Chapter 3
Laws of (Pheromonal) Attraction
Wi’kar
I have spent my entire career maintaining perfect order. My vessel, the Protocol Prime, has been my sanctuary—a precisely calibrated environment where every object has its designated location, every system operates at optimal efficiency, and every protocol is followed without deviation.
Until now.
I stand at the threshold of my personal quarters, surveying the chaos that Princess Dominique has introduced in less than six standard hours.
The bed coverings remain in disarray from her earlier occupation.
A discarded food wrapper lies precisely 17.
3 centimeters from the waste receptacle.
The atmospheric composition has been altered by the lingering molecules of her sonic shower products—floral and citrus notes that have no place in my carefully regulated environment.
And then there is the princess herself, sprawled across my reading chair in a posture that defies both ergonomic principles and basic decorum, absently twirling a strand of dark hair while examining a technical manual she has extracted from my personal data collection.
“Your species’ mating rituals are fascinating,” she announces without looking up. “All those scent combinations and pheromonal codes. It’s like a chemical conversation happening right under everyone’s noses. Literally.”
I stiffen. “That is a biological reference text, not entertainment.”
“I’m educating myself about my accidental consort,” she counters, finally glancing up with that defiant spark in her eyes.
Her legs are tucked beneath her in my chair, the oversized shipsuit riding up to reveal an entirely distracting length of bare calf.
“Seems reasonable, don’t you think? For instance, did you know that Gluxian males can become.
.. overwhelmed by certain pheromonal signatures, particularly from compatible species during periods of stress or.
..” She pauses, letting her eyes travel over my form deliberately. “Arousal?”
My scent glands flare involuntarily—a physiological response I immediately attempt to suppress. Too late. Dominique’s pupils dilate slightly as the sharp, ozone-scented burst of my alarm hits the air.
“Fascinating,” she murmurs, setting the manual aside with deliberate slowness. “So that’s what panic smells like.”
“I am not panicking,” I state with rigid control, though my voice sounds unnaturally formal even to my own ears. “I am experiencing concern regarding the inappropriate nature of your research materials.”
“Inappropriate?” She rises from the chair with feline grace, and I notice how the loose fabric of the shipsuit shifts around her form, highlighting rather than concealing the curves beneath. “Wi’kar, we’re legally bound together. Don’t you think I should understand how your body... communicates?”
The way she says “body” makes something low in my abdomen tighten with alarming intensity. I turn abruptly toward the door. “I need to access the bridge. We must establish a more secure course through the Fringe.”
“Running away again?” she calls after me, amusement threading her voice like silk.
I do not dignify this with a response, though my scent glands betray me with another involuntary release—this one edged with something that probably translates to frustrated arousal in the chemical vocabulary of my species.
In the corridor, I take a moment to center myself, drawing in a careful breath through my specialized filtration membranes—an evolutionary adaptation that allows Gluxians to process and analyze environmental compounds with exceptional precision.
The problem is that they are currently processing Dominique’s scent with exceptional precision.
Humans, I have observed in my diplomatic work, are generally unaware of their constant chemical broadcasts.
Their emotions, health status, stress levels, and yes, reproductive readiness, all emit specific molecular signatures.
Most species detect these subconsciously at best. Gluxians, however, evolved as highly specialized sensory interpreters.
What might be a whisper to others is a shout to us.
And Princess Dominique is, metaphorically speaking, screaming.
Her baseline scent is complex—notes of cinnamon and wild berries layered over a foundation of exhaustion and determination, with occasional spikes of something sharper when she looks at me for too long.
This last component is... problematic. It triggers responses in my own biochemistry that I find increasingly difficult to suppress.
I reach the bridge and immediately access the environmental controls. “AXIS, initiate atmospheric purification protocol seven-beta. Focus on humanoid pheromonal compounds.”
“Initiating protocol,” AXIS responds with what I swear sounds like amusement. “Warning: full spectrum pheromonal filtration may impact interspecies communication efficiency by 22.6%.”
“Acknowledged. Proceed.”
The subtle hum of enhanced filtration activates, and I feel immediate relief as the air begins to clear of Dominique’s molecular presence. I settle into the pilot’s chair and begin plotting a more circuitous route through the Averian Fringe, away from established patrol routes.
“You’re hiding from my smell?”
I do not startle—Gluxians do not startle—but I do turn with more haste than dignity to find Dominique leaning against the bridge doorway, arms crossed, expression caught between amusement and something that looks almost... hurt?
“I am optimizing atmospheric composition for interspecies cohabitation,” I correct, returning my attention to the navigation console.
“Right.” She pushes off from the doorway and approaches with that predatory grace I’m learning to recognize.
Even with enhanced filtration, her proximity sends cascades of sensory data through my receptors.
“You know, on Earth, we had these things called ‘air fresheners.’ Little scented objects you could hang in unpleasant-smelling places. Maybe we should get you one shaped like a tiny regulation manual.”
Despite my best efforts, I detect the faintest hint of amusement in my own scent response—something that makes her eyes sharpen with interest.
“Did you just... laugh? Chemically?” She moves closer, close enough that the shipsuit’s loose neckline reveals the elegant curve of her throat. The pulse there is rapid, visible, and entirely too distracting. “That’s either fascinating or deeply disturbing.”
“So,” she continues, dropping into the co-pilot’s seat with casual disregard for proper bridge protocol, “what’s the plan, Agent Stiff?”
My scent glands flare in irritation. “That moniker is both reductive and unprofessional.”
“It was a joke,” she sighs, spinning the co-pilot’s chair in a slow circle that makes the fabric pull interestingly across her form. “You know, humor? That thing that makes life bearable when you’re accidentally space-married to a walking regulation handbook?”
“We are not ‘space-married,’” I correct automatically. “The Consular Bonding Clause establishes a diplomatic union that—”
“Spare me the legal lecture.” She stops spinning to face me directly, and I notice how the movement has tousled her hair attractively. “I want to know what you’re actually going to do about our situation. Besides filter the air every time I get within three meters of you.”
I consider my response carefully. “The optimal course of action is to proceed to a neutral system where we can assess our options without immediate threat from either your fiancé’s forces or potential OOPS enforcement.”
“So we’re running.”
“We are strategically relocating.”
She laughs—a sharp, genuine sound that creates an unexpected resonance in my auditory canals. “You can’t even admit when you’re breaking the rules, can you? Always finding the perfect technical language to justify it.”
I feel a flash of something uncomfortably close to defensiveness. “I am adhering to the highest priority protocol applicable to this situation—the protection of a bonded diplomatic asset.”
“Asset,” she repeats, her amusement fading. “Is that how you see me? An asset to be managed?”
“It is the correct terminology under—”
“Under protocol, yes, I know.” She leans forward, eyes suddenly intense, and I catch another wave of her scent—warmer now, with notes of something I can’t quite identify. “But what about under that perfect skin of yours, Wi’kar? What do you think, not what your rulebook tells you to think?”
The question is unexpectedly destabilizing. I have never considered my personal opinions as separate from my professional obligations. The distinction she draws feels... uncomfortable.
Before I can formulate a response, AXIS interrupts.
“Incoming priority transmission from OOPS Central Dispatch. Caller identification: Dispatcher Morrison, Classification: Immediate Response Required.”
My blood temperature drops several degrees. Mother Morrison calling personally means this situation has escalated far beyond normal parameters.
Dominique’s eyebrows rise. “Mother?” she mouths silently.
“Accept transmission, audio only,” I command.
“Well, well, well,” a gravelly female voice fills the bridge, dripping with sarcasm. “Agent Wi’kar. Fancy meeting you on an open channel when you’re supposed to be delivering treaty documents to Corsairia.”
“Dispatcher Morrison,” I respond with carefully controlled formality. “I am currently experiencing complications with my assigned route.”
“Complications?” Mother’s laugh is sharp as broken glass.
“Agent, I’ve got three different departments breathing down my neck about your ‘complications.’ The Diplomatic Corps wants to know why their precious treaty documents are still sitting in a loading bay on Venturia Prime.
STI Intelligence is asking pointed questions about unauthorized course deviations.
And somehow—somehow—the Human Concord Royal Liaison has gotten involved, asking about a missing princess. ”