Page 18 of Signed, Sealed, Seduced (You’ve Got Alien Mail #1)

Confessions

Henrok

The operation concludes with the precision expected of Zaterran warriors.

The beacon’s modified transmission broadcasts false defensive specifications to a cloaked Corsairian vessel lurking at the edge of the asteroid belt.

Within moments, our strike team intercepts their ship, taking three operatives alive.

Justice, swift and decisive. Yet I find my satisfaction muted by other considerations.

Throughout the operation, I remained acutely aware of Suki’s presence in the command center.

She stood beside me as we monitored the beacon’s activation, her technical expertise proving invaluable in fine-tuning the false transmission.

More than once, our shoulders brushed as we leaned over the same console, and each contact sent awareness through me that had nothing to do with tactical considerations.

When the trap was sprung and our enemies captured, she had smiled—not the sharp, defensive expression I had grown accustomed to, but something genuine and warm. The sight of it affected me more than the successful completion of a military operation should.

“First Blade,” Krev’s voice breaks through my thoughts. “The Corsairian vessel has been secured. Three operatives taken alive. They claim diplomatic immunity.”

I force my attention back to the matter at hand, though part of my awareness remains fixed on the small blinking light that represents Suki’s tracking bracelet. She has left the command center, her location now showing the launch bay where her ship awaits.

“Hold them in the secure detention area,” I command. “Inform the Corsairian ambassador that evidence of espionage nullifies diplomatic protections. We will question them thoroughly.”

“And the beacon?” Krev asks.

“Deactivate it. Place it in secure storage for further analysis.” I pause, a decision crystallizing. “I will handle that personally.”

Krev inclines his head, accepting the order without question, though his eyes hold a knowledge I find increasingly difficult to ignore. He has served at my side for too long not to recognize when my focus is divided.

“The operation is concluded, First Blade,” he says, his tone carefully neutral. “The threat is contained. Perhaps there are other matters requiring your attention?”

He does not specify what “other matters” he means. He does not need to.

“Indeed,” I acknowledge, grateful for his discretion. “You have command until further notice. Complete the interrogation preparations.”

I retrieve the beacon myself, its weight insignificant in my hand yet heavy with all it represents—betrayal, vulnerability, unexpected revelation. And, perhaps most significantly, the catalyst that brought Suki into my life and forced me to confront what she has become to me.

The corridors of the fortress seem longer than usual as I make my way toward the launch bay. Warriors salute as I pass, their expressions betraying nothing of the curiosity they must feel at seeing their First Blade personally carrying a secured artifact toward the departure area.

Let them wonder. I myself am not entirely certain of my purpose, only that I cannot allow her to leave without... something. Some acknowledgment of what has passed between us, some understanding of what she has become.

The launch bay doors slide open to reveal a cavernous space, mostly empty now that the emergency evacuations have been completed.

Suki’s ship sits on the central platform, its repairs evident in the new paneling and upgraded systems that my engineers insisted on installing.

The Rust Bucket, as she calls it, no longer appears quite so rusty.

And there, standing at the base of the boarding ramp, is Suki herself.

She has changed from the modified Zaterran attire back into her courier uniform, the faded OOPS insignia visible on the sleeve.

Her hair is loose now, those auburn curls framing her face in a way that catches the light from the bay’s illumination systems. She is small against the backdrop of the massive space, yet somehow she dominates the area through sheer force of presence.

The sight of her in departure attire sends an unexpected pang through my chest—loss, anticipation, and something deeper that I’m not yet ready to name.

She does not appear surprised to see me. Perhaps she has been expecting this confrontation since she left the command center.

“You’re late to the party,” she calls as I approach, her tone deliberately casual. “I was starting to think you weren’t going to show up for the big goodbye.”

I stop a respectful distance away, aware of how my size can be intimidating to humans even when I do not intend it to be. Yet I find myself wanting to move closer, to bridge the gap between us in ways that have nothing to do with physical proximity.

“The operation is complete,” I tell her. “The Corsairians have been exposed and captured.”

“Good.” She nods, genuine satisfaction in her expression. “Serves them right for trying to use me as their delivery girl.”

“Indeed.” I hesitate, unaccustomed to uncertainty. “Your ship is fully repaired. Enhanced, in fact. My engineers took certain... liberties with the modifications.”

She glances back at the vessel, a flicker of emotion crossing her face too quickly to identify. “Yeah, I noticed. Upgraded nav system, reinforced hull plating, new stealth capabilities. Way beyond what I asked for.”

“Consider it compensation,” I say, though the words feel inadequate. “For the inconvenience you experienced.”

“Inconvenience.” She laughs, the sound both genuine and somehow hollow. “That’s one way to put it. Kidnapping, mistaken identity, almost being used to sabotage an entire fortress... just another day in the life of an OOPS courier, right?”

I do not respond to her attempt at humor. Instead, I deactivate the containment field around the beacon and hold it out to her.

“This belongs to you,” I tell her.

Her eyebrows rise in surprise. “Pretty sure it doesn’t. Unless you’re suggesting I was in on the whole espionage thing after all?”

“No.” I continue to hold it out, studying her face. “It was delivered to you. You completed that delivery by bringing it to me. By our agreement, you are entitled to compensation for that delivery. Triple your standard rate, as negotiated.”

She stares at the beacon, then at me, confusion evident in her expression. “You want to pay me for delivering a device that almost compromised your entire defensive system?”

“I want,” I say carefully, “to honor our accord. You fulfilled your obligation. More than fulfilled it, by discovering the transmitter function and warning us of its true purpose.”

She makes no move to take the beacon, and I notice the way her hands clench slightly at her sides, as if she’s fighting some internal battle.

“And what am I supposed to do with it? Use it as a paperweight? Sell it to the highest bidder?”

“Do what you will with it,” I say, placing it on a nearby console. “You were never my prisoner, Suki Vega. You are free to choose your own path.”

Something shifts in her expression—a vulnerability I have glimpsed only rarely, quickly masked by her usual defenses. But not before I see it, not before it affects me in ways I’m not prepared to handle.

“Why are you letting me go?” she asks, the question seemingly simple yet laden with unspoken complexity.

I could give her the logical answer. That her ship is repaired. That the threat has been neutralized. That there is no tactical reason to detain her further.

Instead, I find myself speaking a truth I had not fully acknowledged until this moment.

“Because you are the first person in three hundred cycles who has looked at me and seen something other than a weapon or a ruin.”

The words hang between us, raw and unguarded in a way I have not allowed myself to be since before the War of Shattered Moons. Since before I became First Blade, when I was simply Henrok, a mining caste youth with no expectation of glory or burden.

Suki stares at me, those hazel eyes wide with surprise and something else—something that makes my chest tighten in ways I don’t fully understand.

“That’s...” She swallows, visibly struggling for words. “That’s probably the most honest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

“Honesty is valued among my people,” I tell her, though we both know this level of personal revelation goes far beyond cultural norms.

She takes a step toward me, then stops, her hand resting on the boarding ramp of her ship. For a moment, she seems torn, caught between the freedom of departure and something else. Something neither of us has named but both of us feel.

“I should go,” she says, but makes no move toward her ship. “I’ve got deliveries waiting. Clients expecting their packages. A life to get back to.”

“Yes,” I agree, though the word tastes like ash in my mouth. “Your obligations elsewhere are important.”

Her hand lingers on the ramp, her fingers tracing patterns in the metal as if reading some message only she can decipher. The moment stretches, taut with possibility and unspoken words.

Then she turns, her decision evident in the set of her shoulders and the clarity of her gaze.

“I don’t want to go,” she says simply.

Three words. Six syllables. Yet they shift the very foundation of my existence, like an ion storm reshaping the asteroid belt.

“Explain,” I manage, my voice rougher than intended.

She takes another step toward me, closing the distance between us.

“I don’t want to go,” she repeats, as if testing the words.

“Not yet. Maybe not at all. I don’t know.

” She runs a hand through her hair, a gesture I’ve come to recognize as a sign of her uncertainty.

“This is crazy. I barely know you. This place is nothing like anywhere I’ve ever been. And yet...”

“And yet?” I prompt when she falls silent.