Chapter 2 #2
“So what now? Turn me in, force an annulment, back to square one? Or do you just drop me somewhere hostile and pretend this never happened?”
“Neither option is viable.” Wi’kar’s voice has gone rougher, and when I glance at him, there’s something almost pained in his expression.
“The first would likely result in your return to coercive circumstances. The second would constitute abandonment of a bonded royal, which carries severe penalties under both Human Concord law and OOPS regulations.”
“So we’re stuck together?” I throw my hands up, the movement making his shirt—his shirt—ride up slightly. Wi’kar’s eyes flick down, then away so quickly I almost miss it. “Fantastic. I traded a golden cage for a silver one with better hygiene protocols.”
I gesture around his pristine quarters. “This place is like a morgue with better lighting. Do you actually live here, or is this just where you store your collection of rule books and spare regulation underwear?”
His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. “My living arrangements are optimal for my duties.”
“Optimal.” I move closer, invading his personal space just to see what he’ll do. “Do you guys even have emotions, or did you replace them with extra efficiency subroutines?”
“Gluxians experience emotions,” he replies, but his voice has gone lower, rougher. “We simply regulate their expression more effectively than humans. Our scent glands communicate emotional states without the need for...” his eyes flick to my mouth, “...dramatic displays.”
“Dramatic displays?” I step even closer, close enough to see the way his pupils dilate. “You mean like this?”
I reach up and deliberately muss his perfectly styled hair. It’s softer than I expected, and the sharp intake of breath he tries to hide sends heat racing through my veins.
His scent glands flare brilliant silver, flooding the air with something that smells like lightning and barely controlled want.
“What exactly are you feeling right now, Agent Perfect?” I whisper, my fingers still tangled in his hair. “Annoyance? Panic? Or something else entirely?”
“I am experiencing...” he starts, then stops, his breathing uneven. His hands twitch at his sides like he wants to reach for me but won’t let himself. “Concern regarding our predicament.”
“Liar.” I’m close enough now to see his chest pulse with his heartbeat, to catch the way his lips part slightly as he struggles for control. “Your scent is telling a completely different story.”
Before he can respond, I turn away, leaving him standing there looking like I’ve just scrambled all his circuits.
“What honor is there in being a delivery boy anyway?” I toss over my shoulder, going for his pride since direct assault on his self-control is proving... distracting. “You’re nothing but a glorified mail carrier with a fancy uniform.”
That gets a reaction. His scent glands flare bright silver, and his entire posture shifts into something more dangerous, more primal.
“I am a Tier-1 Diplomatic Courier entrusted with materials that affect interstellar relations,” he says, each word precise and cutting. “My role requires absolute integrity, discretion, and unwavering adherence to protocol. Lives depend on my reliability.”
The passion in his voice catches me off guard. There’s the man beneath the regulations—someone who genuinely believes in what he does, who takes pride in being trustworthy when trust matters. Someone who probably chose this life precisely because it gave him purpose, structure, meaning.
It’s... attractive. Damn it.
“Alert,” AXIS interrupts before I can process this revelation. “Incoming transmission from Human Concord vessel Royal Pursuit. Priority Alpha.”
My blood turns to ice. I know that ship. It’s Dante’s personal flagship.
Wi’kar’s eyes meet mine, and for the first time, I see clear conflict there. Real emotion breaking through his perfect control. He’s calculating, weighing options, and I can see the exact moment he realizes what this means for both of us.
“Accept transmission, audio only,” he commands after a heartbeat of hesitation.
“Diplomatic Vessel Protocol Prime,” a familiar, cultured voice fills the room. Prince Dante of House Folkov, in all his arrogant glory. “Our scans indicate you are harboring a fugitive royal asset. Power down your engines and prepare to be boarded.”
My heart hammers against my ribs. This is it. The moment of truth.
But Wi’kar doesn’t immediately respond. He’s looking at me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle, as if he’s trying to read something in my face. As if my answer might actually matter to him.
“Diplomatic Vessel, respond,” Dante’s voice comes again, sharper now. “Failure to comply will be considered an act of aggression.”
I see my chance and take it, stepping close enough that Wi’kar can probably count my eyelashes.
“You turn me over to that peacock,” I whisper urgently, “and I’ll tell them you kidnapped me.
I’ll say you invoked the bonding clause deliberately to steal a princess for your own twisted purposes.
” I let my voice drop to barely audible.
“Your precious career will be space dust. Your family’s honor will be ruined.
Your entire species will be seen as untrustworthy. ”
His eyes narrow. “That would be false.”
“Do you think Dante cares about truth?” I challenge, pressing closer until I can feel the heat radiating from his body, until I’m drowning in that clean, precise scent that’s becoming dangerously familiar.
“He wants me as a war prize, not a wife. And he’d love to make an example of the alien who ‘stole’ his property. ”
Wi’kar’s breathing has gone shallow, and his scent is doing complicated things that make my head spin.
“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 how to 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.
“Well,” I say, offering him a smile that’s only slightly mocking, “I guess we’re stuck with each other, Agent Stick-Up-His-Exhaust-Port.”
“My designation is Wi’kar,” he corrects automatically, but there’s less steel in his voice than before.
“I know.” I let my smile turn predatory. “But where’s the fun in using your actual name?”
His scent glands flare again, and this time I definitely see the corner of his mouth twitch—not quite a smile, but close.
“You will refer to me by my proper designation,” he insists, but he doesn’t sound like he means it.
“We’ll see,” I reply, turning back to the stars.
For the first time in months, I feel something like hope. It’s fragile and complicated, but it’s there. I’ve escaped my cage, only to find myself bound to the galaxy’s most rule-obsessed alien.
But beneath all that blue-silver-skinned control, Wi’kar is... interesting. The way he moves with unconscious grace, the passion that breaks through when he talks about his duty, the fact that he chose protecting me over his precious protocols.
And the way he looks at me when he thinks I’m not watching—like I’m a puzzle he desperately wants to solve.
“Just so we’re clear,” I say, not looking at him, “I’m still not calling you ‘husband.’”
“That terminology would be inaccurate,” he responds promptly. “The correct term under the Consular Bonding Clause would be ‘diplomatic consort.’”
I glance back at him, taking in his perfect posture, his serious expression, the way starlight catches on his silver skin and makes him look almost ethereal.
“Romantic,” I deadpan.
“Romance is irrelevant to our situation,” he says, but his voice has gone slightly hoarse.
I turn to face him fully, letting my eyes travel slowly from his perfectly styled hair down to his regulation boots and back up again. His breathing changes, and the air fills with that complex scent that makes my pulse race.
“Is it, though?” I ask softly.
For once, Agent Wi’kar has no immediate response. But the way he’s looking at me—like I’m something dangerous and fascinating that he shouldn’t want but can’t resist—tells me everything I need to know.
This is going to be very, very interesting.