Page 8 of Signed, Sealed, Seduced (You’ve Got Alien Mail #1)

Little Courier

Suki

The drone freezes instantly, its weapon powering down with a soft whine. I open my eyes to see it hovering in place, suddenly docile as a pet rock.

And behind it, filling the doorway with his imposing presence, stands Henrok.

He’s dressed differently than at dinner—some kind of battle armor that makes him look even larger, if that’s possible.

The dark plates seem to absorb light rather than reflect it, and they’re etched with the same crystalline patterns that decorate the fortress walls.

Those patterns pulse with a soft red glow that matches the alarm lights, making him look like some ancient war god stepping out of myth.

The crystalline lines on his skin seem to pulse in rhythm with his armor, his garnet eyes practically glowing in the chamber’s chaotic lighting. He looks furious. And somehow, unfairly magnificent.

“Hi,” I manage weakly, my voice barely audible over the wailing alarms. “Fancy meeting you here.”

His expression doesn’t change as he steps into the chamber, the drone moving aside for him like an obedient pet. With a gesture that’s almost casual, he silences the alarms, returning the lighting to its normal blue glow. The sudden quiet is almost as jarring as the noise had been.

“Courier Vega,” he says, his voice dangerously soft. Each word is precisely enunciated, like he’s carefully controlling his tone. “You appear to be lost.”

I straighten, trying to reclaim some dignity despite being caught red-handed in what is clearly a restricted area.

My knees are shaking slightly from the adrenaline, but I lock them in place and lift my chin.

“Actually, I was just looking for a bathroom. Your guest quarters are seriously lacking in directional signage.”

“The cleansing chamber is connected directly to your quarters,” he points out, his tone flat as processed steel. “Through the door marked with the universal symbol for water.”

Oh. Right. That door.

Heat creeps up my neck. “Well, maybe I wanted a different bathroom. One with a view.”

His eyes narrow slightly, and I notice how the crystalline patterns around his temples pulse faster when he’s irritated. “You disabled a level-three security lock, navigated three restricted corridors, and accessed a command center... in search of a scenic place to relieve yourself.”

When he puts it like that, my excuse does sound pretty flimsy. But I’m committed now.

“Okay, fine.” I cross my arms defensively, trying to ignore the way his attention tracks the movement. “I was looking for my package. And a way to contact OOPS without your scary diplomat breathing down my neck. Sue me for not trusting the people who kidnapped me and slapped a tracker on my wrist.”

Something flickers across his features—too quick to identify. Anger? Surprise? The armor makes it harder to read his body language, but I catch a subtle shift in his stance, like he’s forcing himself to remain still.

“Your package is secure in our holding facility,” he says after a moment. “As I told you it would be.”

“And I’m just supposed to take your word for that?”

“Yes.” The simplicity of his response catches me off-guard. No justification, no defense. Just absolute certainty that his word should be enough.

The audacity is almost admirable. Almost.

“That’s not how this works,” I inform him, gesturing between us. “You don’t get to just say ‘trust me’ after your people mistook me for a sex slave and then locked me in a room with a guard.”

His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly, the only sign that my words have any effect. “You were not locked in. The guard was for your protection, as I explained.”

“Right. My ‘protection.’ Which is why he abandoned his post, leaving me free to wander into your super-secret command center.” I take a step closer, emboldened by frustration and the leftover adrenaline from nearly getting fried. “Face it, Hen-rock. Your security sucks.”

The deliberate mispronunciation hits its mark. Something dangerous flashes in his eyes—not anger, exactly, but something darker and more complex. The crystalline patterns on his armor pulse once, briefly, like a heartbeat.

“The guard was relieved of duty for a scheduled rotation,” he says, his voice dropping to a rumble that seems to vibrate through the floor. “His replacement was delayed by the very security breach you caused.”

Oh. That... actually makes sense.

“Still,” I press on, unwilling to concede the point entirely. “If I can break out this easily, your fortress isn’t exactly Ancient Fort Knox.”

“I don’t know what ‘Ancient Fort Knox’ is,” he says, taking a step toward me. Suddenly the space between us feels charged with something I can’t—or don’t want to—identify. “But I assure you, had the security systems been fully activated, you would not have made it three steps from your door.”

He takes another step, and I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact.

This close, I can see the fine details of his armor—the way the crystalline etchings seem to move in the light, the perfect fit that suggests it was crafted specifically for his body.

The realization that he’s probably armed beneath all that plating sends a thrill through me that’s part fear, part something else entirely.

“The protocols were minimized out of respect for your status as a guest,” he continues, looming over me now. “A courtesy you have abused.”

“Yeah, well.” I tilt my head back further, refusing to be intimidated by his height advantage. “Where I come from, guests aren’t tagged and monitored like specimens in a lab.”

“Where you come from,” he counters, his voice dropping even lower, “is irrelevant. You are here. In my fortress. Under my protection.”

The possessive edge to his voice sends an unwelcome shiver down my spine.

There’s something about the way he says “my fortress” that makes it clear he’s not just talking about the building.

The intensity of his gaze, the way he’s positioned himself between me and the exit—it’s all very. .. territorial.

And I really, really shouldn’t find that as attractive as I do.

“Look, just let me go, okay?” I spread my hands in what I hope is a universal gesture of reasonableness. “Give me back my package, let me fix my ship, and we can both pretend this never happened. I won’t even file a complaint about the whole concubine mix-up.”

For a long moment, he simply studies me, his expression unreadable. Then, without warning, he reaches for my wrist—the one with the tracking bracelet.

Pure instinct takes over. I jerk back and swing with my free hand, aiming for his face.

My fist connects with solid armor instead of flesh, sending a jarring pain up my arm. “Ow! Stars and void!”

Before I can recover, his hand closes around my wrist—not the one I swung with, but the one with the bracelet. His grip is firm but not painful, his skin surprisingly warm against mine even through the armor’s gauntlets.

“You would strike me?” he asks, and there’s something almost like wonder in his tone. Not anger. Not offense. Just... surprise.

“You grabbed me first,” I point out, trying to pull away without success. His hold is unbreakable, like being caught in a steel trap lined with velvet. “Where I come from, that’s called personal space violation.”

A low sound rumbles from his chest—not quite a growl, but something primal enough to make the hair on the back of my neck stand up. The sound vibrates through his armor, and I feel it where our skin touches.

“Where you come from,” he says again, his voice dropping to a register that does strange things to my insides, “you were not trespassing in the command center of a Zaterran First Blade.”

He tugs gently on my wrist, pulling me a step closer. I could resist—well, try to—but something about the intensity of his gaze keeps me rooted in place. This close, I can smell him—that same combination of wood and minerals from dinner, but underneath it something warmer, more distinctly him.

“You are either very brave,” he continues, studying me as if I’m a puzzle he can’t quite solve, “or very foolish.”

“I get that a lot,” I admit, trying for nonchalance despite the fact that my heart is hammering against my ribs. “Usually right before someone tries to shoot me.”

“I have no intention of shooting you, Suki Vega.” The way he says my name—careful, precise, as if tasting each syllable—sends another unwelcome shiver through me. “Though you are testing my patience in ways few have dared.”

“Yeah, well.” My voice comes out slightly breathless, and I hate how obvious my reaction must be. “Filter malfunction. Chronic condition. Very sad.”

Something that might, in another species, be amusement flickers in his eyes. “You speak too freely for someone in your position.”

“What position is that, exactly?” I challenge, though the words lack their usual bite. It’s hard to maintain proper indignation when he’s this close, when I can feel the heat radiating from his body even through the armor.

His gaze drops briefly to my mouth, then back to my eyes, and the air between us suddenly feels too thick to breathe properly. “Trespasser. Prisoner. Guest.” He pauses, his thumb brushing almost unconsciously across my pulse point. “The distinction seems... fluid.”

I swallow hard, trying to ignore the way that simple touch makes my skin tingle. “I vote for guest.”

“Guests,” he says softly, “do not break into restricted areas.”

“And hosts don’t typically carry weapons to dinner conversations.”

His lips quirk slightly—not quite a smile, but close enough to count as progress. “You noticed.”

“Kind of hard to miss.” I gesture with my free hand toward the very obvious arsenal he’s wearing. “What’s the occasion? Expecting an invasion?”

“You,” he says simply, and there’s something in his tone that makes my breath catch. “You are the occasion.”