Page 23 of Signed, Sealed, Seduced (You’ve Got Alien Mail #1)

Delivery Confirmed

Suki

“No, absolutely not. That goes in the secondary manifest, not the primary.” I snatch the data tablet from the bewildered Zaterran guard’s hands.

“See this marker? Gold means diplomatic clearance required. Silver is standard transport. How are you people still alive with organizational skills this bad?”

The guard—Krell, I think his name is—gives me a look that would probably terrify most humans. On his imposing Zaterran features, it’s somewhere between constipation and existential crisis. I’ve been getting that look a lot these past few days.

“The system has functioned adequately for seven centuries, courier,” he says stiffly.

“Adequately?” I laugh, the sound echoing through what used to be Henrok’s war chamber and is now my impromptu logistics command center.

“Your idea of ‘adequate’ is why it takes seventeen approval stamps to move a crate of fruit from the landing bay to the kitchens. No wonder you guys are always scowling—you’re probably all malnourished. ”

I’ve commandeered the massive obsidian table where Henrok and his commanders normally plot military strategies.

Now it’s covered with data tablets, holographic shipping manifests, and a chaotic but methodical reorganization of Zater Reach’s entire supply chain.

Three Zaterran logistics officers stand at attention around the table, looking like they’d rather face a firing squad than another hour of my overhaul.

“You are...” Krell searches for a diplomatic word, “...unconventional in your methods.”

“That’s a polite way of saying I’m driving you crazy,” I grin, making another notation on the central manifest. “Look, I get it. Change is hard. But trust me, when we’re done, you’ll be able to process incoming shipments in half the time with a third of the personnel.”

The massive doors at the far end of the chamber slide open, and all three Zaterrans snap to rigid attention. I don’t need to turn around to know who just entered—the sudden shift in atmospheric pressure is enough. That, and the way my skin prickles with awareness.

“I see you’ve conquered my war chamber more effectively than any enemy force has managed in three centuries,” Henrok’s deep voice carries across the room, amusement warming his formal tone.

I spin in my chair, unable to suppress the smile that springs to my face at the sight of him.

He’s dressed in what I’ve come to recognize as his “diplomatic attire”—slightly less intimidating than full battle armor, but still impressive enough to make lesser beings quake.

The crystalline markings along his exposed forearms pulse with a steady rhythm that I now know speeds up when he’s. .. stimulated.

“Conquest implies resistance,” I counter, leaning back in my chair. “Your logistics team surrendered the moment I pointed out they were using a filing system from before humans invented the wheel.”

Henrok dismisses the officers with a slight nod, and they practically sprint for the exit, clearly relieved. When the doors close behind them, his posture relaxes almost imperceptibly—a change only someone watching closely would notice.

“They are unaccustomed to such... direct criticism,” he observes, moving toward me with that predatory grace that still makes my heart skip.

“They’ll survive. Their egos might not, but they will.” I gesture to the chaos spread across the table. “Want to help? I could use another pair of hands that understands what an inventory actually is.”

“My understanding of supply logistics is primarily military in nature,” he admits, coming to stand beside my chair. His massive frame casts me in shadow, but it feels more like shelter than intimidation. “But I am willing to learn your system.”

“My system?” I laugh. “Henrok, this is literally how the rest of the galaxy has been managing shipments for the past century. You guys are the ones with the weird, convoluted process that requires blood samples and probably virgin sacrifices just to accept a delivery of toilet paper.”

His mouth twitches in that almost-smile I’ve become addicted to provoking. “The Zaterran hygiene system does not require paper products.”

“Of course it doesn’t,” I roll my eyes. “Let me guess—some kind of sonic pulse that atomizes waste matter while simultaneously composing epic poetry about the experience?”

This time the almost-smile becomes an actual chuckle, the sound rumbling through his chest. “Something like that. Though the poetry is optional.”

I stand, stretching to work out the kinks from hours hunched over manifests. Henrok’s eyes track the movement, darkening slightly as my shirt rides up to expose a strip of skin. Three days since our first night together, and that hungry look still sends heat spiraling through me.

“How was the diplomatic meeting?” I ask, deliberately casual, though we both know it’s anything but. The Corsairian delegation has been in an uproar since their ship was caught trying to sabotage Zater Reach’s defenses.

Henrok’s expression hardens. “Predictable. Denials. Counter-accusations. Claims that the vessel we intercepted was acting without official sanction.”

“And you believe that about as much as I believe in free shipping,” I guess, reading his skepticism.

“Precisely.” He moves to the viewport, gazing out at the asteroid belt. “The Stellar Togetherness Initiative has sent representatives to ‘mediate’ the situation. They arrive tomorrow.”

I wince. “That sounds... bureaucratic.”

“It will be.” His shoulders tense slightly, the only outward sign of his concern. “The STI has long sought greater influence in Zater Reach. This incident provides them the pretext they desire.”

I move to stand beside him, close enough that our arms almost touch. “They’ll try to use me too, won’t they? The human courier who ‘coincidentally’ crashed with a sabotage device?”

Henrok turns to me, his garnet eyes intense. “They will attempt to. Which is why I have registered you as a diplomatic attaché under my personal protection.”

“You what?” I blink, caught off guard. “When did this happen?”

“This morning. The documentation was processed through official channels.” His expression remains impassive, but there’s a hint of uncertainty in his voice. “If this displeases you—”

“No, it’s fine,” I interrupt, processing this new development. “Just... unexpected. I’m not exactly diplomat material, Henrok. My idea of subtle negotiation involves threats and possibly airlock malfunctions.”

“Which is precisely why you are perfect,” he says with complete seriousness. “The STI expects formality and deception. You offer neither.”

“Was that a compliment or an insult?” I narrow my eyes at him.

“An observation,” he replies, but there’s warmth in his gaze that makes my chest tight. “One of many I have made about you.”

Before I can respond, a familiar whirring sound interrupts us. The ancient serving droid I repaired rolls into the chamber, its movements smoother now after my additional tinkering. Its crystalline core pulses with renewed energy as it approaches.

“Refreshments for the First Blade and his... companion,” the droid announces in its oddly melodic voice. “Tea brewed to optimal temperature and potency.”

“Thanks, Rusty,” I say, accepting a steaming cup from the tray it extends.

“I have not designated this unit with that nomenclature,” Henrok notes, taking his own cup.

“Well, he needed a name, and he’s literally rusty in spots,” I shrug. “Plus, he likes it. Don’t you, Rusty?”

The droid’s lights flicker in what I’ve come to recognize as its version of consideration. “This unit finds the designation acceptable, though lacking in grandeur. Perhaps ‘Supreme Commander of Refreshment Distribution’ would be more fitting.”

I nearly choke on my tea. “Did you just make a joke?”

“This unit is programmed with over seven thousand forms of social interaction, including humorous observations designed to ease tension in diplomatic settings,” Rusty informs me primly. “Would you prefer a limerick about the mating habits of Venturian slug-beasts?”

Henrok’s eyebrows rise slightly. “That function was not in the original programming.”

“I may have tweaked a few things,” I admit, patting the droid affectionately. “He was so formal. Needed to loosen up a bit.”

“There once was a slug from Ventura,” Rusty begins, its voice shifting to a singsong cadence.

“Not now, Rusty,” I interrupt hastily. “Maybe save the dirty poetry for after hours.”

“As you wish,” the droid acknowledges, then adds, “Though it is a particularly clever rhyme scheme.”

Henrok watches this exchange with an expression I’m beginning to recognize as his version of fascination—a slight softening around his eyes, an almost imperceptible tilt to his head.

“You have given it... personality,” he observes.

“Enhanced what was already there,” I correct him. “He was probably quite the conversationalist back in his day, before centuries of neglect corrupted his social protocols.”

Rusty swivels toward Henrok. “This unit served the D’Vorr household for seventy-three years before the War of Shattered Moons necessitated reassignment to storage.

This unit remembers a young Henrok who once requested seventeen consecutive servings of crystallized fruit and subsequently became ill. ”

I turn to Henrok with delight. “You had a sweet tooth?”

A darker gray flush creeps up his neck—a Zaterran blush. “I was very young,” he says stiffly. “And the droid’s memory banks are clearly compromised.”

“This unit’s memory functions at ninety-seven percent capacity following repairs,” Rusty counters. “This unit also recalls young Henrok hiding from combat training in the crystal gardens.”

“Okay, now I know you’re making stuff up,” I laugh. “Mr. First Blade here, avoiding combat practice? That’s like saying a Venturian slug-beast avoids slime.”