Chapter 2
Just Drop Me Somewhere Hostile
Dominique
I’m still seething when I emerge from the sonic shower, skin tingling and hypersensitive from scrubbing off layers of grime.
Every nerve ending feels raw, electric. The clothes AXIS directed me to—a plain gray shipsuit that’s clearly Wi’kar’s spare—hang loose on my frame, but the fabric carries his scent.
Clean, precise, with an undertone of something uniquely him that makes my pulse skip in ways I absolutely refuse to analyze.
I find Wi’kar waiting outside the washroom, standing at perfect parade rest like a silver statue.
Not a hair out of place, not a wrinkle in his uniform.
The contrast between his pristine perfection and my still-damp chaos should be irritating.
Instead, I wonder what it would take to mess him up completely.
“This way,” he says, voice carrying the emotional range of a navigation computer, but I catch the subtle flare of his scent glands when his eyes flick over my appearance. Just for a microsecond, but I see it.
He leads me through corridors so spotless they practically gleam, his hand hovering near my elbow without actually touching—probably terrified of triggering some other ancient law that would make us cosmic pen pals or force us to share a toothbrush.
“Careful,” he warns when I immediately start examining a wall panel, like I’m some feral creature who can’t be trusted around technology.
I jerk away from both him and the panel, surveying what must be his personal quarters.
The space is sterile. Immaculate. Not a wrinkle on the bedding, not a speck of dust anywhere.
Even the air smells faintly antiseptic. It’s like being trapped inside someone’s idea of perfection, and I hate it immediately.
Well, mostly hate it. There’s something oddly appealing about having a space where everything has its place, where chaos can’t touch you. Not that I’d ever admit that to Captain Control Freak.
“Your quarters are secure and will serve as temporary confinement,” Wi’kar informs me, standing with perfect posture near the door. “AXIS will monitor all activity.”
“Cozy.” I run a hand through my still-damp hair, deliberately letting droplets scatter onto his spotless floor. His left eye twitches almost imperceptibly. “Nothing says ‘welcome to my ship’ like being told you’re under surveillance.”
“Do you comprehend the severity of your actions, Princess Dominique?” he asks, folding his hands behind his back. The formal stance makes his uniform stretch across his chest, and I notice his build is leaner than I first thought—all controlled strength and precise lines.
Focus, Dominique.
“Oh, I don’t know,” I drawl, pacing his small room just to watch his eyes track my movement.
“Breaking out of a forced marriage? Escaping political imprisonment disguised as royal duty? Avoiding being sold like prized livestock to cement a military alliance?” I stop and face him, close enough to see the blue-silver in his skin shift subtly with his pulse. “Seems pretty reasonable to me.”
“You have compromised a diplomatic mission of the highest security clearance,” he counters, but I notice how his breathing pattern changes when I move closer. “You have potentially created an interstellar incident. And you have—”
“Inconvenienced you?” I finish, batting my eyelashes with mock sympathy. “Poor Agent Perfect. Did I mess up your filing system too?”
His scent glands—those iridescent patches at his temples—flare bright silver. The scent that hits the air is sharp, complex, and does things to my nervous system that I definitely shouldn’t be enjoying.
I’ve studied Gluxians at court functions, but academic knowledge didn’t prepare me for this.
Wi’kar’s blue-silver skin has an unusual luster—almost pearlescent under the ship’s lights—and his features are more symmetrical than most of his species.
The way his uniform fits suggests he’s built for more than just paperwork, despite his bureaucratic tendencies.
What he just released into the air probably translates to infuriating human female, but there’s an undertone to it that makes my pulse quicken.
Good. Let him be as affected as I am.
I spot a console embedded in the wall. Maybe if I can slice into his systems, I can find some dirt on Mr. Perfect. I lunge for it, fingers flying over the interface.
“Access denied,” AXIS announces smugly. “Unauthorized user.”
Wi’kar doesn’t even look smug about it. “AXIS is programmed to recognize only my biometric signature for command functions.”
“Of course it is.” I glance around for another target and spot what looks like a food replicator. “Fine. I’m starving anyway. Your diplomatic cargo pods aren’t exactly five-star accommodations.”
I stalk over to the replicator, very aware of how Wi’kar’s eyes follow my movement. “Let’s see what this thing can do. Something complicated. With layers.”
“The replicator is calibrated for optimal nutrition and—”
“Dessert menu,” I command, cutting him off. “I want a triple-layer Morcrestian lava cake with extra molten center and... sparklers.”
Wi’kar’s posture somehow becomes even more rigid. “The replicator is not designed for—”
The machine whirs, clearly struggling with my request. What emerges is a misshapen, bubbling monstrosity that looks like it might achieve sentience and file a complaint.
“Perfect,” I declare, grabbing it. The “cake” wobbles dangerously, molten center threatening to escape. I take an aggressive bite, making sure to let some of the molten filling drip onto his pristine floor while maintaining direct eye contact.
It tastes like burnt plastic and regret, but the way Wi’kar’s pupils dilate slightly as he watches my lips makes every terrible bite worth it.
His scent glands flare again, more intensely this time. The air fills with something that smells like citrus and barely controlled panic.
“Princess Dominique—”
“Just Dominique,” I correct, licking molten filling off my finger with deliberate slowness. “I’ve renounced my title. Along with the arranged marriage, the political machinations, and the entire concept of being property rather than a person.”
Something flickers across his features—quick as lightning, but I catch it. Not quite sympathy, but recognition. Understanding. It’s gone before I can analyze it, but it was there.
“Very well... Dominique,” he says, my name sounding strangely intimate in his precise diction. Like he’s tasting it. “We must discuss the Consular Bonding Clause.”
I abandon the revolting cake, appetite gone. “Right. The archaic piece of legal garbage that’s apparently married me to you.” I gesture between us with exaggerated movements. “This should be entertaining.”
“The situation is not ‘entertaining,’” he responds, completely missing my sarcasm. “It is unprecedented and highly problematic.”
“No kidding, Agent Obvious.” I drop onto the edge of his perfectly made bed, deliberately wrinkling the covers.
The way his eye twitches at the disturbance makes me want to mess up everything in this sterile space.
“So explain it to me. What exactly does this bonding clause mean? And please use small words—my delicate princess brain might not be able to handle your superior intellect.”
Wi’kar straightens, slipping into what I imagine is his briefing mode. But instead of launching into a lecture, he moves closer—close enough that I catch his clean, precise scent with that indefinable something underneath.
“The Consular Bonding Clause,” he says, his voice taking on that careful quality I’m learning means he’s fighting for control, “was established three centuries ago to prevent diplomatic kidnappings.” His eyes meet mine, and there’s something almost vulnerable in his expression.
“Any royal who came into physical contact with a diplomatic envoy during transit would be legally bound to that envoy, creating an immediate alliance.”
“So it’s an anti-kidnapping measure that... forces marriage?” I laugh, but it comes out breathier than intended. “Brilliant solution. Really thought that one through, didn’t they?”
“It is not precisely marriage in the human sense,” Wi’kar clarifies, and there’s something in his tone—almost relief?—that makes me study his face more carefully. “It is a diplomatic bond with specific legal protections and obligations.”
“Like what?” I lean forward, and his eyes drop briefly to where the oversized shipsuit gapes at my neckline before snapping back to my face. Interesting.
“The bonded envoy becomes a legal representative of the royal house.” His voice has gone rougher around the edges.
“They gain diplomatic immunity within Human Concord territories. They cannot be compelled to surrender their bonded royal to any third party.” He pauses, and I swear the air grows thicker.
“And the bond cannot be dissolved without mutual consent of both parties, confirmed before a Concord High Judiciary.”
I process this, the implications slowly dawning. “So what you’re saying is... I’m stuck with you until we both agree to end it?”
“That is correct.”
“And my previous engagement to Prince Dante is...”
“Legally superseded.” The way he says it—with just a hint of satisfaction—makes something warm unfurl in my chest.
A laugh bubbles up—half hysterical, half genuinely delighted. “You mean I escaped one unwanted shackle just to be legally duct-taped to you? The universe has a sick sense of humor!”
Wi’kar’s expression doesn’t change, but the temperature in the room seems to drop. His scent shifts to something sharper, more defensive.
“I assure you, this situation is equally undesirable from my perspective,” he says stiffly.
The words sting more than they should. I stand and begin pacing, partly from nervous energy and partly because I notice how his eyes track my movement despite his apparent distaste for our situation.