Chapter 14 Close Quarters
Close Quarters
Dominique
My heart hammers against my ribs as Wi’kar’s hand tightens on mine. The guards haven’t spotted us yet, but their search pattern is methodical, thorough. We have maybe thirty seconds before they reach our section.
“This way,” Wi’kar murmurs, immediately guiding me toward a service corridor that bypasses the main thoroughfare. His tactical mind is already three steps ahead, calculating escape routes while maintaining the casual demeanor of our contractor disguise.
The lighting in the service corridor is dimmer, the foot traffic lighter—mostly station maintenance personnel who are too focused on their duties to pay attention to passing contractors. But more importantly, we’re forced closer together in the narrow space.
“They’re checking everyone,” I observe quietly, grateful for Wi’kar’s protective positioning as we navigate the cramped corridor.
“Systematic search pattern,” Wi’kar agrees grimly. “But our documentation is comprehensive. We simply need to avoid drawing attention.”
In the narrow confines of the service corridor, we’re forced into constant contact. Every step brings us together—his hand steadying me when I stumble slightly, my shoulder brushing against his arm, the warmth of his body in the cooler corridor air.
“This is torture,” I murmur as his hand lingers at my waist after helping me past a maintenance junction.
“What is?”
“Being this close to you and having to pretend we’re just professional colleagues,” I admit. “Especially when I can smell your scent and remember exactly what—”
His hand covers my mouth gently, but the contact sends fire through my nervous system. “You are going to compromise our cover with that line of thought,” he whispers against my ear.
When he removes his hand, I turn my head just enough to catch his earlobe between my teeth, a quick, gentle bite that makes him inhale sharply.
“Then maybe you should find a way to keep me... distracted,” I whisper back.
The sound he makes is definitely not contractor-appropriate, and I smile as his patterns pulse brighter despite his efforts at control.
The fuel depot occupies a vast section of the station’s core, with massive storage tanks and distribution systems creating a maze of industrial equipment. The attendant here is bored and efficient, processing our request for specialized fuel cells with minimal conversation.
“Forty minutes for processing,” he drones. “Payment in advance.”
“Acceptable,” Wi’kar replies, transferring credits from an account I’m certain he established specifically for this cover identity. “We’ll wait.”
He guides me to a small seating area with a clear view of both the depot entrance and processing area. The positioning is tactical—Wi’kar can monitor approaches while appearing to simply wait for our order.
Sitting this close to him in public feels like a different kind of danger.
Every time he shifts, I catch his scent, remember the way he whispered my name last night.
When his hand covers mine on the table, ostensibly casual, his thumb strokes across my knuckles in a pattern that makes my breath catch.
“Focus,” he murmurs, but his voice has gone rougher.
“I am focused,” I whisper back. “Just not on fuel cells.”
His grip tightens slightly, and I feel the subtle tension in his frame that suggests he’s fighting the same awareness I am.
“You do this often?” I ask quietly, settling beside him and letting my thigh press against his. “The spy contractor thing?”
“OOPS diplomatic missions occasionally require... flexibility,” he admits, his hand moving to rest on my knee in what appears to be a casual gesture but feels possessive. “Though typically the stakes are less personal.”
“Less personal how?” I ask, enjoying the way his fingers flex against my leg.
“Previously, I have never been... invested in the outcome beyond professional success,” he says carefully. “The risk assessment calculations change when the mission parameters include protecting someone who has become... essential.”
The word ‘essential’ hits me like a physical caress. “Essential?”
“To optimal operational outcomes,” he clarifies, but the heat in his eyes tells a different story.
“Just operational outcomes?”
Before he can respond, the depot’s entrance chimes with new arrivals. Four figures in Human Concord Royal Guard armor stride in, their crimson and gold ceremonial gear unmistakable even at a distance.
My heart stops, but Wi’kar’s response is immediate and telling—his hand tightens protectively on my knee, his body shifting slightly to shield me from view. “Wi’kar—”
“I see them.” His voice remains calm, but I feel the tension in his frame as he evaluates tactical options. “Remain calm. We are contractors. Nothing more.”
The guards spread out, beginning what appears to be a systematic search of the depot. One approaches the attendant’s station, while the others move to inspect various sections of the facility.
“They’re being thorough,” I whisper, watching as they check identification scanners and examine cargo manifests.
“Indeed.” Wi’kar’s hand finds mine beneath the table, the contact appearing casual but carrying reassurance I desperately need.
His thumb strokes across my palm in soothing patterns that somehow calm my racing pulse.
“However, our documentation is comprehensive. We have legitimate reason to be here.”
One of the guards approaches our section, his armored boots echoing against the metal deck plating. I force myself to lean back casually, playing the role of a bored contractor waiting for routine fuel delivery, but Wi’kar’s hand in mine anchors me.
“Identity verification,” the guard announces, scanner already active.
Wi’kar produces our documentation with practiced ease, his free hand never leaving mine. “Soren Valdez, Avalon Systems. This is my partner, Mira Dixin. We’re conducting routine maintenance surveys on civilian vessels.”
The scanner chirps as it processes our false identities. For a moment that stretches like eternity, we wait for the results. Wi’kar’s thumb continues its soothing stroke across my knuckles, the only sign that he’s not as calm as he appears.
“Verification complete,” the guard finally announces. “Purpose of visit?”
“Fuel cell acquisition for our survey vessel,” Wi’kar replies with exactly the right level of professional boredom. “Standard Type-7 cells for extended operations.”
The guard nods and moves on without further interest. Just another pair of contractors conducting routine business.
I don’t realize I’ve been holding my breath until Wi’kar squeezes my hand gently. The relief is so intense that I have to fight the urge to kiss him right there in the depot.
“Easy,” he murmurs quietly, his voice carrying warmth and pride. “You did perfectly.”
“Fuel cells ready for pickup,” the attendant calls out, apparently uninterested in the security sweep happening around his facility.
Wi’kar completes the transaction with smooth efficiency, and we’re back in the service corridors within minutes, the specialized fuel cells secured in an innocuous carrying case.
The moment we’re alone in the dimmer corridor, the tension that’s been building all morning reaches a breaking point. Wi’kar sets down the case and backs me against the wall in one fluid motion, his mouth finding mine with desperate hunger.
The kiss is brief but intense, all the restraint and control we’ve been maintaining finally finding an outlet. When he pulls back, we’re both breathing hard.
“That,” I pant, “was definitely not contractor-appropriate behavior.”
“Emergency stress relief,” he says with mock seriousness, though his eyes are dark with want. “Medically necessary after high-tension situations.”
“Is that your professional medical opinion, Doctor Wi’kar?”
“Among other professional opinions,” he confirms, then forces himself to step back. “We should continue. The window for safe departure is closing.”
But as we navigate back toward the docking levels, using service corridors to avoid the increasing security presence, it becomes clear that our timing may not be sufficient.
“Security checkpoint ahead,” Wi’kar observes, noting the guards positioned at the main entrance to the docking level. “Alternative route required.”
He guides us to a maintenance access that should connect to the docking level from below. The passage is narrow and dimly lit, clearly not intended for regular passenger use.
“This leads directly to the dock level utility access,” Wi’kar explains as we navigate the cramped space. His body is pressed close behind mine in the narrow tunnel, and I’m acutely aware of his warmth, his scent, the careful way he guides me through the tight spaces.
“How do you even know about these passages?” I ask, trying to focus on the tactical situation instead of the way his breath feels against my neck.
“Standard courier training includes facility reconnaissance,” he replies matter-of-factly, but his voice has gone rougher from our proximity. “Emergency egress routes are always identified during approach planning.”
In the tight confines of the maintenance tunnel, every movement brings us into contact. When I stumble slightly on the uneven flooring, his hands immediately steady me, his grip lingering longer than strictly necessary.
“Careful,” he murmurs against my ear, and the combination of his voice and his touch sends heat racing through me.
“You know,” I whisper back, “if we weren’t being hunted by my psychotic ex-fiancé, I’d be tempted to find out exactly how soundproof these maintenance tunnels are.”
His sharp intake of breath tells me the comment hit its mark. “Dominique,” he warns, but his hands tighten on my waist.
“What? I’m just conducting a theoretical engineering assessment.”
“Your theoretical assessments are going to get us into trouble,” he says, but there’s humor mixed with the heat in his voice.