to discuss the nature of my cargo or passengers. However, interference with a diplomatic vessel constitutes a violation of Stellar Togetherness Initiative Regulation 394.7.”
Creative curses flow from the comm—language that would make a space pirate blush. Dante always did have a vicious temper beneath his polished exterior.
“You have made a grave error, courier,” he finally says, voice dripping venom. “The Human Concord will hear of this obstruction.”
“Your objection is noted,” Wi’kar responds, still infuriatingly formal. “Now, if you will excuse me, I must continue my assigned route. Protocol Prime out.”
He terminates the communication with a precise gesture. In the silence that follows, I can hear both our hearts beating too fast.
“AXIS,” Wi’kar commands, “engage jump drive. Random coordinates, Fringe sector.”
“Calculating jump. Warning: deviation from assigned route will trigger automatic notification to OOPS Command.”
“Override notification. Authorization: Wi’kar, Emergency Protocol Override.”
I stare at him, hardly believing what I’m hearing. “You’re running? Mr. Follow-Every-Rule is actually going off-script?”
Wi’kar turns to face me fully, and there’s something in his expression I haven’t seen before—something raw and honest that makes my pulse skip.
“I am exercising diplomatic judgment in a complex situation,” he says carefully. “Prince Dante’s approach was aggressive and potentially in violation of several interstellar agreements.” A pause, and his scent shifts to something warmer, more complex. “Additionally, I find the concept of forced marriage to be incompatible with my understanding of sentient rights.”
It’s not a love confession, but coming from him, it might as well be. The careful way he’s chosen his words, the slight roughness in his voice—he’s affected by this, by me, more than he wants to admit.
“Jump coordinates locked. Engaging in three... two... one...”
Reality folds around us, that familiar sensation of a jump drive engaging. When it passes, unfamiliar stars gleam outside the viewport.
“Where are we?” I ask, moving to the window, very aware of how Wi’kar’s eyes follow my movement.
“The Averian Fringe. Sparsely populated. We should be temporarily safe from pursuit.”
“Safe.” I test the word, surprised by how good it sounds. “So what now?”
Wi’kar straightens his already perfect uniform, but I catch the slight tremor in his hands—the first crack I’ve seen in his composure. “Now we formulate a plan. We must determine howto address the Bonding Clause while ensuring your safety and minimizing diplomatic fallout.”
I study him—this alien who just upended his perfect record for... what? Duty? Fear of my threats? Or something else entirely?
“Why did you do it?” I ask bluntly. “Why not just hand me over and wash your hands of this mess?”
He considers the question with typical Gluxian thoroughness, but there’s something different in his expression now. Something almost vulnerable.
“The evidence suggested that returning you would result in continued coercion,” he says slowly. “As a diplomatic courier, I am sworn to uphold STI principles, which include respect for sentient autonomy.” He pauses, and his scent shifts to something warmer, more complex—something that makes my breath catch. “And as your bonded consort, however accidental, I have legal obligations regarding your welfare.”
Logical. Practical. Perfectly Wi’kar.
But the way he’s looking at me—like I’m something precious he’s afraid to break—suggests there’s more to it.
