Chapter 3 #2
I feel Dominique tense beside me, her scent shifting to something sharp with anxiety.
“I can explain—”
“Oh, I’m sure you can,” Mother cuts me off. “Fifteen years of perfect service, and suddenly Agent By-the-Book goes rogue? This wouldn’t have anything to do with that anomalous life sign AXIS reported in your cargo bay, would it?”
Silence stretches between us. Beside me, Dominique is studying my face with keen intelligence, probably wondering if I’m about to sacrifice her for my career.
“The situation is... complex,” I finally manage.
“Complex,” Mother repeats flatly. “Agent, are you harboring a fugitive member of Human Concord royalty?”
“I am protecting a diplomatic asset under the Consular Bonding Clause,” I state, choosing my words with extreme care.
The silence that follows is so complete I can hear the subtle hum of the ship’s life support systems.
“Well—shit,” Mother finally says. “AXIS, confirm: has Agent Wi’kar invoked the Consular Bonding Clause?”
“Confirmed,” my AI responds cheerfully. “The Clause was triggered approximately fourteen hours ago when Princess Dominique Farah of House Malren made physical contact with Agent Wi’kar while formally declaring her identity during active diplomatic transit. Current legal status: Bonded Consorts.”
“Bonded... consorts,” Mother repeats slowly. “Agent Wi’kar, are you telling me you’ve accidentally space-married a runaway princess?”
Dominique snorts with poorly suppressed laughter, earning a sharp look from me.
“The terminology is diplomatic union, not—”
“I don’t care if you call it a tea party,” Mother interrupts. “What I care about is that you’ve created the biggest diplomatic clusterfuck in OOPS history. Do you have any idea what kind of paperwork this generates?”
“I am aware that the situation presents administrative challenges—”
“Administrative challenges?” Mother’s voice rises dangerously.
“Agent, three separate governments are currently involved in what amounts to an interstellar missing persons case. The Human Concord is threatening to revoke OOPS diplomatic immunity. Prince Dante is demanding your head on a ceremonial platter. And somehow, I’m supposed to explain to my superiors why one of my best couriers has gone completely off the rails for a woman he met less than twenty-four hours ago. ”
I open my mouth to protest this characterization, but Mother isn’t finished.
“Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to lay low in the Fringe until I can figure out how to spin this mess.
Do not—and I cannot emphasize this strongly enough—do not contact any OOPS facilities, STI outposts, or anything more official than a fuel depot.
Keep your heads down, keep your princess alive, and for the love of all that’s regulated, try not to start any wars. ”
“Understood,” I manage.
“Oh, and Agent? Congratulations on your diplomatic union. I’m sure you’ll be very happy together. Try not to kill each other before I figure out how to clean this up. Morrison out.”
The communication ends, leaving us in absolute silence.
“Well,” Dominique says finally, “she seems nice. Is she always so... maternal?”
“Mother Morrison earned her nickname through three decades of managing OOPS’s most challenging assignments,” I explain automatically. “She has never lost a courier or failed to complete a delivery.”
“Even when that courier accidentally acquires a fugitive princess?”
“This appears to be a first for her as well.”
Dominique laughs—a genuine sound that creates unexpected warmth in my chest cavity. “Poor Mother Morrison. Though I have to say, I like her style. Very direct.”
“She is... efficient,” I agree.
“So, we’re officially hiding out in the Fringe.” Dominique’s voice carries a note of something I can’t identify. “Just the two of us, in this very small ship, with nowhere else to go.”
The implications of our isolation settle around us like a change in atmospheric pressure.
We are alone, legally bound, and effectively cut off from both our former lives.
The reality of our situation—fugitives together, dependent on each other for survival—creates a tension that has nothing to do with pheromones and everything to do with the sudden intimacy of shared danger.
I study her profile as she gazes out the viewport at the unfamiliar stars, noting the way the ship’s lighting catches the gold highlights in her dark hair, the determined set of her jaw despite everything she’s lost. She could have accepted her fate, married Prince Dante, lived a life of comfortable captivity.
Instead, she chose uncertainty and freedom.
It’s... admirable. In ways that my diplomatic training never prepared me to appreciate.
“AXIS,” I say, perhaps too quickly, “run a full diagnostic on all ship systems. Extended operations in the Fringe require optimal functionality.”
“Initiating comprehensive diagnostic,” the AI responds. “Estimated completion time: forty-seven minutes.”
Forty-seven minutes of enforced proximity with a woman whose very presence is systematically dismantling my carefully constructed control systems.
This is going to be very, very challenging.