“The replicator is calibrated for optimal nutrition and—”
“Dessert menu,” I command, cutting him off. “I want a triple-layer Morcrestian lava cake with extra molten center and... sparklers.”
Wi’kar’s posture somehow becomes even more rigid. “The replicator is not designed for—”
The machine whirs, clearly struggling with my request. What emerges is a misshapen, bubbling monstrosity that looks like it might achieve sentience and file a complaint.
“Perfect,” I declare, grabbing it. The “cake” wobbles dangerously, molten center threatening to escape. I take an aggressive bite, making sure to let some of the molten filling drip onto his pristine floor while maintaining direct eye contact.
It tastes like burnt plastic and regret, but the way Wi’kar’s pupils dilate slightly as he watches my lips makes every terrible bite worth it.
His scent glands flare again, more intensely this time. The air fills with something that smells like citrus and barely controlled panic.
“Princess Dominique—”
“Just Dominique,” I correct, licking molten filling off my finger with deliberate slowness. “I’ve renounced my title. Along with the arranged marriage, the political machinations, and the entire concept of being property rather than a person.”
Something flickers across his features—quick as lightning, but I catch it. Not quite sympathy, but recognition. Understanding. It’s gone before I can analyze it, but it was there.
“Very well... Dominique,” he says, my name sounding strangely intimate in his precise diction. Like he’s tasting it. “We must discuss the Consular Bonding Clause.”
I abandon the revolting cake, appetite gone. “Right. The archaic piece of legal garbage that’s apparently married me to you.” I gesture between us with exaggerated movements. “This should be entertaining.”
“The situation is not ‘entertaining,’” he responds, completely missing my sarcasm. “It is unprecedented and highly problematic.”
“No kidding, Agent Obvious.” I drop onto the edge of his perfectly made bed, deliberately wrinkling the covers. The way his eye twitches at the disturbance makes me want to mess up everything in this sterile space. “So explain it to me. What exactly does this bonding clause mean? And please use smallwords—my delicate princess brain might not be able to handle your superior intellect.”
Wi’kar straightens, slipping into what I imagine is his briefing mode. But instead of launching into a lecture, he moves closer—close enough that I catch his clean, precise scent with that indefinable something underneath.
“The Consular Bonding Clause,” he says, his voice taking on that careful quality I’m learning means he’s fighting for control, “was established three centuries ago to prevent diplomatic kidnappings.” His eyes meet mine, and there’s something almost vulnerable in his expression. “Any royal who came into physical contact with a diplomatic envoy during transit would be legally bound to that envoy, creating an immediate alliance.”
“So it’s an anti-kidnapping measure that... forces marriage?” I laugh, but it comes out breathier than intended. “Brilliant solution. Really thought that one through, didn’t they?”
“It is not precisely marriage in the human sense,” Wi’kar clarifies, and there’s something in his tone—almost relief?—that makes me study his face more carefully. “It is a diplomatic bond with specific legal protections and obligations.”
“Like what?” I lean forward, and his eyes drop briefly to where the oversized shipsuit gapes at my neckline before snapping back to my face. Interesting.
“The bonded envoy becomes a legal representative of the royal house.” His voice has gone rougher around the edges. “They gain diplomatic immunity within Human Concord territories. They cannot be compelled to surrender their bonded royal to any third party.” He pauses, and I swear the air grows thicker. “And the bond cannot be dissolved without mutual consent of both parties, confirmed before a Concord High Judiciary.”
I process this, the implications slowly dawning. “So what you’re saying is... I’m stuck with you until we both agree to end it?”
“That is correct.”
“And my previous engagement to Prince Dante is...”
“Legally superseded.” The way he says it—with just a hint of satisfaction—makes something warm unfurl in my chest.
A laugh bubbles up—half hysterical, half genuinely delighted. “You mean I escaped one unwanted shackle just to be legally duct-taped to you? The universe has a sick sense of humor!”
Wi’kar’s expression doesn’t change, but the temperature in the room seems to drop. His scent shifts to something sharper, more defensive.
“I assure you, this situation is equally undesirable from my perspective,” he says stiffly.
The words sting more than they should. I stand and begin pacing, partly from nervous energy and partly because I notice how his eyes track my movement despite his apparent distaste for our situation.
“So what now? Turn me in, force an annulment, back to square one? Or do you just drop me somewhere hostile and pretend this never happened?”
“Neither option is viable.” Wi’kar’s voice has gone rougher, and when I glance at him, there’s something almost pained in his expression. “The first would likely result in your return to coercive circumstances. The second would constitute abandonment of a bonded royal, which carries severe penalties under both Human Concord law and OOPS regulations.”
