Page 9 of Signed, Sealed, Seduced (You’ve Got Alien Mail #1)

Before I can process what that means, his expression shifts back to something more formal. “We will discuss your... condition... tomorrow. For now, you will return to your quarters.”

“And if I refuse?”

The question is pure bravado. We both know I don’t have much choice, not with his hand still wrapped around my wrist and a security drone hovering nearby.

His response is not what I expect. Instead of threats or warnings, he simply... moves.

One moment I’m standing before him, the next I’m lifted effortlessly into his arms, cradled against his chest like I weigh nothing at all.

“Hey!” I squawk, instinctively grabbing onto his armor to steady myself. The crystalline etchings are surprisingly warm under my palms, pulsing with that same rhythm I felt in his voice. “What are you—put me down!”

“You asked what would happen if you refused,” he reminds me, already striding toward the exit with long, purposeful steps. “This is your answer.”

I should be furious. I should be kicking and screaming and demanding he set me down immediately.

Instead, I find myself acutely aware of every point of contact between us—the solid strength of his arms beneath me, the heat radiating from his body even through the armor, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against my side.

He’s so much larger than me that I feel almost delicate in his arms, like something precious being carefully transported. The sensation is both alarming and oddly... pleasant. When was the last time someone made me feel protected instead of just trapped?

“This is completely unnecessary,” I manage, trying to ignore the way my body seems to fit perfectly against his. “I have functioning legs.”

“Which you have already used to access restricted areas,” he points out, not slowing his pace as he carries me through the corridors. “This ensures you reach your destination without further... detours.”

“Detours,” I echo, struggling to maintain my indignation when part of me—a traitorous, clearly deranged part—is actually enjoying the sensation of being carried like this. “Is that what we’re calling breaking and entering now?”

He glances down at me, and for a split second, I swear I see something like amusement in his expression. “Would you prefer I drag you by the ankle? That is also an option.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Do not test me, little courier.”

The endearment should sound condescending. Instead, there’s an undercurrent of something almost... fond in his tone that catches me completely off guard. Like he’s not actually angry about my escape attempt, just exasperated by it.

Is the stern, imposing warlord actually... charmed by my defiance?

The thought is dangerous enough that I push it away immediately. Stockholm syndrome is a real thing, and I’m not about to start developing feelings for my captor just because he has excellent bone structure and calls me pet names.

Even if those arms are incredibly strong and he smells like safety and something uniquely him...

“You’re enjoying this,” I accuse, trying to distract myself from the traitorous direction of my thoughts.

“Am I?” He adjusts his grip slightly, and I notice how careful he is not to let the harder edges of his armor dig into my skin. “What gave you that impression?”

“You haven’t stopped almost-smiling since you picked me up.”

“I do not ‘almost-smile.’” But there’s definitely something suspiciously close to amusement in his voice now.

“Right. You’re far too broody and mysterious for anything as pedestrian as smiling.”

“Pedestrian,” he repeats, as if testing the word. “Another human term I do not recognize.”

“It means ordinary. Common. Something beneath the dignity of scary alien warlords.”

“Ah.” We pass under one of the glowing murals, and the shifting light makes his crystalline markings seem to dance. “And what would you consider worthy of a ‘scary alien warlord’s’ dignity?”

The question is clearly teasing, but I find myself considering it seriously. “I don’t know. Conquering star systems? Brooding dramatically in front of windows? Collecting rare minerals?”

“I do not collect minerals,” he says with mock offense. “I utilize them architecturally.”

“Right. Because that’s so much more dignified.”

This time, there’s no mistaking it—his mouth definitely curves upward at the corners. It’s barely there, but it transforms his entire face, making him look younger and infinitely more approachable.

“You have a very strange sense of humor, Suki Vega.”

The way he says my name, combined with that almost-smile, does things to my insides that I really don’t want to analyze too closely.

Before I can form a response, we arrive back at my quarters. The door slides open automatically at his approach—apparently, First Blades don’t need to bother with locks—revealing the room exactly as I left it, complete with my pathetic pillow decoy still arranged under the covers.

He sets me down just inside the doorway, his hands lingering at my waist a moment longer than strictly necessary. Or maybe that’s just my imagination, fueled by oxygen deprivation from being held against an armored chest.

“Your guard will be doubled,” he informs me, stepping back to a more respectable distance. “And the security protocols will be adjusted accordingly.”

“Great,” I mutter, crossing my arms defensively. “More babysitters.”

“A necessary precaution, given your demonstrated talents.” There’s a note in his voice that sounds suspiciously like respect. “Few could have navigated those corridors undetected, let alone accessed the command center.”

Is that... a compliment? From Mr. Broody McWarface himself?

“Yeah, well.” I shrug, trying to appear casual despite the warmth spreading through me at his words. “OOPS couriers have to be resourceful. You’d be surprised how many recipients try to avoid signing for their packages.”

He studies me for a long moment, his expression thoughtful. “I begin to understand why you have survived in such a dangerous profession.”

Definitely a compliment. And one that lands with unexpected weight, warming me from the inside out. I’m used to being underestimated—it’s an advantage in my line of work. Having someone recognize my competence, especially someone like him, feels... good. Too good.

“Don’t get too impressed,” I warn, needing to break the sudden intensity between us. “I still got caught, didn’t I?”

“By me,” he points out, with what might be the faintest hint of pride. “Few intruders have required my personal attention.”

“Lucky me.”

His eyes narrow slightly, as if trying to determine whether I’m being sarcastic. I’m not entirely sure myself.

“Rest,” he commands, stepping back into the corridor. “Tomorrow, as promised, you will see your ship. And your package.”

My head snaps up at that. “Really? You’ll let me see the package?”

“I said you would, did I not?” There’s a hint of offense in his tone, as if the very suggestion that he might break his word is insulting. “My word was given. It remains.”

Something in his tone makes me believe him. Which is either a good sign or evidence that I’m developing some kind of alien warlord-related syndrome.

“Okay then.” I nod slowly, searching his face for any sign of deception and finding none. “Thank you.”

He inclines his head slightly, a gesture that somehow manages to be both formal and intimate. “Sleep well, little courier.”

With that, he turns to leave, the door beginning to slide closed behind him.

“Henrok,” I call, using his correct pronunciation for once.

He pauses, looking back over his shoulder with an expression of mild surprise—whether at my use of his proper name or the fact that I stopped him, I can’t tell.

“Thank you,” I say again, the words feeling more significant than they should. “For not letting the disco spider fry me.”

Something that might almost be a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Disco spider?”

“The security drone,” I explain, gesturing vaguely. “With the lights and the legs and the... you know what, never mind.”

He studies me for another moment, that almost-smile still playing at his lips. “Your species has... creative descriptors.”

“You have no idea.”

The door slides shut between us, leaving me alone with the lingering scent of ozone and minerals, and the phantom sensation of strong arms cradling me against an armored chest.

I press my hands to my face, feeling the heat in my cheeks. This is bad. Very bad. Developing any kind of... feelings... for the alien warlord holding me captive is exactly the kind of complication I don’t need right now.

“Get it together, Vega,” I mutter, moving to sit on the edge of the bed. “He’s just doing his job. And you need to focus on doing yours.”

Tomorrow, I’ll see my ship. And my package. And then, hopefully, I can get off this asteroid and back to my normal life of dodging debt collectors and delivering questionable packages to even more questionable clients.

Simple. Straightforward.

So why does the thought of leaving suddenly feel so complicated?

I flop back on the bed, staring up at the crystalline patterns on the ceiling. They pulse gently, almost like a heartbeat. Almost like the rhythm I felt when pressed against Henrok’s chest.

“Definitely not thinking about that,” I announce to the empty room, rolling over to bury my face in a pillow.

But as I drift toward sleep, my traitor brain replays the sensation of being lifted effortlessly, of garnet eyes studying my face with unexpected intensity, of a deep voice calling me “little courier” with something that sounded almost like affection.

Tomorrow, I remind myself firmly. Tomorrow I focus on escape.

Tonight... well, tonight I’m apparently dreaming of warlords.