Page 3 of Signed, Sealed, Seduced (You’ve Got Alien Mail #1)
First Contact
Henrok
The missive lies unfurled on my war table, its delicate parchment an insult among the obsidian and steel of my private chambers. I do not touch it again. Once was sufficient to memorize its contents, to catalog its presumptions, to identify the thirteen separate ways it breaches protocol.
“First Blade.” Vex’ra stands at attention on the opposite side of the table, her posture perfect despite the tension I sense beneath her ceremonial armor. “The offering has been prepared. She awaits your inspection.”
She. Not it.
I continue studying the strategic maps spread before me, tracing the crystalline borders where Zaterran territory meets STI-controlled space. “This... gift. It was not requested.”
“No, First Blade.” Vex’ra’s voice remains neutral, though the subtle shift in her stance betrays discomfort. “The Corsairian delegation insisted it was customary. A gesture of goodwill to commemorate the third cycle of the treaty.”
“A human female.” The words taste foreign on my tongue. Bitter. “They send us a human as if we were savages from the ancient texts, trading flesh for favor.”
“The Corsairians believe we still practice the old ways.” A faint note of disdain colors Vex’ra’s tone. “They have studied our history, but understood nothing of our evolution.”
I straighten to my full height, allowing myself the small satisfaction of watching Vex’ra—herself impressively tall for a Zaterran female—tilt her head back to maintain eye contact. “And you accepted this... offering... without consulting me.”
It is not a question. We both know the answer.
“Protocol dictated—”
“Protocol,” I interrupt, the word a low growl, “dictates that all diplomatic exchanges must be approved by the First Blade. Especially those involving living beings.”
Vex’ra does not flinch. She has served as my diplomatic liaison for too many cycles to be easily cowed. “The alternative was diplomatic incident. Refusal would have been interpreted as rejection of their gesture, potentially undermining the fragile peace we have established.”
She is not wrong, which only deepens my irritation. The treaty hangs by threads thin as spiderus silk. Three cycles of uneasy coexistence after centuries of war. Three cycles of watching my warriors grow restless, my people uncertain of their place in this new order.
I have killed for less provocation than this insult disguised as honor. But I cannot afford the luxury of pride.
“Return it,” I say finally, rolling up a strategic map with more force than necessary. “Construct a suitable excuse. Claim incompatible biology, religious restriction, whatever fabrication will cause least offense.”
Vex’ra hesitates, the crystalline patterns along her temples pulsing once with suppressed emotion. “First Blade, the human has already been processed through the ritual cleansing. The acceptance bracelet has been applied.”
My head snaps up. “You authorized a bonding bracelet?”
“A tracker only,” she clarifies quickly. “The ceremonial variety, not a true bond. It can be removed without consequence.”
Small mercies. Still, the knowledge that this unwanted “gift” now wears even a symbolic Zaterran marker sends a fresh wave of irritation through me.
The ancient traditions were abandoned generations ago, when we evolved beyond such primitive exchanges.
That outsiders still believe us capable of treating sentient beings as property is an indignity I struggle to tolerate.
“I will see this human,” I decide, the words clipped. “Briefly. Then you will arrange transport back to Corsairian space with appropriate diplomatic language expressing our... gratitude.”
Vex’ra inclines her head in acknowledgment. “As you command, First Blade. Shall I have her brought to the formal reception chamber?”
“No.” The thought of this farce being witnessed by others is intolerable. “Here. Now. I wish this matter concluded before the evening security council.”
“At once.” She activates her comm unit with a subtle gesture, speaking rapid instructions in our native tongue.
I turn away, moving to the tall windows that overlook the fortress’s central courtyard.
Below, my warriors train in precise formations, their movements a deadly dance I could perform blindfolded.
The familiar rhythm should soothe me, as it has countless times before.
Today, it only highlights how much has changed.
Three cycles ago, those warriors would have been preparing for battle, not performing exercises designed to maintain skills they may never use again. Three cycles ago, I led from the front, blade in hand, not from behind diplomatic tables and compromise-filled treaties.
The peace has cost us all. Some prices I accepted willingly. Others...
A sharp series of sounds from the corridor interrupts my thoughts. Raised voices—one distinctly not Zaterran—followed by what sounds suspiciously like a curse in at least three different languages.
Vex’ra’s eyes widen fractionally. “First Blade, perhaps I should—”
The massive doors to my chambers burst open with enough force to startle both of us—no small feat, given our warrior training. A small figure stumbles through, clearly mid-argument with the guards outside.
“—absolutely ridiculous! If one more person calls me ‘offering’ instead of my actual name, I swear I’ll—” She stops abruptly, finally noticing our presence. “Oh. Um. Hello.”
I stare, momentarily speechless.
She is... not what I expected.
The human female stands barely to my chest, a diminutive figure draped in ceremonial silks that leave little to the imagination.
The emerald fabric clings to curves that are subtle but unmistakably feminine, the strategic draping designed to entice rather than conceal.
Her skin is several shades paler than a Zaterran’s, with a scattering of darker spots across her shoulders and face that create an intriguing asymmetrical pattern.
Her hair falls in waves of deep auburn—a color rarely seen among my people—framing features that seem almost delicate in their proportions. The way the light catches those waves suggests a texture completely unlike Zaterran hair, softer somehow, more fragile.
But it is her eyes that truly give me pause. Large and expressive, they shift between green and gold depending on how the crystalline light strikes them. And currently, they blaze with unmistakable defiance.
This is no cowering pleasure slave sent to appease a primitive warlord. This female looks ready to fight her way out of my fortress with her bare hands if necessary. The realization sends an unexpected jolt of... what? Approval? Interest?
I push the thought aside, focusing instead on the tactical assessment.
Small but clearly agile, based on how quickly she recovered her balance after bursting through the doors.
Alert, cataloging our positions and the room’s exits even as she speaks.
Unafraid—either remarkably brave or dangerously naive.
“You’re him, aren’t you?” she demands, planting her hands on her hips. The movement causes the ceremonial chains to shift, drawing my attention briefly to the curve of her waist before I force my gaze back to her face. “The big, bad Warlord Hen-rock.”
She deliberately mispronounces my name, the subtle emphasis making it sound like a type of mineral rather than a title of respect. I should be offended. Instead, I find myself fighting an unexpected urge to correct her—and to hear her say it again.
Vex’ra makes a strangled sound beside me. “You will address the First Blade with proper respect, human!”
“The name’s Suki. Suki Vega.” She crosses her arms, the movement causing those auburn waves to shift across her shoulders.
I notice how the gesture both shields her body and somehow emphasizes it at the same time—a contradiction that captures my attention longer than it should.
“OOPS courier ID 87392. And I didn’t ask to be here, so maybe we can skip the formalities and get straight to the part where you let me go back to my ship. ”
OOPS. The Orion Outpost Postal Service. A courier, not a concubine.
Understanding dawns, followed swiftly by a new kind of irritation. Not at the human—Suki—but at the cascading series of errors that have led to this moment.
“Vex’ra,” I say, my voice dangerously quiet. “Explain.”
My diplomatic liaison straightens, though I detect the faintest tremor in her usually steady hands. “First Blade, I... there appears to have been a misunderstanding.”
“No kidding,” Suki mutters.
I silence her with a look, somewhat surprised when it actually works.
She meets my gaze directly—another surprise.
Most non-Zaterrans find our eyes disconcerting at best, terrifying at worst. Yet she stares into mine without flinching, her chin tilted at an angle that suggests challenge rather than submission.
“The Corsairian delegation informed us a gift would arrive today,” Vex’ra continues. “When the human’s ship landed on the lower platform—”
“Crashed,” Suki interjects, then subsides under my renewed stare. But not before I catch the flash of irritation in those shifting eyes, the way her jaw tightens with the effort of staying quiet.
“—when her ship arrived,” Vex’ra continues pointedly, “the timing aligned with the expected delivery. The guards made an... understandable assumption.”
“They assumed I was the package, not the delivery person,” Suki says flatly. “And then they took my actual package, slapped this weird bracelet on me, and handed me over to your beauty squad for what I can only describe as the most invasive spa day of my life.”