Page 2 of Signed, Sealed, Seduced (You’ve Got Alien Mail #1)

The lead guard stops directly in front of me, towering at least two feet above my head.

His helmet retracts with a series of clicks, revealing a face that might have been carved from the same obsidian as the fortress: all sharp angles and unreadable expression.

A series of faint, crystalline lines trace patterns from his temples down his neck, disappearing beneath his armor.

“You,” he says, his voice a rumble that I feel more than hear, “are expected.”

Wait, what?

Before I can process that statement, two guards step forward and flank me, their massive forms blocking any potential escape route.

“There’s been a misunderstanding,” I say quickly, fighting down a flutter of panic. “I’m just a courier. I need to deliver this package to Lady Vex’ra, and then I’ll be on my way. My ship needs repairs, but I can handle that myself if you’ll just point me toward—”

“Silence.” The word cuts through my babbling like a blade. “The Warlord’s chambers have been prepared. You will be escorted.”

The Warlord’s chambers? As in, Henrok D’Vorr? The notorious, supposedly bloodthirsty commander whose name makes even seasoned OOPS couriers nervous?

My mind races. What would he want with a random courier? And why do I feel a traitorous flutter of curiosity beneath the fear?

“No, seriously, I’m not who you think I am. I’m Suki Vega, OOPS Courier ID 87392. I’m here on official business.” I hold up my tablet, hoping the manifest will clarify things.

The lead guard doesn’t even glance at it. Instead, he makes a sharp gesture, and suddenly my arms are pinned to my sides by one of the flanking guards. The package is plucked from my grasp by another.

“Hey! That’s a secure delivery! You can’t just—”

“The gift has been received,” the lead guard intones, as if reading from a script. “The offering is acknowledged.”

Gift? Offering? What in the seven systems are they talking about?

I’m about to launch into another protest when I feel something cold and metallic snap around my wrist. I look down to see an intricate bracelet now encircling my left arm, its surface etched with symbols I don’t recognize.

It pulses once with a soft blue light, then settles against my skin like it belongs there.

“What is this?” I demand, trying to shake it off. The bracelet doesn’t budge.

“A courtesy tracker,” the guard explains, as if that makes it better. “For your safety within the fortress.”

Right. Because nothing says “guest” like being tagged like a wild animal.

“Look, I don’t know what’s happening here, but I need to speak to whoever’s in charge of deliveries. There’s been a mix-up.”

The guards exchange glances, a silent communication passing between them. Then, without warning, I’m lifted off my feet and slung over the shoulder of the largest guard like a sack of spare parts.

“Put me down!” I pound ineffectually against his armored back. “This is assault! Kidnapping! A violation of interstellar courier protocols!”

“The human female is distressed,” one guard observes dispassionately.

“The preparation chambers will calm her,” another responds.

Preparation chambers? That doesn’t sound ominous at all.

As we descend into the fortress, I crane my neck to catch one last glimpse of the Rust Bucket. My ship—my home and only means of escape—grows smaller with each step, until the obsidian stairs seal shut above us, cutting off the view entirely.

The interior of the fortress is both exactly what I expected and nothing like I imagined.

The corridors are wide and tall, clearly designed for beings larger than humans.

The walls are the same obsidian as the exterior, but here they’re inlaid with veins of luminescent crystal that provide a soft, ambient glow.

The effect would be beautiful if I weren’t being carried against my will by a Zaterran guard squad.

We pass several intersections, each guarded by more armored Zaterrans who barely acknowledge our procession. The few who do turn to watch regard me with expressions ranging from curiosity to what might be pity.

Great. Even the locals think I’m in trouble.

But what kind of trouble, exactly? And why does a small, reckless part of me want to find out what the infamous Warlord Henrok is really like?

After what feels like an eternity of being jostled against unyielding armor, we arrive at a set of massive doors carved with intricate geometric patterns. They slide open silently at our approach, revealing a chamber that momentarily steals my breath.

It’s a bathing room. But not like any I’ve seen before.

The floor is a single slab of polished obsidian, with a sunken pool in the center large enough to swim laps in.

Steam rises from the water’s surface, carrying the scent of unfamiliar minerals and something floral.

The ceiling arches high above, embedded with thousands of tiny crystals that shimmer like stars.

Around the pool, several Zaterran females wait. They’re tall and lithe, their slate-gray skin adorned with more elaborate crystalline patterns than the males. They wear flowing garments in deep jewel tones that contrast strikingly with their coloration.

I’m unceremoniously set on my feet before them. The guard who carried me steps back with a short bow.

“The offering,” he announces, then turns and exits with his squad, the doors sealing behind them.

I’m left facing the Zaterran females, who regard me with expressions I can’t begin to interpret. One steps forward, her amber eyes assessing me from head to toe.

“Small,” she says, her voice melodic despite the critical tone. “Fragile-looking. But the coloring is... exotic.”

Another circles me slowly. “The garments are unsuitable. Primitive. They must be removed.”

“Excuse me?” I back away, bumping into a low bench. “Nobody’s removing anything. I need to speak to Lady Vex’ra. This is all a mistake.”

The first female tilts her head. “There is no mistake, human. You are the gift. The appeasement offering.”

“I’m a courier!” I pull out my ID badge, waving it like a shield. “I deliver packages. I’m not a package myself!”

A third female, older than the others judging by the elaborate silver patterns tracing her features, steps forward and takes the badge from my hand. She studies it briefly, then passes it to one of the others.

“Your previous designation is irrelevant,” she says, her tone gentler but no less firm. “You have been chosen to serve a greater purpose. To heal the rift between factions. It is an honor.”

“An honor to be kidnapped and... what? Given as a gift? To whom?”

Though I already know the answer. The Warlord. Henrok D’Vorr. The notorious commander whose fortress I had the misfortune to crash-land on.

But what would he want with me? What would a powerful alien warlord do with a human courier who’d stumbled into his domain?

“To the First Blade of Zater Reach,” the elder female confirms. “You will be prepared, presented, and if found acceptable, you will serve as his companion.”

Companion. Right. A polite word for something that sounds suspiciously like slavery.

“I’m not anyone’s companion,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady despite the panic building in my chest. “I’m a free citizen of the Orion Sector. You can’t just—”

“Your discomfort is understood, human. But resistance will only prolong the process. The sooner you are prepared, the sooner you may meet the Warlord and explain your... concerns.”

I consider my options. I’m outnumbered, in an unfamiliar fortress, with no idea where my ship is relative to this chamber.

The bracelet on my wrist pulses faintly, a reminder of my tracked status.

Even if I could overpower these females—unlikely given their height and strength advantage—I’d still have to navigate a maze of corridors past armed guards.

Sometimes strategic retreat is the better part of valor. Or so my first OOPS mentor used to say, usually right before abandoning me in some backwater spaceport.

And maybe—just maybe—this will get me face-to-face with the man himself. The chance to see what lies beneath the reputation. To discover what kind of alien commands such fear and loyalty.

“Fine,” I say through gritted teeth. “But I want it on record that I’m cooperating under protest.”

The elder female makes a gesture that might be their equivalent of a shrug. “Noted.”

What follows is the most thorough and invasive “preparation” I’ve ever endured.

My courier uniform is removed piece by piece, despite my attempts to maintain some modesty.

The Zaterran females seem unfazed by human anatomy, handling me with the clinical detachment of scientists examining a specimen.

I’m guided into the pool, where the warm, mineral-rich water immediately begins to tingle against my skin. It’s not unpleasant, exactly, but the sensation is alien—a reminder that everything here is designed for a different species.

Two females scrub me with what feels like volcanic sand, paying particular attention to my hands and feet. Another works some kind of oil through my hair, her long fingers surprisingly deft as they untangle the knots from my hasty braid.

“The coloring is natural?” one asks, examining a strand of my hair.

“Yes,” I mutter, trying to maintain some dignity as I’m essentially bathed like a child. “Auburn. Common enough for humans.”

“Uncommon here,” she replies. “It will please the Warlord.”

“I’m not here to please anyone,” I remind her, though the protest sounds weak even to my own ears.

The elder female, who seems to be overseeing the process, makes a sound that might be amusement. “All beings seek to please others in some form, human. It is the nature of social species.”

“My name is Suki,” I say, tired of being called ‘human’ like it’s a brand. “And where I come from, we don’t give people as gifts.”

“Yet your own history suggests otherwise,” she counters smoothly. “We have studied your species. Your customs. Your contradictions.”

I don’t have a good response to that, so I focus on memorizing the layout of the chamber, counting exits (just the one we came through), and looking for anything that might serve as a weapon in a pinch.

After the bath comes the drying—a process involving warm air that seems to emanate from the floor itself—and then the dressing. Or rather, the approximation of dressing.

The garment they present is unlike anything I’ve worn before.

It’s a deep emerald green, the fabric so fine it feels like liquid between my fingers.

But there’s precious little of it. The top is essentially a series of strategically placed panels connected by delicate silver chains, leaving my midriff and most of my back exposed.

The bottom is slightly more modest—a skirt with high slits up both sides, revealing far more leg than I’m comfortable with.

“I can’t wear this,” I protest. “Where are my clothes?”

“Being cleansed,” the elder female says, which I suspect is a polite way of saying ‘disposed of.’ “This attire is appropriate for your presentation.”

“It’s barely attire at all!”

But my protests fall on deaf ears. The garment is arranged on my body with meticulous care, the females adjusting each drape and fold until they’re satisfied.

Next comes jewelry—silver bands for my upper arms, intricate ear cuffs that clip on without piercing, and a delicate chain that loops around my waist.

The final touch is some kind of cosmetic applied to my eyes—a shimmering powder that makes the green in my hazel irises stand out dramatically.

When they finally allow me to see my reflection in a polished obsidian mirror, I barely recognize myself. The woman staring back looks like some exotic creature from a pleasure planet, not a practical OOPS courier who spends most days elbow-deep in engine grease.

But beneath the transformation, I can see something else in my reflection—a spark of defiance. Of curiosity. Whatever happens next, I’ll face it as myself, not as some empty vessel for their expectations.

“The transformation is adequate,” one of the females declares, though her tone suggests it’s high praise.

“The Warlord will be... intrigued,” another adds.

The elder female studies me with those unnerving amber eyes. “Remember your purpose, human Suki. The peace between our factions is fragile. Your presence here is meant to strengthen bonds that have frayed.”

“By being what, exactly? A concubine?” The word tastes bitter on my tongue.

She tilts her head slightly. “A companion. A bridge between worlds. Perhaps more, if the Warlord finds favor with you.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

Her expression doesn’t change, but something in her eyes shifts. “Then you will be returned to those who sent you.”

Somehow, I doubt that means a first-class ticket back to The Junction.

Before I can ask more questions, the massive doors slide open again. The guard squad has returned, though they pause noticeably at the sight of my transformation.

“The offering is prepared,” the elder female announces. “She may be presented to the Warlord.”

The lead guard nods once, then gestures for me to follow. No rough handling this time, at least. Small mercies.

As I step toward the door, the elder female catches my arm gently. “A word of advice, human Suki,” she murmurs, her voice pitched for my ears alone. “The Warlord is not what the stories claim. Approach with respect, not fear. And remember—sometimes the greatest power lies in seeming to have none.”

With that cryptic statement, she releases me. I’m escorted from the bathing chamber, back into the labyrinthine corridors of the fortress, now dressed like some fantasy concubine and headed for a meeting with one of the most feared warlords in the sector.

All because I crashed on the wrong landing pad.

And despite everything—the kidnapping, the forced preparation, the complete upheaval of my life—I find myself wondering what he’ll be like. What kind of man lurks behind the reputation. What kind of alien could command such fear and loyalty.

What kind of warlord needs a human courier delivered to his door like a gift?

Mother is never going to believe this delivery report. If I live long enough to file one.