Page 5 of Signed, Sealed, Seduced (You’ve Got Alien Mail #1)

She Smiles Too Much

Henrok

The private dining chamber adjoining my quarters is rarely used. I prefer to take meals alone in my study or with my senior command in the warriors’ hall. The elaborate table—carved from a single piece of obsidian and inlaid with veins of luminescent crystal—seems excessive for just two diners.

Yet tonight, as I oversee the final preparations, I find myself paying attention to details I would normally ignore.

The way the crystal veins pulse with soft blue light.

The careful arrangement of traditional Zaterran dining implements alongside smaller utensils suitable for human hands.

The strategic placement of illumination crystals to create an atmosphere that’s formal yet intimate.

I’ve instructed the kitchen to prepare a selection of dishes suitable for human consumption, though I realize I have no idea what she might prefer.

Our research on their species is extensive but clinical—dietary requirements, toxicity warnings, digestive limitations.

Nothing about taste preferences or cultural food customs.

The admission bothers me more than it should. When did I begin thinking of her as more than a diplomatic complication to be managed?

A soft chime announces Vex’ra’s arrival.

I turn from the window where I’d been observing the nebula’s evening patterns, consciously straightening my formal robes.

The gesture is unnecessary—my appearance is always impeccable—but something about this dinner feels different from routine diplomatic meals.

“First Blade.” Vex’ra enters with practiced precision, but I note the subtle hesitation in her step. “Courier Vega is prepared for the evening meal.”

“Her belongings were returned?”

“As you commanded. Though she chose to retain certain... ceremonial elements.” Vex’ra’s tone suggests disapproval mixed with puzzlement.

Before I can ask for clarification, Suki steps into view behind my diplomatic liaison, and I understand Vex’ra’s confusion immediately.

She has indeed reclaimed some of her own clothing—a fitted black undergarment that covers her torso in practical, professional lines.

But she still wears the ceremonial skirt, its emerald silk a striking contrast against the utilitarian top.

The combination should look absurd, a clash of cultures and purposes.

Instead, it’s unexpectedly... appealing. The practical courier merged with exotic ceremony, neither fully contained nor completely transformed.

Her hair has been pulled back into a simple braid that exposes the elegant line of her neck, and without the ceremonial cosmetics, her features appear younger, though no less determined.

I find myself cataloging the differences from our earlier encounter—the way exhaustion has softened the sharp edges of her defiance, how the warmer lighting makes her skin seem to glow.

“Whoa,” she says, taking in the chamber with wide eyes. “You Zaterrans really commit to the whole ‘obsidian everything’ aesthetic, huh?”

I dismiss Vex’ra with a gesture, noting the diplomatic liaison’s reluctance before she withdraws. Alone now with Suki, the chamber feels smaller somehow, more intimate than its formal proportions should allow.

“It is our primary building material,” I explain, gesturing for her to take a seat. “The asteroid belt surrounding Zater Reach is rich in volcanic glass. We have simply learned to utilize what is abundant.”

She approaches the table with visible curiosity, her fingers trailing lightly over the crystalline inlays. “Smart. On The Junction—that’s the space station where OOPS is headquartered—we’re always scrounging for materials. Nothing goes to waste, but nothing matches either.”

I wait until she’s seated before taking my own place at the head of the table.

The chair designed for my height and build forces her to perch at its edge to reach the table comfortably, her smaller frame highlighting the size difference between us in a way that triggers unexpected protective instincts.

She looks... delicate isn’t the right word. Suki Vega is clearly made of sterner stuff than mere delicacy. But there’s something about seeing her dwarfed by furniture designed for warriors that makes me hyperaware of her mortality, her vulnerability in this alien environment.

“You are not what I expected from an interstellar courier,” I observe as servants silently enter with the first course.

She watches them place the dishes with undisguised curiosity, her attention catching on the way they move in synchronized patterns around the table. “What were you expecting? Burly guys with hover-dollies?”

“The few couriers who have delivered to Zater Reach in the past were more... deferential.”

“Yeah, well.” She picks up her fork, subtly testing its weight and balance in a gesture I recognize from my own warriors evaluating unfamiliar weapons.

The motion is unconscious, professional—another hint that there’s more to Courier Suki Vega than simple package delivery.

“I’ve never been great at the whole ‘yes sir, no sir’ routine.

Gets in the way of actually getting things done. ”

I find myself unexpectedly amused by her candor. “A perspective my warriors would appreciate.”

The first course is a simple broth infused with mineral salts and native herbs—traditionally served to clear the palate and prepare the digestive system. Suki eyes it suspiciously before taking a tentative sip.

The moment the liquid touches her lips, her expression shifts from wariness to surprise. “Oh!” Her eyebrows rise, and I watch, fascinated, as her tongue darts out to catch a stray drop at the corner of her mouth. “That’s... actually really good. Kind of like miso, but with a metallic kick.”

I don’t know what “miso” is, but the comparison seems favorable. More interesting is watching her unconscious responses—the way she tilts her head slightly when concentrating on unfamiliar flavors, how her eyes close briefly when she finds something particularly appealing.

“The minerals in our water give all our cuisine a distinctive profile,” I explain, though I’m more focused on the delicate movement of her throat as she swallows. “Some outsiders find it difficult to adjust to.”

“I’ve eaten protein cubes that were three years past expiration date,” she says with a small shrug that draws my attention to the line of her shoulders, the way the black fabric clings to subtle curves. “Trust me, this is gourmet by comparison.”

As we progress through subsequent courses, I find myself studying her with an intensity that surprises me.

She approaches each new dish with initial wariness, followed by genuine curiosity.

Her expressions are remarkably unguarded—disgust at the fermented crystal fungus (a delicacy few non-Zaterrans appreciate), delight at the roasted stone-root, surprise at the complex flavors of the spiced meat stew.

When she tries the latter, the unexpected heat of the spices catches her off-guard, producing an undignified snorting sound as she reaches hastily for her water glass.

“Stars and void!” she gasps, fanning her mouth with her free hand. The motion causes her braid to shift, exposing more of her neck, and I notice a faint sheen of perspiration along her hairline from the spices’ heat.

“My apologies,” I say, though I’m not particularly sorry. Her reaction is... entertaining. More than that—it’s genuine in a way that few interactions in my carefully controlled world ever are. “Zaterran cuisine tends toward the robust.”

“Robust,” she echoes, still recovering. Water has made her lips shine in the crystal light, and I find myself watching as she licks them carefully, testing for residual heat. “That’s one word for it. ‘Weapons-grade’ might be another.”

Throughout the meal, I catalog her responses with the same attention I’d pay to intelligence briefings.

The way her gaze periodically sweeps the room, noting exits and potential obstacles—courier training, or something more?

How she keeps me in her peripheral vision even when focused on her food, a survival instinct I recognize from battlefield experience.

But it’s the smaller details that capture my attention in ways that should concern me.

The elegant movement of her hands as she navigates unfamiliar utensils.

The soft sound she makes when something particularly pleases her palate.

The way she unconsciously leans forward when engaged in conversation, as if drawn by genuine interest rather than mere politeness.

“So,” she says, setting down her utensils after finishing the main course. “Are we going to talk about the actual reason I’m here? The package?”

Direct, as always. I incline my head slightly. “You claim to be delivering to Lady Vex’ra.”

“I don’t ‘claim’ anything,” she counters, a flash of irritation crossing her features.

The emotion brings color to her cheeks, and I realize I’m beginning to catalog these small changes in her appearance with dangerous fascination.

“It’s right there on my manifest. Package for Lady Vex’ra, Diplomatic Liaison Office, Zater Reach. I’m just doing my job.”

“A job that brought you directly to my fortress, despite the fact that the Diplomatic Liaison Office is located in the outer settlement.”

Her brow furrows, creating a small crease that I have an inexplicable urge to smooth away with my thumb. “What? No, the coordinates I was given led straight here.”

Interesting. Either she is lying—which my instincts suggest she is not—or someone deliberately misdirected her.

Neither possibility bodes well, but watching her genuine confusion confirms what I already suspected: Suki Vega is exactly what she appears to be.

A courier caught in circumstances beyond her understanding.

“What do you know about the contents of this package?” I ask, though I’m as interested in her physical responses as her verbal ones.