Chapter 7
Tender Truths
Wi’kar
My hands should not be shaking.
Gluxian physiology is designed for precision under duress.
Our nervous system includes secondary pathways specifically evolved to maintain fine motor control during combat situations.
Yet as I guide Dominique through the final security checkpoint to the docking bay, I am acutely aware of a minute tremor in my fingers—an unprecedented physiological response that I cannot suppress.
The cause is evident: Dominique. Her neural disruptor injury. The way she intercepted a blast meant for me. The way her body felt pressed against mine when I carried her to safety, warm and yielding and entirely too distracting for optimal tactical awareness.
The memory of her weight in my arms, the trust implicit in her surrender to my protection, the scent of her hair against my shoulder—these details replay in my consciousness with disturbing persistence.
Unacceptable. Illogical. Inexplicable.
“We’re clear,” I inform her, my voice betraying none of my internal discord as we approach the Protocol Prime. “AXIS has maintained security protocols and reports no breach attempts.”
Dominique nods, her movements slightly uncoordinated—a concerning symptom of neural disruptor exposure. Her normally vibrant complexion has paled, and her pupils show uneven dilation. The medical stabilizer I administered in the maintenance tunnel is insufficient for the damage sustained.
“Fantastic,” she replies, her typical sarcasm dulled by pain. “I was worried someone might have stolen your collection of alphabetized regulation manuals.”
Even injured, she maintains her defiance. The way she tilts her chin up despite her obvious discomfort, the stubborn set of her shoulders—it speaks to a strength of character that I find... compelling.
It is admirable, if tactically unsound.
I activate the ship’s entry ramp, maintaining a vigilant scan of our surroundings while simultaneously monitoring Dominique’s increasingly unstable gait.
When she stumbles on the incline, my hand moves to support her elbow without conscious command—another breach in protocol.
The contact sends familiar heat through my system, and I find myself hyper-aware of the warmth of her skin through the thin fabric of her sleeve, the way she unconsciously leans into my strength.
Physical contact should be minimized. Yet I cannot bring myself to release her.
“I’m fine,” she insists, though her body contradicts her words as she leans more heavily into my support.
The movement brings her closer, close enough that I catch the distinctive scent that my heightened Gluxian senses have learned to associate specifically with her—something warm and alive and uniquely hers that makes my chest tighten with want.
“Just a little wobbly. Neural disruptors pack quite a punch.”
“You require immediate medical attention,” I state, guiding her up the ramp with more haste than caution. “Neural pathway degradation accelerates exponentially after the initial exposure period.”
The words are clinical, professional, but my awareness of her is anything but. The way her hair has escaped its restraints to frame her face. The slight catch in her breathing when pain spikes through her system. The trust she places in my guidance despite our brief acquaintance.
Once inside, I secure the airlock with triple encryption—a precaution that exceeds standard OOPS protocol by 247%.
The ship’s familiar environment should provide comfort, yet I find no relief in its ordered confines.
Not while Dominique’s condition deteriorates.
Not while the memory of her body against mine refuses to fade from my tactile memory banks.
“AXIS, initiate emergency departure sequence,” I command. “Authorization pattern Wi’kar-epsilon-nine.”
“Acknowledged, Agent Wi’kar,” the AI responds with what sounds suspiciously like amusement.
“Emergency departure sequence initiated. Warning: departure violates spaceport regulation 17-B regarding proper clearance procedures. I’m beginning to think you enjoy breaking rules, Agent.
Shall I add ‘developing rebellious streak’ to your psychological profile? ”
The AI’s observation is... uncomfortably accurate. Since Dominique’s arrival, I have violated more protocols than in my entire previous career combined. And despite the logical concerns this should generate, I find myself... untroubled by this development.
“Execute immediate vertical launch once pre-flight checks are complete,” I snap, ignoring the AI’s commentary.
“Executing. Pre-flight checks accelerated. Departure in approximately 47 seconds. Also, Agent, your stress indicators are elevated beyond normal parameters. Perhaps Princess Dominique’s influence is more... stimulating than previously calculated.”
Dominique attempts a weak smile. “I like your AI, Wi’kar. Much more personality than you usually allow yourself.”
The observation strikes closer to truth than I am comfortable acknowledging.
AXIS’s personality matrix was calibrated according to my preferences—efficiency, minimal unnecessary commentary, strict adherence to operational parameters.
Yet recently, the AI has demonstrated increasingly.
.. creative interpretations of its directives.
Perhaps it is reflecting my own internal changes.
I do not respond to her provocation. My focus must remain on her medical treatment, not on the uncomfortable accuracy of both her observation and AXIS’s analysis. The ship hums beneath us as the engines engage, preparing for our unauthorized departure.
The medical bay—like every compartment aboard the Protocol Prime—is immaculate, equipment precisely arranged according to usage frequency and emergency priority. I guide Dominique to the examination platform, activating the diagnostic array with a gesture.
“Remove your outer garments,” I instruct, retrieving the advanced neural stabilizer from its designated storage compartment. “The scanner requires direct access to the affected area for optimal treatment effectiveness.”
For once, she complies without argument, wincing as she attempts to shrug off her cloak.
The movement clearly exacerbates her pain, and I observe the way she bites her lower lip to suppress a sound of distress.
The sight triggers an unexpected protective response that has nothing to do with professional duty.
Before I can process the implications, I find myself stepping forward, hands moving to assist her.
“Allow me,” I say, my voice unexpectedly soft.
She freezes momentarily, then nods, a curious expression crossing her features as I carefully ease the fabric from her shoulders. The ship lurches slightly as AXIS initiates our departure, but my hands remain steady now, focused on this singular task.
The cloak falls away, leaving her in the fitted shipsuit she acquired on my vessel.
The fabric, designed for optimal functionality, reveals the elegant lines of her form in ways that professional medical assessment should not acknowledge.
Yet I find my gaze lingering on the curve of her shoulder, the graceful line of her neck, the way her breathing makes the fabric shift across her chest.
“The shirt as well,” I manage, my voice rougher than intended. “The neural pathways extend across your shoulder and upper arm. Complete access is necessary for proper treatment.”
Her eyes meet mine, and something passes between us—a moment of awareness that has nothing to do with medical necessity and everything to do with the tension that has been building between us since the moment she stepped out of my cargo bay covered in mud and righteous fury.
“Of course,” she says softly, her fingers moving to the fastenings. But the neural disruption has affected her fine motor control, and she struggles with the clasps, frustration evident in her expression.
“I cannot...” she begins, then stops, jaw tightening with determination. “This is ridiculous. I can’t manage something as simple as buttons.”
Without conscious thought, I step closer. “May I?”
She nods, not trusting her voice, and I move to assist with the fastenings. My fingers brush against hers as I work, and I feel her sharp intake of breath at the contact. The shirt opens slowly, revealing the smooth expanse of her skin beneath.
The neural disruptor has left an angry red pattern across her left shoulder and upper arm, the distinctive branching burn marks following the path of her nervous system.
But what arrests my attention more than the injury is the sight of her—the elegant curve of her collarbones, the soft skin that bears the marks of our desperate escape, the way she watches me with eyes that seem to see far more than I am comfortable revealing.
The sight triggers an unexpected response—a surge of anger so intense that I must pause to regulate my respiratory rate, followed immediately by something far more primitive and possessive. She was hurt because of me. Because she chose to protect me.
The realization is both humbling and... arousing, in ways I do not wish to examine.
“That bad, huh?” Dominique asks, misinterpreting my reaction.
“The damage is... significant,” I acknowledge, forcing clinical detachment into my voice while trying not to notice how the medical bay’s lighting plays across her bare skin. “But treatable with prompt intervention.”
“Agent Wi’kar,” AXIS interjects helpfully, “your cardiovascular indicators suggest elevated stress response. Are you experiencing difficulty maintaining professional objectivity? Perhaps Princess Dominique should consider covering herself with the medical blanket to reduce... distractions.”
Heat rises in my chest—embarrassment at AXIS’s entirely too-perceptive commentary. “AXIS’s commentary is irrelevant,” I state, though I find myself entirely unable to meet Dominique’s gaze.