Chapter 6 #2
“Show-off,” I mutter, handing him the fruit. Our fingers brush in the exchange, and the contact sends electricity racing up my arm. “On three?”
He adjusts his grip on the spiky projectile with practiced precision, and I notice how his hands—so careful with his precious protocols—handle the makeshift weapon with deadly competence.
“One...” His voice has gone lower, more focused.
“Two...” I find myself staring at his mouth, wondering what it would feel like against mine.
“Three!”
Wi’kar’s throw is absolutely perfect—the fruit arcs through the air and smashes directly into the power cell stack. The resulting explosion isn’t massive, but it’s loud and bright, sending up smoke and sparks that immediately draw attention and create confusion.
“Excellent destructive instincts,” he says with what might be admiration, and the approval in his voice does things to my insides that should probably require a medical license.
“I have many hidden talents,” I reply, then immediately regret the suggestive phrasing when his breathing hitches and he goes very still.
“Now!” He grabs my hand, and we sprint toward the fountain.
His grip is firm, warm, and sends electricity up my arm that has nothing to do with the energy weapons firing around us.
We’re halfway across the plaza when a hunter emerges from the smoke, weapon raised.
Wi’kar pushes me ahead, turning to face the threat, and I get a clear view of his expression—cold fury mixed with something protective and possessive that makes my knees weak.
I should keep running. The fountain is just meters away. But something makes me hesitate, watching as Wi’kar engages the hunter with lethal grace, moving like violence and poetry combined.
That’s when I see it—a second hunter on an upper market level, taking careful aim at Wi’kar’s unprotected back while he’s occupied with the first attacker.
I don’t think. I move.
Sprinting back toward Wi’kar, I shout a warning, but the market’s chaos swallows my voice.
The hunter’s weapon charges with a distinctive high-pitched whine—a sound I recognize from my combat training.
Not a standard energy pistol, but a neural disruptor.
Illegal in most systems, and potentially lethal to non-humans.
Time seems to slow. Wi’kar, still engaged with the first hunter, hasn’t noticed the threat. The neural disruptor reaches full charge, its barrel glowing with sickly yellow energy. The hunter’s finger tightens on the trigger.
I launch myself forward, colliding with Wi’kar just as the disruptor fires.
Searing pain explodes across my shoulder as the edge of the neural blast catches me, sending fire through my nervous system.
I hit the ground hard, Wi’kar’s body partially breaking my fall, his arms immediately coming around me with desperate strength.
“Dominique!” His voice sounds distant through the ringing in my ears, but the anguish in it is unmistakable.
The world tilts and blurs. I’m vaguely aware of Wi’kar moving above me, engaging both hunters with cold, efficient fury that sounds like controlled destruction. Then his arms are around me again, lifting me with surprising gentleness.
“Can you stand?” he asks, his voice tight with what might be terror—actual terror from someone who never shows anything but perfect control.
“M’fine,” I slur, though my left arm hangs uselessly, nerve endings still screaming. “Just a graze.”
His eyes narrow as he examines the injury, and something in his expression turns dark and dangerous—something that promises retribution. “Neural disruptor damage. We need to reach the ship immediately.”
More shouts from behind us—reinforcements. Wi’kar makes a decision, sweeping me into his arms in one fluid motion.
“This is unnecessary,” I protest weakly, even as my body betrays me by sagging against his chest. The solid warmth of him, the way his arms tighten protectively around me—it’s doing things to my brain chemistry that probably aren’t helping the neural disruption. “I can walk.”
“Your objection is noted and overruled,” he responds, already moving toward the fountain with that controlled grace that somehow makes being carried feel less like rescue and more like claiming.
“Has anyone ever told you that you smell really good?” I mumble against his shoulder, because apparently neural disruption destroys my filter.
His step falters slightly. “You are experiencing neural pathway disruption. Disregard any unusual sensory input.”
“No, seriously. Like... warm spices and something that reminds me of home, but better.” The words tumble out without my permission.
“Much better than that sterile medical bay smell you usually have. This is more like... security. And danger. And something that makes me want to do very inappropriate things to your perfectly ordered schedule.”
“Dominique,” his voice carries a warning note, but also something else—something pleased and hungry that he’s trying to hide.
We reach the service corridor, Wi’kar somehow managing to access the control panel while still carrying me. Once inside the dimly lit maintenance tunnel, he sets me down carefully, supporting me with one arm while securing the door.
But he doesn’t step away. Instead, he remains close, close enough that I can feel his warmth, catch the way his breathing has changed.
“The neural disruption should be temporary,” he says, examining my injury with clinical precision, though his hands are gentler than any medical procedure should require. “However, without proper treatment, there may be residual damage.”
“Lovely,” I mutter, trying to flex my fingers and wincing. “Just what I needed to complete my fugitive princess aesthetic.”
Wi’kar produces a small medical device and presses it against my injured shoulder. Cool numbness spreads through the area, but what really catches my attention is how carefully he applies it, how his scent carries notes of something like tenderness mixed with barely controlled fury.
“This will stabilize the neural pathways until we reach the ship,” he explains, but his fingers linger longer than medically necessary, and I notice the way his breathing has changed.
“You’re angry,” I observe.
“I am experiencing... concern regarding the tactical situation,” he says stiffly, but the tension in his shoulders and the hard line of his mouth suggest it’s much more personal than that.
“No, you’re angry. At them, for hurting me.” I study his face in the dim light. “That’s not just professional protection, Agent Wi’kar. That’s something else entirely.”
His jaw tightens, and his voice when he speaks is rougher than usual—warmer, more possessive. “Your safety is my responsibility.”
“Is that all I am? A responsibility?”
“Can you walk now?” he asks instead of answering, but his hand remains on my uninjured arm, thumb stroking softly across my skin.
I nod, determined not to be a complete liability, though standing this close to him in the dim tunnel is making me acutely aware of things I shouldn’t be noticing—like how the artificial light plays across his silver skin, or how his precise movements have an unconscious grace that’s almost hypnotic, or how he’s looking at me like something precious that someone just tried to destroy.
“You smell different too,” I observe as he helps me to my feet, apparently having lost all my filters. “Warmer. Less controlled. More...” I pause, searching for the word, “...primitive.”
He stiffens slightly. “Stress response activates certain physiological changes. It is involuntary.”
“It’s nice,” I say simply. “You seem more... real. Less like you’re performing the role of ‘perfect diplomatic courier’ and more like someone who actually cares what happens to me.”
The words hang in the air between us, and Wi’kar goes very still.
“Am I?” I ask softly. “Someone you care about?”
For a moment, neither of us breathes. Then Wi’kar’s hand tightens on my arm, and his voice when he speaks is rougher than I’ve ever heard it, like the words are being torn from somewhere deep inside him.
“That is... a complex question with significant diplomatic implications.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“No,” he agrees quietly, his eyes searching my face in the dim light. “It is not.”
As we navigate the maintenance corridors—Wi’kar consulting some internal map he’s memorized because of course he has—I find myself studying his profile in the dim light.
The careful way he’s positioned himself between me and any potential threat.
The unconscious possessiveness in the way his hand hovers near my back.
The tightness around his eyes that speaks of someone fighting reactions he doesn’t understand.
“Why did you do it?” he asks suddenly, his voice carefully neutral.
“Do what?”
“Intercept the neural disruptor blast. It was tactically unsound. You could have been killed.”
I consider deflecting, but something in his tone—something vulnerable beneath the formal language—makes me answer honestly. “Because they were aiming at you. Because of me.”
“I do not understand.”
“The bounty. Dante painted you as a villain because of me. You’re only in danger because I stowed away on your ship.” I pause, then add quietly, “You didn’t deserve to be shot in the back with an illegal weapon because of my family drama.”
He’s silent for a moment, and when he speaks, his voice carries something like wonder. “You risked yourself... for me.”
“Don’t sound so surprised,” I mutter, suddenly uncomfortable with his focus. “It was just instinct.”
“An instinct to protect,” he observes. “Despite our brief acquaintance and initially adversarial relationship.”
The way he says it, like he’s discovering something precious and unexpected, makes my chest feel tight. “Well, someone has to look out for you, Agent Stiff. You’re too busy calculating optimal routes to notice when people are trying to kill you.”
“I noticed,” he says quietly. “I simply... did not expect you to intervene.”
“Why? Because I’m just a spoiled princess who’s never had to fight for anything?”
He stops walking and turns to face me fully, his expression serious in the dim light. “No. Because in my experience, people do not place themselves at risk for someone they have known for less than a week. Especially not for someone whose presence has complicated their life considerably.”
There’s something vulnerable in the way he says it, like he’s genuinely confused by the concept of someone caring about his welfare without ulterior motive. The careful way he holds himself, the slight uncertainty in his voice—it’s like no one has ever risked themselves for him before.
“Wi’kar,” I say softly, reaching out to touch his arm. “Has no one ever...”
I don’t finish the question, but understanding flickers across his features. For just a moment, his careful control slips, and I see something almost heartbreakingly lonely in his eyes—a flash of someone who’s spent his entire life being valued for his competence rather than himself.
Then his expression shutters, and he’s back to military precision. “We should continue. The hunters may discover this access point.”
But as we resume walking, something has fundamentally shifted between us. Wi’kar’s hand finds mine in the darkness, his grip warm and sure, and he doesn’t let go even when the tunnel widens enough for us to walk separately.
By the time we reach the spaceport access, my arm is functioning again, though the shoulder still throbs. Wi’kar checks his scanner before opening the final door, but his other hand remains linked with mine.
“The immediate area appears clear,” he reports. “However, it is likely the hunters have alerted port security.”
I straighten, pushing away the lingering effects of the neural disruption. “I’m ready.”
He studies me with those alien eyes, then unexpectedly reaches out to adjust my hood, pulling it forward to better conceal my features. But his fingers linger, brushing against my cheek, and the simple contact sends heat racing through me.
“For optimal disguise efficiency,” he explains, but his voice has gone rough around the edges, and his thumb traces briefly across my lower lip.
“Of course,” I agree, my own voice softer than intended. “Wouldn’t want to compromise the mission parameters.”
His eyes drop to my lips for just a moment—long enough for the air between us to turn electric—before he pulls away.
“Indeed,” he says, but it sounds like he’s trying to convince himself.
As he turns to the door controls, I realize that despite the danger, the bounty, and the neural disruptor injury, this is the most alive I’ve felt in years.
And it has everything to do with the silver-skinned alien leading me through the shadows, breaking every rule in his precious protocol to keep me safe, making me feel things I’ve never felt before.
Things that are definitely going to complicate our already impossible situation.
But as Wi’kar’s hand finds mine again in the darkness, I find I don’t care about complications. Not anymore.
Not when he looks at me like I’m something worth protecting.
Not when his touch makes me feel like I’m finally, truly free.