After hearing the explanation of the incident, Ve’el thanked the officer for his actions. As he removed the chains from the slaves’ wrists, she assured him that the miscreant non-gifts would be suitably punished. Ramok stepped up to the door, giving the Warrior a generous gratuity. Holsa was making a tsking sound, shaking her finger at Krel. Deron had immediately pulled Wen to the far side of the common room, his rage, incongruously tinged with delight, a palpable aura surrounding both him and his bedslave.

When the door closed, all three non-gifts dropped to their knees.

“Tarvak, Joron,” Ve’el said with stiff command, “I think it best if you retire to your bedchamber.” And keep the Human and the Vulcan out of this! she added with silent, muted fury.

“Yes, my Lady,” Tarvak replied both aloud and in her mind. He carefully put his lythyr away, motioning Joron to do the same.

You not jus’ gonna let her…! DelMonde began heatedly.

It’s none of our affair, Joron said, but his tone was quietly resigned.

I cannot allow this indecency… Spock said.

Leave it, Tarvak returned. There is nothing to be done.

The hell there not! Del rumbled.

If we attempt to interfere, it will only make their punishment worse, Tarvak pointed out.

Fuck that! I fry their damned gifted brains!

Joron, confine him.

Oh, hell no, no you don’t, you goddamned, point-eared…!

Joron drew upon all his isti’it-enhanced strength to force the Human into isolation.

Tarvak, you surely cannot condone… Spock said, attempting to reason with the Romulan.

Whether I do or not, I cannot change what is.

They are sentient beings, Tarvak.

They are at best misbehaving children. They must be disciplined.

One does not have to be Dei’lrn to feel what is about to transpire here, Spock tried desperately.

Yes, the Romulan conceded hesitantly. But as I have said, there is nothing we can do. We have no authority here. This is Ve’el’s home and her slave and…

Tarvak, that is our friend’s body! He is imprisoned there and whether or not Lahs would find it acceptable…

Enough! Tarvak shouted, and used his greater telepathic power to shut the Vulcan behind impenetrable walls. Come, Joron, he said, and joined his fingers to his beloved as they obeyed their Lady’s command.

Communion will help shield us from… Joron began gently once the door to their bedroom was firmly closed and locked.

Yes, beloved, it will, Tarvak agreed, and as his Bonded moved into his arms, he firmly put away sympathy and regret – and understanding.

“As much as I hate to put an early end to our pleasant evening,” Ve’el said cordially to her guests. “I think we should each discipline our slaves individually. Together, they will only be tempted to lie and cover for each other.”

“True.” Lord Ramok took a painful twisting grip on his kneeling slave’s ear. “And I already have so much to punish, don’t I, Krel?”

“Master!” the pale-haired slave gasped, tears of pain coming to his eyes.

“Thank you for having us, dear,” Holsa said giving Ve’el a polite embrace. “Perhaps we’ll see you again, soon?”

“No doubt,” Ve’el replied warmly. “My husbands and I are fortunate indeed to have found such friends in Kol-ran.”

“Beg our hostess’ forgiveness.” The Legate pushed his slave roughly forward.

The creature prostrated himself before Ve’el. “Please forgive me for disrupting your household,” Krel mumbled, pressing his lips to the tips of her shoes.

“Come, Deron.” Ramok gave his command to rise to his slave in the form of a swift kick to his backside. “I know you’ll be anxious to return to your quarters to see to your slave. You may share our car.”

The Centurion narrowed his eyes. “You’re too kind, Brother-in-Law,” he replied, guiding his non-gift forward with a firm grasp on its shapely ear.

“Forgive my disruptive behavior,” Wen begged in voice that choked back sobs, dropping to his hands and knees to also kiss Ve’el’s feet.

“I hope we may have the pleasure of your company again, soon, Centurion,” the lady said, ignoring the slave.

“The pleasure,” Deron replied, pulling his servant up by the ear, “will all be mine.”

Ramok snorted and quickly disguised it as a cough.

“Lahs.” Ve’el commanded.

The non-gift swallowed hard, then went to Lady Holsa on his hands and knees. “Please forgive my shameful behavior,” he said, pressing his lips to the highest ranking female’s shoe. Getting no response and expecting none, he moved on to her husband’s boots. The Legate stared down at him, contempt souring his patrician features.

“Please forgive my shameful behavior,” the non-gift repeated.

The Legate acknowledged his apology by shoving him away with his foot. When Lahs turned to crawl to his Mistress' last guest, the Romulan sped him on his way with a firm, reprimanding kick.

The final apology was the most difficult to deliver. “Please forgive…” he began to the Centurion’s boot-tips in a choked voice.

“It’s not my forgiveness you need to worry about,” Deron said, pulling his foot away as if he were specially gifted like Second Master and could not stand to be soiled by the touch of a slave. Then, imitating his kinsman, the Centurion used his foot to turn Lahs back in the direction of his mistress and propel him towards her with a disdainful kick to the non-gift’s backside.

“The slaves too,” Ve’el ordered, before her servant reached her side.

Lahs crawled miserably to Krel. “Please forgive…” he began.

Despite the fact that he was in equally dire straights, the pale-haired slave insolently turned his foot up so that Lahs would have to kiss the dirty soles of his soft boots.

“…my misbehavior,” the non-gift finished, brushing his lips against hard sole of one boot without hesitation or complaint – both of which would be equally useless. Krel was a bully. Like all bullies, he was a coward underneath. He might be full of bluster when surrounded by their displeased masters and mistresses, but under Lahs’ fists, he hadn’t been so brave…

Lahs made himself not think of what it had been like to fight with Krel in the street – how strangely exhilarating it had felt…. How right…

He crawled to his final stop. This time the last was the easiest. “Please forgive my shameful behavior,” he begged the sandaled toes of the beautiful boy, wishing he could be allowed to say much, much more to ease his great feelings of guilt for his behavior this evening.

The Centurion caught his bedslave’s wrist before he could touch Lahs’ head. “We must be going,” he said, guiding the boy to the door with a firm grip on the back of his neck. “It’s going to be some time before any of us gets to sleep tonight.”

“Some longer than others,” Ramok muttered behind his brother-in-law’s back. “Goodnight, dear Ve’el. I will set up an appointment for you at the training institute tomorrow afternoon.”

“Thank you so much, Legate.”

As Lahs closed the door behind his mistress’ guests, he could see Ramok deliver a sharp cuff to his slave’s head. He paused for a moment holding the door shut, dreading to face his mistress. A few seconds was all he could delay, though, before he had to turn.

She was standing with her hands on her hips, regarding him icy displeasure.

A part of him wished that he could simply go to her – to take her in his arms and murmur soft words in her ear so that she would know he was truly sorry… that there was no other woman he cared for nearly so much…

Lahs shook himself and sank properly to his knees. What an insanely ridiculous thought! What did his mistress think of who he cared for? Who was he to dare to have such feelings for her? “Mistress…”

“Silence.” Her voice was like a knife. She turned on her heel and headed for her bed chamber. “Summon the cooks to clear the table, then report to me.”

He obeyed quickly, not letting himself anticipate the dreadful punishment he would soon be receiving. Why had he done such an unthinkable thing? To be put under arrest by a guardsman and hauled through the streets in chains…. The only other time Lahs had been in chains was when he was put to market… and those had been primarily decorative. He must be losing his mind…. He couldn’t even concentrate on the number patterns of the glasses he collected as he waited to admit the apartment staff through the butler’s door.

The most awful thing about the brawl was how… good it had felt. Once he had lost himself into mindless rage, it had felt very pleasant to beat Krel’s brutish face with his fists. Although bigger and taller, Krel wasn’t a good fighter. Lahs had been surprised at how easy fighting was. If the shopkeeper and Wen hadn’t kept pulling him back, he could have flipped Krel the way Second Master had done to the gladiator. Krel, he thought again, was just a bully. And if there was one thing he’d learned about bullies, it was that you had to show them you weren’t afraid.

Lahs stopped stock still in the middle of the room. He’d never learned anything like that at all. What he had learned was that fighting was forbidden for slaves. Brawling boys could accidentally damage one another and ruin their market value. “No fighting” had always been the rule.

Of course fighting was against the rules, another part of his mind argued, but it was tacitly accepted as part of the game. Being fast wasn’t enough. You had to show the other players that you weren’t afraid to throw an elbow or you’d wind up getting smeared along the wall. Ice hockey wasn’t a game for timid rabbits or babies…

Ice hockey? Lahs blinked at the alien thought. What was ice hockey? What were rabbits?

The chime rang at the butler’s entrance. He hastened to admit the cleaning staff and give them a few quick, deferential instructions.

His heart thudded painfully as he turned back towards his mistress’ door. If only she’d let him kiss her gently and explain to her…. Lahs closed his eyes. Why was he having these insane thoughts? It must be the dread of the beating he was about to receive that was driving him mad. He drew in a deep breath and made his rebellious, crazy mind as blank as possible as his feet followed the path of his mistress into her bedchamber.

“Close the door, Lahs.” She didn’t even turn from her dressing table.

That was not a good sign. It was dangerous to provoke one’s owner into a wild rage. However such outbursts were like storms that were frightening but usually blew over quickly. The worst punishments were born of calm, cold fury.

“In my closet, near the back…” she instructed. Her voice could not possibly have been more icy or controlled.

Lahs swallowed hard. “Yes, Mistress.”

The wide belts Lady Ve’el used to cinch in her already small waist hung in a neat row in her ample closet. Lahs chose two of the most sturdy. Choosing a flimsy one would only earn him extra lashes. The second belt was narrower and had decorative holes punched in it. It would probably sting worse.

She was waiting for him near the foot of her bed, unsmiling and cold. She had changed into a comfortable dressing gown. She looked beautiful, regal – like a queen standing in judgment over a condemned prisoner.

Lahs reverently knelt down and held the potential instruments of correction out for her evaluation.

She chose the second one. “Drape it there,” she said, pointing to the bed.

“Yes, Mistress,” he murmured, moving to obey. He laid the chosen instrument of correction out neatly and put the other aside. It had been a long time since he had earned a whipping from his owner. He thought he had outgrown such shameful behavior, but… With his first mistress beatings and other more exotic punishments had been a familiar routine. He tried to let himself fall into the numbing ritual of discipline that he had once been so accustomed to. However it was hard to remain detached when kneeling beside the place where his mistress slept every night…

The Lady put one hand on his neck. “You’ve been aspiring to my bed, haven’t you, Lahs?”

The non-gift squeezed his eyes closed and willed his brain into respectful silence. He could not dispute this. His mistress knew his thoughts, even those that he didn’t dare admit to himself…

“Well,” she said, running her thumb down the back of his ear. “You’re going to be spending quite some time stretched across it tonight.”

He cried out involuntarily as she suddenly clamped down with her forefinger and cruelly twisted it between her fingers.

“You sound dismayed, Lahs,” she said, continuing to hold him in a painful pinch. “ I thought you’d decided you liked being punished…”

His face burned with shame at memory of his last, too-recent chastisement at her hands and how he had brazenly daydreamed about it all morning as if it had been a reward. “Mistress…” he implored remorsefully.

“Don’t speak.” She released his ear disdainfully. “No pleas. No tears. No apologies. I’ll have enough of that during your whipping, won’t I?”

He made his mind go very blank. When one’s mistress was in this sort of a rage, it was unwise even to anticipate how dreadful a punishment she was contemplating meting out.

“In fact,” Ve’el continued with a vicious calm, “I expect you to be very vocal.”

Lahs moved his chin out of her way when she reached down and unfastened his collar.

“Very vocal and very responsive,” she elaborated, unhooking the shoulder seam of his tunic. “Very vigorously responsive…” Ve’el paused and took him by the jaw, tilting his face up to hers. “I can’t tell you how disappointed I’ll be if I get less squirming and gasping from you than the Centurion’s bedslave did…”

Lahs squeezed his eyes closed, unable to look at her, unable to bear his shame. Why had he done such an irresponsible, reprehensible thing as he had done with that young boy? It didn’t make any difference that Wen’s master was Warrior-Set. He should have had more restraint than to have been drawn into such a sordid mess.

The non-gift opened his eyes in time to see his mistress’ face flicker for a moment.

“Take down my hair, Lahs,” she ordered, abruptly stepping back and releasing him. “You won’t be good for much after your beating.”

The non-gift struggled to his feet.

His mistress’ face darkened with fury. “Did you hear me, Lahs?”

He nodded.

“Then why don’t you properly acknowledge my order?”

“You instructed me not to speak, Mistress,” he explained carefully and apologetically.

His mistress struck him across the face with a blow that cruelly stung his already bruised cheek.

“You are right, Lahs,” she congratulated him with a malicious smile. “I did. Didn’t I?”

The non-gift opened his mouth helplessly. He was under simultaneous instructions not to speak and to verbally acknowledge her order. What could he do? What could he do?

Be brave, the crazy part of his brain advised. Endure and survive.

“Yes, Mistress,” Lahs acknowledged, bracing for her blow.

The slap was hard enough to make his eyes water. The insane portion of his brain had been right though. Enduring stoically was the correct option. What, he wondered silently, was a ‘stalingrad’?

“You’ll sleep on the bathroom floor tonight,” she instructed coldly, seating herself at her dressing table as he move to stand behind her and began to unpin her hair. “I won’t be kept awake by your moaning and groaning.”

“Yes, Mistress,” Lahs forced himself to answer. Numbness made his voice very small.

Her eyes in the mirror told him he’d receive his punishment for this obedient disobedience later.

“And if your whimpering wakes me up from there, you’ll collect new stripes across your backside until you learn to sleep soundly,” she continued peevishly.

“Yes, Mistress.”

“And I’ll expect you to be awake two hours before sunrise scrubbing the floors in the main room and polishing the furniture.”

He brushed out her shining coppery locks. Why did she have to be so beautiful? Why did the insane part of his brain insist on noticing this fact when it could cause him nothing but trouble? “Yes, Mistress.”

“And when I see your face at my breakfast table, I expect it to be the bright, cheerful face of a slave who knows he has been very wayward, disobedient, and badly behaved,” she said, looking up at him in the mirror as she handed him a small hairband. “And who is grateful for having been fittingly punished by a caring owner who as been far too lenient for far too long.”

Again her words contained mixed messages. In part she told him to present a face as blissful as it had been that morning – it seemed a lifetime ago now. In part it was clear he was to be a properly chastised, cringing slave. At a loss to know what would please her, he simply murmured, “Yes, Mistress” as he bound her hair back into a loose bun. It would not do for it to get into her face while she was administering correction.

The two of them fell silent as he worked. His thoughts turned miserably to what she had said about him to her guests after dinner.

“Will I sell you?” she asked, speaking his question aloud. Ve’el stood and turned to face him. Tilting her head back imperiously, she gave him a critical once over with her eyes. “Why shouldn’t I?”

The non-gift hung his head. “I don’t know, Mistress.”

“Do you wonder because you wish to be sold?” she asked, jerking his chin up. “Perhaps your new found love of fighting makes you’d think like to be a use-boy at the gladiator’s school?”

“No, Mistress,” he replied, horrified.

“Or perhaps you’d like to be Centurion Deron’s slave?”

“No, Mistress,” he begged even more fervently. “Please…”

“No pleading, Lahs,” she reminded him. “Save your pleas for when you are savoring the warm caress of the belt.”

His skin was already beginning to crawl at the remembered sensations from past beatings. “Yes, Mistress.”

“I thought I told you to be silent,” she said, slapping him again.

He raised his chin and set his jaw to endure once more. “Yes, Mistress.”

The lady rewarded him with another hard smack across his throbbing face.

He blinked back the tears that pain brought to his eyes and stood silently waiting her next command. Parade attention, his brain supplied. Don’t think. Don’t breathe. Don’t blink. You’re at attention. Focus on that..

She regarded him silently for a moment. “You are worthless.”

“Yes, Mistress,” he confirmed quietly.

She stroked his hair back from his face. “But I may keep you. If you behave properly…”

“I will, Mistress,” he promised, gingerly grasping this thin whisper of clemency.

A very strange, serious expression crossed her face. “If I go to gather information on the Terrans and must live among them… You may be of use to me. More use than this stubborn, impudent thing inside me.”

Lahs blinked at her. He’d never heard his mistress say such a strange thing…

“You have knowledge that could be of great help to me.” She ran two fingers over each of his temples. “If I can find a way to access it… You would like to be of help to your Mistress, wouldn’t you, Lahs?”

“Yes, Mistress,” he agreed slowly, having no understanding of her meaning.

“You may turn out to be of help to the Empire as well, my little Lahs.” Ve’el smiled an odd smile. “Perhaps a great help….”

“How, Mistress?”

“By being my loyal, obedient, submissive slave.” Ve’el let one of her hands slip down to the big vein in his neck. “…In every part of your mind… For the rest of your life…. However long – or short – that may be.”

He swallowed, understanding only that she thought his life might be short.

“Now,” she said, abruptly releasing him and stepping back. “I’m sure you’re eager to start your punishment. Position yourself on the bed.”

He knelt and stretched himself out across the silky coverlet. Cool air hit his bared flesh as his Mistress methodically stripped the clothing from his back and thighs. As a final step, she pulled his head back by the hair and thrust the doubled belt before his lips.

“I am your slave, Mistress,” he recited, kissing the leather docilely. Endure. Survive. “Grateful for your corrective chastisement. Please punish me thoroughly for each offence I have committed until you are satisfied I have learned my lesson and will never again disregard your dominion over me or besmirch your good name.”

“Very good, Lahs,” she said, withdrawing the belt and raising it high above her head. “Now, let’s see how high you can count….”

Twenty-one. Twenty-two. Twenty-three…

Beloved, STOP!

Joron turned in his Bonded’s arms, immediately contrite. Forgive me, my husband, the younger Romulan apologized, but it’s so loud... the emotions are so… He shuddered, drawing in a ragged breath. If I’m to keep the Human confined, I can’t spare the strength to…

Then I will have to distract you. Tarvak’s voice was harsh, almost angry, and his Dei’lrn could feel the pressure the Vulcan was exerting on his Bonded.

Perhaps we should remind Ve’el of…

She wouldn’t listen. If we interfere, it will only get worse.

She feeds the non-gift passion with the beating, Joron said uneasily.

Her prerogative, my Bonded.

But it’s so…depraved…it feels sordid, Tarvak, too much like a…

Enough! You will attend me NOW!

The younger Romulan gasped as Tarvak grabbed him, pulling him brutally beneath his new, younger, stronger body. The surge of desire that flooded the Dei’lrn was overwhelming, powerfully demanding. It reminded him of their first joining. The savagery of the day’s battle had enflamed his then-commander to a fever-pitch and Tarvak had taken the young warrior with blind, rutting passion. The ferocity of that act had never been duplicated, not even at their Bonding. Tarvak had from that point on been a tender partner, insistent, yes, but not coarse, not dominating, though Joron would not have spurned such dominance.

Now, violence filled the older man, rapacious hunger driving him to establish total control over his Bonded. With sudden alarm, Joron realized that most of the fury came not from Tarvak, not even from the emanations from Ve’el’s room, but from the too-long constrained mind of the Vulcan. All Romulans were aware of the aberration the Vulcans called pon farr, and the rumors about it had declared it a time of madness and aggression, but Joron himself had no idea what its symptoms would be. How would he be able to tell if this Vulcan body were going mad?

ATTEND ME! Tarvak roared, and Joron gave himself up to his Bonded’s need.

Once in their conveyance, Ramok turned to Holsa. “Allow me to discipline your slave for you, my Lady-wife,” he said, but his tone made it clear it was not a request.

“Krel’s a good boy,” Holsa said with a hesitant, fond smile at her non-gift, who was on his knees on the car’s decking.

“Good? He was the cause of this unpleasantness.”

“Well…” Holsa vacillated.

Ramok glared down at the creature. “Weren’t you, Krel.”

“Lady Ve’el’s slave attacked me,” the non-gift replied sullenly.

The Legate reached down, slapping him. “And what did you do to provoke it, animal?”

“Master, I did nothing,” Krel answered immediately. “It is true, I inadvertently dropped a pastry, and the shopkeeper thought Lahs was trying to…”

“I know your thoughts, beast!” Ramok thundered with another sharp slap.

“Ramok, I’m sure Krel understands his error…” Holsa put in tentatively.

“You coddle him, my Lady,” Ramok seethed. “He counts on that to escape much deserved punishment. But not this time. He disgraced us before very promising candidates for the training. If they were to turn us down because of it…”

“But, my husband…”

“With all due respect, wife, this is a dishonor we cannot afford.”

Holsa sighed, “Oh, very well.” She turned in the car, staring out the window.

“Brother-In-Law, how will you punish it?” Deron asked. He had kept a tight grip on the back of Wen’s neck, forcing its head forward as the slave knelt at his feet, the beautiful face hidden by the fall of dark hair.

“Is it any of your concern?” Ramok returned tightly.

“I only ask so that I might follow your excellent instruction,” Deron replied, his ingratiating tone colored with an ugly delight.

Ramok stared at him for a moment, then said evenly, “I will beat it within an inch of its life. I will bind it in the yard and allow the flies to feast on its wounds.” Krel gasped and Ramok kicked him. “Does this instruct you, Deron?”

“It seems far too crude,” the Centurion confessed, and Wen whimpered.

Now we come to it, Ramok thought. He had offered this convenience to Deron for precisely this reason. If he could but get the degenerate to admit something incriminating – and in front of his sister…

“Have you a more – inventive idea, my Brother-In-Law?” Ramok asked, keeping his voice cool, but allowing a spark of interest to come into his eyes.

“In fact, Brother-In-Law, I do.” He leaned forward, his grip on Wen’s neck tightening even more. “My boy likes to indulge himself with other slaves,” he confided, “A minor flaw, but one I have, upon occasion, used to my advantage. I did so this afternoon, before you and my sister arrived. I believe it worked to our advantage, as it made the Lady Ve’el more receptive to offers that might allow her slave and Wen to have more time together.”

Ramok kept his indignation inside him. Was Deron actually accusing the Lady Ve’el of having the same perversion he did?

“The only fly in this particular ointment is that Wen likes his partners to be good-looking – possibly because he is so incomparably beautiful himself.” Deron chuckled. “If he were forced to service an unattractive slave, he would find it – “ he paused, licking his lips. “ – an exquisite humiliation. Fitting punishment for brawling in the streets like a common animal.”

“And Krel is particularly unappealing,” Ramon commented, with another kick to the non-gift’s side.

“The question is, my Brother-In-Law, would my sister’s slave find it equally humiliating?”

Ramok frowned. The idea did have merit as a way of teaching a slave to be humble. And Krel was far too arrogant – a result of Holsa’s leniency. If the creature were forced to be the submissive in the encounter, it would be most effective. But he knew that Deron was not suggesting this for purely disciplinary reasons. The man would, Ramok was certain, take great personal pleasure in the disgusting ruttings between the two non-gifts.

Yet there was nothing in it that could prove corruption.

Ramok kept his disdainful sigh to himself. Deron was far too clever for such a simple trap. It occurred to the Legate that he should have remembered that about the no-longer-young Warrior. It was, after all, one of the things that had attracted him in the first place, all those years ago.

“I have a better idea,” he said at last. “Let us combine the punishments. I will order Krel to serve your pretty boy for a set number of hours, then they will both be beaten. Is that fair, Deron?”

The Centurion smiled. “Eminently, Legate.”

If he could feel the pounding of blood through Wen’s veins, he ignored it.

Restrictions! Joron shrieked breathlessly. Tarvak was on top of him, pushing his Bonded’s knees up to his chest. It wasn’t that Joron objected, specifically. But the Human within him was screaming with hatred and loathing and he feared for what might happen to Tarvak’s mind when DelMonde was again in control of his own body.

Fuck that, Tarvak growled in precise and mocking derision of the Human’s stock phrasing.

NO! the Vulcan commanded and Tarvak’s body was flung away as if by some unseen hand. The emotions pummeled at Joron’s sanity as he felt his Bonded grappling with the powerful mind of his host. He felt the Vulcan’s realization of how his own rage had precipitated this precarious situation, felt, too, the horrified urgent apologies Spock tendered. He felt Tarvak’s own comprehension, the sickened fear that he might very well have seriously injured the Human’s fragile body and in doing so, damaged his beloved. He felt his Bonded’s anger, that the Vulcan’s concern for the non-gift had engendered such fury, and Tarvak’s disdain for the weakness – weakness that was growing too apparent within his own thoughts. The Vulcan wisely did not debate this assertion, but Joron knew the matter was far from settled.

When Tarvak had calmed, and returned to the bed with trembling, apologetic kisses and embraces, Joron held him, soothing his temples, giving his Bonded the adoration and devotion that would ease his troubled mind. Faintly he heard the Vulcan apologizing to him and ignored it.

But he couldn’t ignore the whisper in his own mind.

I owe you one.

Nor did he want to.

Del! Pelori MacEntyre burst into the Warrior Bond’s bedroom.

Joron felt himself pushed hastily out of the way as he was torn from the arms of his beloved.

What happen? Del put his arms around the lieutenant.

MacEntyre’s grey eyes were wide and tear-filled. She beat the hell out of him, she confessed. I didn’t know. I didn’t know…

Does he require medical attention? Spock asked grimly, rising from the bed.

I…don’t… MacEntyre struggled to regain control over her empathic reactions. I came to standing over him… His whole back is…I was holding a…. I don’t know how long she’d been beating him…He’s… He’s… She makes him… like it… I… I…

Calm down, girl, Del soothed. It gonna be all right. We go check on him.

The half-Indiian shook her head violently. Not you.

Lahs has a somewhat strained relationship with Second Master, Spock explained briefly. It will be best if I… if Tarvak goes to ascertain his condition.

MacEntyre nodded, struggling to get her breath. He’s on the floor in the bathroom. Tell him he has permission to go to his bed.

Yes.

The lieutenant reached out and put a hand on the Vulcan’s arm. There’s medicine… She sent him a mental picture of the location of the drugs she had secreted in Ve’el’s room. … if he needs them.

Understood, Spock removed her hand and exited.

Oh, Aema… MacEntyre put her head against Del’s chest. What have I done?

The engineer kissed the top of her head. It not you, girl.

She released a long shuddering sigh and looked up at him. Still have that bottle of ale under your bed?

He grinned at her. You t’ink you needin’ a drink?

She nodded. Like you wouldn’t believe.

C’mon, then, he said putting an arm around her shoulders. But you best remember, I not sleep wit’ no drunks.

Go To Part Fourteen
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