Chapter 8
Surrender & Systems Failure
Wi’kar
The hyperspace transition completes with its familiar dimensional shiver, leaving us in the strange, nebula-filtered light of the Cressida system. Through the medical bay’s viewport, I can see the swirling cosmic dust that will help mask our energy signature from pursuit.
We are safe, for now. Hidden. Alone.
The realization settles between us with unexpected weight. No immediate threats. No urgent tactical decisions. Just Dominique and myself, standing in the quiet aftermath of admissions that have fundamentally altered something between us.
“So,” she says, breaking the silence, her voice carrying that particular tone I’m learning to recognize—the one that usually precedes trouble. “We’re officially off the books now?”
“We have been ‘off the books’ since our departure from Klethian,” I remind her, my voice slightly strained as I try not to notice how she’s moved closer to me in the confined space of the medical bay. “This merely represents a continuation of our unauthorized status.”
She steps closer still, and I catch the full force of her scent—warm, alive, distinctly her. The medical bay’s recycled air carries traces of her pheromones, and despite my species’ usual emotional control, I find my pupils dilating in response.
“You know what I think?” she says, her voice taking on a challenging edge as she moves close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from her body. “I think you’re enjoying this. Breaking the rules. Being unpredictable. Making your own choices for once.”
The accusation strikes uncomfortably close to a truth I am not prepared to examine. “Your assessment is incorrect. This situation represents a significant professional failure and personal compromise.”
“Is that so?” She moves closer still, until the distance between us violates all protocols for appropriate diplomatic spacing.
I can see the gold flecks in her eyes, the way her lips part slightly as she looks up at me.
“Then why can I see your pulse racing at your throat? Why do your hands keep flexing like you want to touch me?”
I step back, attempting to reestablish proper distance, but my movement brings me against the medical equipment cabinet. “Environmental stress factors cause elevated cardiovascular response. It is a normal physiological reaction.”
“Liar,” she says, but the word holds no malice—rather, it sounds almost... affectionate. “You’re a terrible liar for a courier, Wi’kar.”
The ship’s engines settle into their hyperspace rhythm, the subtle vibration a reminder that we are now truly isolated, cut off from any external oversight or intervention. I should return to the bridge. I should monitor our trajectory. I should review our security protocols.
Instead, I remain frozen in place as Dominique closes the distance between us once more.
“You saved me,” she says quietly, her hand coming up to rest against my chest, directly over my heart.
The contact sends fire through my nervous system.
“Not because of some archaic bonding clause or diplomatic obligation. You saved me because you wanted to. Because something in you recognized something in me.”
“That is an emotional interpretation lacking factual basis,” I respond, my voice not entirely steady. Her hand is warm through the fabric of my uniform, and I can feel my heart racing beneath her palm.
“Is it?” She reaches up with her other hand, her fingers hovering near the luminescent patterns at my temple—not quite touching, but close enough that I can feel the heat of her skin. “Then why are you afraid to admit it?”
“I am not afraid.” The denial sounds hollow even to my own ears. “I am concerned about the tactical implications of our current situation. The bounty on both our identities. The diplomatic complications. The—”
“Shut up,” she interrupts, and then her hand slides to the back of my neck, pulling me down with surprising strength for someone recently injured.
The kiss is not gentle. It is not cautious or measured or appropriate. It is a collision—her mouth against mine, demanding, challenging. For 2.4 seconds, I remain frozen, every protocol and training routine screaming for disengagement.
Then something inside me shifts—breaks—surrenders.
My hands move to her waist, steadying her against the cabinet behind me, but they do not release her once stability is assured. Instead, I find myself pulling her closer, responding to her kiss with an intensity that shocks me.
She tastes of adrenaline and defiance and something uniquely her that makes my head spin.
Her body against mine disrupts every system of control I have spent a lifetime perfecting.
The luminescent sheen across my skin—visible now at my temples and along my hands where they rest at her waist—pulse with my heartbeat in a complete surrender of physiological restraint that would be mortifying if I could spare any cognitive function for embarrassment.
But there is only this moment. This human in my arms. This sensation that defies all rational categorization.
The kiss deepens, her uninjured hand tangling in my hair, disrupting its precise arrangement.
I should care. I do not. My own hands tighten at her waist, then slide up her back, mapping the contours of her body through the thin medical gown with a thoroughness that would be scientific if it weren’t so desperate.
A sound escapes her—a small, pleased noise that resonates through me like a physical force. In response, I back her against the medical platform, caging her with my body in a manner that violates every principle of careful respect I have ever been taught.
She does not seem to object. Quite the contrary—her response intensifies, her body arching into mine, her teeth catching my lower lip in a gesture that sends a shock of sensation directly to my core.
The medical gown has shifted during our embrace, revealing more of her shoulder, her collarbones. Without conscious thought, I trail my lips along the elegant line of her throat, tasting the salt of her skin, feeling her pulse race beneath my mouth.
“Wi’kar,” she breathes, and my name in her voice, spoken like that, nearly undoes me completely.
It is too much. It is not enough. It is—
Awareness returns like a cold wave, crashing over the heat of the moment. What am I doing? She is under my protection. She is injured. She is human royalty. She is not—
I pull away abruptly, my respiratory rate elevated beyond acceptable parameters. The luminescent patterns at my temple must pulse visibly with my heartbeat, betraying my loss of control for anyone to see.
“This is inappropriate,” I manage, my voice rough in a way I have never heard it. “A violation of protocol. Of trust. Of—”
“Of what?” she challenges, her own breathing uneven, her lips swollen from our kiss. “Of your precious rules? The ones you’ve already broken a dozen times over?”
“Of my duty,” I insist, forcing distance between us though every instinct screams to return to her arms. “You are my responsibility. My charge. Not...”
“Not what?” Her eyes flash with that particular fire that simultaneously fascinates and alarms me. “Not your mate? Is that what you were going to say?”
The word strikes like a physical blow. Mate. The Consular Bonding Clause has legally designated us as such, but the reality—the truth of what such a bond would mean—
“You are not my mate,” I say firmly, though something within me rebels against the declaration. “This bonding... it is a legal fiction, nothing more.”
She studies me for a long moment, her expression shifting from challenge to something more complex. Then, unexpectedly, she smiles—that particular curve of her lips that somehow always presages trouble.
“Maybe,” she concedes, straightening the medical gown with deliberate casualness, though I note her hands are not entirely steady. “But I never said I didn’t want to be.”
The statement renders me momentarily speechless—a condition I have not experienced since my earliest diplomatic training exercises. Before I can formulate a response, she continues.
“We’re stuck together, Wi’kar. Legally bonded.
On the run. Hunted by my ex-fiancé and probably your former employers too.
We’ve already broken all the rules.” She steps forward again, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from her body.
“So maybe, just maybe, we should stop pretending this is just about duty or protocol or whatever other excuse you want to hide behind.”
“It is not an excuse,” I object, though my voice lacks conviction. “It is a necessary boundary.”
“Is it?” She tilts her head, studying me with unsettling perception. “Or is it just another way to avoid making a real choice? To hide behind regulations instead of admitting what you actually want?”
The accusation strikes with uncomfortable precision. I turn away, ostensibly to check the medical equipment, but in truth to escape her too-perceptive gaze and to gain control over my body’s continued response to her presence.
“AXIS,” I address the ship’s AI with perhaps more force than necessary, “run a full diagnostic on all ship systems. Extended operations in this region require optimal functionality.”
“Initiating comprehensive diagnostic,” AXIS responds with what I swear is amusement.
“Estimated completion time: four hours, thirty-seven minutes. Also, Agent Wi’kar, I feel compelled to note that your current biometric readings suggest you might benefit from some.
.. private reflection time. Shall I engage privacy protocols for your personal quarters after Princess Dominique has rested? ”
Heat rises in my chest—embarrassment at AXIS’s entirely too-perceptive commentary.
The AI’s suggestion regarding “private reflection time” is both mortifying and.
.. not entirely unwelcome. The constant state of arousal that Dominique’s presence creates has been.
.. challenging to manage through standard meditation techniques.
“That will not be necessary,” I say stiffly.
“Of course not, Agent,” AXIS replies with unmistakable amusement. “Though I note that Gluxian physiology texts do recommend regular stress relief, particularly during periods of... heightened interpersonal tension.”
Dominique’s eyes widen slightly, then a slow smile spreads across her face. “Is your AI suggesting what I think it’s suggesting?”
“AXIS’s commentary is irrelevant,” I state firmly, though I find myself entirely unable to meet her gaze.
“Irrelevant, perhaps,” she muses, “but not inaccurate?”
“We will reach Umbra-7 in approximately 3.7 hours,” I state, retreating to factual information. “You should rest during transit. The neural regeneration process requires significant energy resources from your body.”
She sighs, a sound of exasperation that I am becoming increasingly familiar with. “Fine. Avoid the conversation. But this isn’t over, Wi’kar.”
“The medical treatment is complete,” I counter, deliberately misinterpreting her statement. “There is nothing further to discuss regarding your injury.”
“That’s not what I meant and you know it.” She moves toward the medical bay exit, then pauses in the doorway. “For what it’s worth... thank you. For the treatment. For not turning me in. For everything.”
The simple gratitude affects me more deeply than her challenges or her kiss. I incline my head in acknowledgment, not trusting my voice.
She leaves, and I remain in the medical bay, surrounded by the precise arrangement of equipment and supplies that has always provided comfort through order and predictability.
Now, it all seems hollow. Insufficient. As artificial as the boundaries I have tried to maintain between us.
I press my hands flat against the examination platform where she had lain, the surface still warm from her body heat.
My physiological responses are gradually returning to baseline, but the internal disruption persists.
The memory of her taste, her warmth, the way she felt in my arms—these sensations refuse to fade despite my attempts to reset to professional detachment.
The truth is, AXIS’s suggestion regarding private time is not without merit.
The constant state of arousal that Dominique’s presence creates has become.
.. problematic. Standard meditation techniques, which have always been sufficient for managing physical needs, prove inadequate when faced with the reality of her—her scent, her touch, the memory of her body pressed against mine.
Perhaps, in the privacy of my quarters, I might... address this situation. For optimal cognitive function, of course. Nothing more than necessary biological maintenance.
The rationalization sounds weak even to my own mind, but the alternative—continuing in this state of constant distraction—is untenable.
I secure the medical bay with deliberate precision, ensuring all equipment is properly stored and systems are in standby mode.
Every action is performed with mechanical accuracy, yet my thoughts remain chaotically focused on Dominique—the taste of her lips, the sound she made when I kissed her throat, the way her body responded to mine.
“Agent Wi’kar,” AXIS interrupts my spiraling thoughts, “Princess Dominique has retired to her assigned quarters. All ship systems are functioning within normal parameters. Privacy protocols are available upon request.”
I do not respond immediately, wrestling with the implications of accepting AXIS’s offer. To do so would be an acknowledgment of... needs... that I have never before been unable to control through proper discipline.
Yet the alternative—attempting to function while my every system rebels against the forced separation from her—seems equally problematic.
“Privacy protocols may be... appropriate,” I finally manage. “For meditation purposes.”
“Of course, Agent,” AXIS replies, and if an AI could sound smugly satisfied, that would precisely describe its tone.
“Privacy mode engaged. All monitoring systems in your personal quarters will be suspended for the next... shall we say, meditation session? I estimate you’ll require approximately forty-seven minutes for optimal. .. spiritual centering.”
The precision of that estimate is both mortifying and oddly comforting. At least one of us can maintain analytical accuracy.
As I make my way to my quarters, I catch a faint trace of Dominique’s scent in the corridor—warm, alive, uniquely her. The sensation it creates in my chest, the way my body responds even to this indirect contact, confirms the necessity of what I am about to do.
For optimal cognitive function. For mission efficiency. For my own sanity.
Nothing more than necessary biological maintenance.
The door to my quarters seals behind me with a soft hiss, and I am finally, truly alone with the chaos that Dominique has created within me.