“Lahs.” Pelori patted the sleeping slave’s forehead so she could avoid the livid bruise on his cheek. “You need to wake up.””

The non-gift’s gentle brown eyes fluttered open. “Mistress?”

“The escort is here to take us to the training center,” she informed him, trying to achieve an appropriately Ve’el-like tone that wasn’t threatening or harsh. “You must come with us. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Mistress.” The slave groaned behind tightly closed lips as attempting to move reawakened the discomfort of his bruises.

“I’ve selected an outfit for you.” MacEntyre rose from where she had been sitting on the side of the cot to cover her less than appropriately disinterested reaction. “Get up and put it on.”

“Yes, Mistress.” The slave did his best to try to cover his pain and stiffness. “Thank you, Mistress.”

She took a step backwards and looked away as Lahs, with the absence of hesitation or modesty appropriate to a slave of his class, rose, stripped off his undergarment and began to dress. The simmering sexual tension between slave and mistress that would have made such quick obedience difficult for him seemed to have faded… at least for the moment.

He’s just boring old Lahs again.

MacEntyre narrowed her eyes at Ve’el’s voice in her head. No thanks to you.

He does still have a fine body, though, the Romulan said, turning their eyes in the direction of the half-clad slave.

After what you did to that body…

What I did? Ve’el snorted. My dear child, unless I very much miss my guess, Ramok and Deron’s slaves would feel lucky to be in this condition this morning.

“Mistress….” Lahs suddenly stopped in the middle of fastening up the side seam of his yellow tunic. “The floors… I was to have….”

“It’s all right, Lahs,” Pelori/Ve’el comforted quickly. “You did as you were ordered and got up to clean the floor. You became ill, though.”

“Mistress,” he said, his round innocent eyes full of concern. “I believe I may have a terrible spacesickness. My thoughts have been so odd…”

“It’s all right, Lahs.” Pelori/Ve’el gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “I have given you some medicine. You should be feeling better. You do feel a little calmer now, do you not?”

“Yes, Mistress,” he nodded as he checked his own reactions. “Much calmer. Thank you, Mistress. I am sorry to have been such trouble to you.”

“It’s all right now, Lahs,” she repeated firmly once more, reaching out to fasten his collar. “However if you should begin to feel odd again, you must tell me.”

“Yes, Mistress,” her slave replied dutifully.

“On second thought…” Pelori amended, feeling the lurking presence of Ve’el. “You should inform First Master. He knows where I keep my medicine if you need some immediately or he will bring the matter to my attention later if I am too busy to be troubled.”

“Yes, Mistress.” The slave’s eyes began to brim a little at the thought of the senior husband. “First Master has been so very kind to me. He is as generous and considerate as he as wise and honorable. He is truly worthy of you, Mistress.”

The touch of artifacing in the slave’s praise of the Romulan/Vulcan made Pelori sigh. “We’ve no time to stand about listening to your prattle all day,” Ve’el said, quickly stepping into the gap. “Fetch my bag and summon the apartment staff so they can clean while we’re gone.”

“Yes, Mistress.” Despite his stiffness the slave snapped to attention and hurried to fulfill his mistress’ orders.

Pelori MacEntyre rolled her eyes as she followed him. Here we go again.

“You are Tarvak of Merad, late of the Fifth Cohort of the Gariq Legion, under the command of Legate Merat,” the Telanate Praefect asked.

Sitting at the examiner’s table, Tarvak could feel the telepathic scan and immediately dropped all the shields it would be proper to. The Vulcan was sequestered behind the deepest walls of privacy, and unless Tarvak blundered badly, there would be no reason for the officer to probe that deeply.

“Yes.”

“And you desire to continue your service to the Empire, even in your retirement?”

“Always.”

“Does the restlessness of your young Bonded propel this desire?”

“It contributes, Praefect, but is not the genesis.”

He felt the scan searching his emotions, and was pleased when it retreated slightly, satisfied with the truth of his statement.

“You are aware of the nature of the service you seek?” the officer asked.

“I would be required to impersonate a lesser being – to perfection – in order to infiltrate whatever Federation outpost contained information the Empire required.,” Tarvak responded, letting patriotic fervor rise in him, combating the distaste any Romulan would feel at such an masquerade.

The examiner nodded, a slight smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. “You have quite a precise mind, Tarvak,” he commented. “Your record shows you fought in many campaigns against the Federation.”

“I was a military strategist under Legate Merat for many years,” Tarvak permitted himself to admit.

“And a successful one.”

Tarvak felt another quick, deeper scan, and surrounded his thoughts with an almost smug assurance, certain even the Telanate would find nothing either untoward or troubling in his psyche.

“You have strength of purpose, and surety of skill,” the Praefect said, withdrawing completely from Tarvak’s mind. “If your Bonded is deemed likewise, the Telanate will be pleased to accept you as a candidate for training.”

Tarvak smiled. “I am most grateful, Praefect. Glory to the Empire.”

“Glory to the Empire,” the officer returned with a approving nod.

“You were discharged after serious injury in your last campaign,” the examiner said to Joron.

“Yes,” Joron replied with a hint of a frown. “I wanted to continue my service, but the healers decided I would need too much recovery time. It would not have been a productive use of military resources, and so I was discharged to recuperate in a private, civilian facility.”

The scan of the officer who faced him across the small table went deeper, and Joron didn’t try to hide the regret and disappointment.

“Fortunate your Bonded is a man of wealth,” the examiner remarked.

It was designed, Joron knew, to reveal any envy or avarice within him, and he almost laughed. Tarvak’s wealth had never meant anything to him – indeed, he hadn’t known of it until after they had agreed to become Bonded. Not that he hadn’t been grateful for it when his medical care turned out to be so expensive, nor did he attempt to hide how much pleasure he got from the material possessions his Bonded always showered him with. But that pleasure would have been as great if Tarvak had been barely a pauper, and could only provide him with bread and bare scraps of meat. It was the love which inspired his Bonded’s generosity that filled Joron with joy – that and how pleased Tarvak was when his youth and striking features – and even his vanity – were shown to best advantage.

The officer nodded, apparently satisfied. “And if you are found fit for this renewed service, what do you propose to bring that would be of unique value?”

Joron smiled. “If I may, Warrior?” he asked, and rose from his seat. Intrigued, the Telanate office also rose. “Come at me,” Joron said, both request and instruction, “as if you mean to engage in deadly battle.”

The officer’s eyebrows lowered quizzically, and Joron felt him closing his mind to the gifts inherent in a Dei’lrn. It made Joron chuckle. The Telanate suspected some empath’s trick, and wanted to show him that such could be defended against, and so, while certainly unique, would not necessarily be of value. Del, he whispered softly in his mind, knowing that even if it were overheard, it would be interpreted as the first syllable of the word that described his empathic talent – and would further convince the officer that such was his intent.

When the Warrior rushed him without warning, Joron retreated enough to allow his Human host’s reflexes to take over. As had happened in the games, the Warrior was flipped onto his back with little effort. There was wonder and true regard in the Telanate’s eyes when he slowly rose and retook his seat.

“Most impressive,” he said. “Can this be taught?”

“Easily, sir,” Joron replied, also sitting back down. “It is a simple matter of leverage and bracing.”

“Excellent,” the officer responded. “I think, Joron of Bo’rah, that there will be a definite place for you in our facility.”

Lahs knelt on the floor before the Prefect’s desk, trying not to tremble. Although his Mistress had told him this interview was for the military jobs she, First, and Second Masters wanted, the non-gift couldn’t stop thinking the guardsmen were going to give him a further punishment for brawling in the streets with Lady Holsa’s slave.

The Prefect had risen from his desk and walked around Lahs in a slow circle. “So, you like to fight?” he said, sounding amused.

Lahs kept his eyes on the floor. “No, Master.”

The Telanate officer reached down and tilted the non-gift’s head up. The look in his eyes was sufficient to let Lahs know that the Prefect knew his thoughts.

“It was somewhat pleasant,” the slave admitted. “But only briefly.”

“Mmm.” The Prefect ran a thumb down the non-gift’s bruised cheek. “Very briefly.”

“Yes, Master.” Lahs returned his gaze properly to the floor.

The Telanate officer continued to walk around him. “Are you an obedient boy?”

“Yes, Master.”

The Prefect leaned back against his desk and crossed his arms. “Sit in that chair.”

Lahs looked up to make sure that he had heard correctly. “That chair, Master?” he asked, pointing to the seat opposite the desk. He didn’t wished to be punished for being slow to obey, but the command was so unusual.

The Prefect’s eyebrows lowered.

The slave hastened to comply without further delay. He sat down gingerly in the seat meant for a true Romulan. The upholstered cushion was soft, but if felt terribly odd to be looking at the room from an owner’s perspective.

The officer walked around behind the desk and sat down facing him.

Despite his unease, Lahs remained very still in the chair. Fidgeting or looking around was sure to only anger the Prefect. He folded his hands in his lap and kept his gaze directed at the tabletop.

“Head up,” the Telanate officer ordered, leaning back in his own chair.

Meeting the Prefect’s steely eyes as instructed, it suddenly occurred to Lahs that it might make him calmer if he thought about his Mistress and two Masters and the things that he had heard them say about the military jobs they were here to interview for. As he reviewed the mentions he had overheard, the thought that Second Master might soon get a posting that would send him far, far away was once again a pleasant one to Lahs. He, First Master, and his Mistress would make a very agreeable household. First Master was so wise and generous. He was from a much better family than Second Master … as well as being so much more distinguished in manner and appearance… A much more suitable mate… even though Second Master was handsome and greatly gifted…

Lahs couldn’t help wondering if his Mistress had put Second Master to use last night… and if that might not improve his temper…

“All right, all right.” The Prefect waved him away with a curt impatient gesture. “You’ll do. Quiet enough to pass for a Vulcan. Stupid enough to pass for a Human. Get out.”

Pelori MacEntyre settled herself comfortably in the chair opposite the Prefect and tried not to dwell on the fact that she was sitting down opposite a high-ranking member of the Telanate without the protective cover of her Romulan persona in place.

You are Ve’el, she told herself. You know her. You know how she thinks. You know what she’ll say. You know how she would react.

“I must congratulate you, my Lady,” the Prefect began graciously. “Your husbands are both very impressive men.”

Pelori/Ve’el gave him a self-satisfied smile. “I think so.”

The Telanate officer made a small polite gesture with his left hand. It indicated that he wished permission to make telepathic contact, but was less than a direct request since she outranked him socially. Under normal circumstances, she would have had the option of ignoring the indication completely. In the context of this interview, though, she knew they were merely going though an empty exercise in etiquette.

Steeling herself, MacEntyre/Ve’el gave a telepathic signal that indicated her receptivity to a request for contact. With your permission, my Lady?

Pausing a only micro-second to recheck her shielding, Pelori/Ve’el opened herself to scan. The touch of his mind was cool, deferential, and professional. He would not go for a deep probe unless she gave him reason to.

“The work you are volunteering for is unpleasant and dangerous,” the Prefect said aloud. “Forgive me for being curious as to why such an accomplished, high-ranking personage as you so obviously are would wish to subject herself to such conditions.”

“My family has a long history of distinguished service in public works.” As she spoke, Pelori heard her voice become Ve’el’s. “I wish to make my own unique mark in service to our Empire.”

Her mind filled with a blend of patriotism and ambition. As in “the good old days” before their fallout over Lahs, Ve’el was merging seamlessly into her consciousness, supporting and bolstering her. The patriotism was about a 75% reflection of Pelori’s own feelings of dedication to the Federation. The ambition was at least 90% pure Ve’el.

“Although I am quite proud of this unit’s achievements,” the Prefect said, the touch of his mind giving no indication that he was at all aware that he was in contact with two personalities. “Not all of our missions end in glorious triumph. And sometimes success is purchased at the cost of an agent’s life.”

“Great rewards require great risk and great sacrifice.” Pelori cautiously pulled back to let Ve’el take lead. “If service to my Empire requires I give my life, then going on to glory in the Afterlife will suffice.”

MacEntyre was amazed at the lack of irony or melancholy in Ve’el’s thoughts. This sounded like it was what the Romulan truly believed.

“As agent you will be required to interact freely with inferior beings.” The Prefect leaned back in his chair. “In training exercises to prepare you for this, we may even require that you treat your non-gift as an equal.”

“As a peer, you mean,” Ve’el corrected.

The Telanate officer lifted an eyebrow. “You see a difference?”

The lady smiled. “In polite society, one must often treat as peers those who are not one’s equal.”

Ve’el was actually beginning to have fun with the interview, playing with the restrictions that propriety placed on how deeply the Prefect could probe her thoughts. She gave him tantalizing flashes of her intelligence and drive like a Victorian woman purposefully giving a lover discrete glimpses of her dainty ankles. After all, this was only an interview until and unless she gave him a reason to turn it into an interrogation – which she did not plan to do. Why not enjoy it?

“If I may ask an impertinent question, my Lady?” Although his thoughts remained properly professional, the Prefect’s face revealed that he was becoming charmed by her brashness despite himself. “Your husbands, as I mentioned earlier, seem imminently well-suited to this sort of work – almost as if they were sought out primarily for the purpose of making you an almost irresistible candidate for exactly this type of assignment.”

“They are, as you have said, most impressive.” Ve’el masterfully balanced her emotions so that she confirmed nothing and denied nothing. “In many contexts.”

“As are you, my Lady.” The Prefect smiled as he politely withdrew from her mind. “As are you.”

My Lady Pelori, is it permitted to question you regarding your knowledge of how Joron and I came to be in these bodies? Tarvak asked as they were escorted back to their apartments.

That depends on the nature of the question, Tarvak, MacEntyre responded.

When the Praetor questioned me, he knew of my service record, and apparently Joron’s. How is it he did not know that we died?

Pelori considered carefully. It was certainly a legitimate question, and while she didn’t know the exact details of their case, she did know the basics of how her superiors worked. Would telling the Romulan jeopardize the mission? So far, he and Joron had done nothing to counter it – and for all she knew, Intelligence could have planted a ‘kill switch’ within their minds just in case they did. That would have been a sensible precaution. And if that was the case, whatever Ve’el was up to was personal, and not intended to thwart their crucial objectives – which didn’t, of course, make her behavior any less heinous.

She did a quick scan of Tarvak’s thoughts, finding nothing but understandably concerned curiosity. With just a tiny bit of misgiving, she sighed.

The usual methods would involve having an agent in place at the time of your … She found herself hesitating.

Death, Tarvak put in gently.

Yes. This agent would have falsified all records to conform with whatever cover story they would eventually want to use. They then would have programmed your subconscious to conform to that data.

But Joron and I are both aware of the manner of our passing, Tarvak said, his confusion growing.

I’m somewhat at a loss to explain that, Pelori admitted. I can only conjecture that it has to do with the unexpected bleed-through of the isti’li.

But I take no…

Your mind is inextricably linked to Joron’s, MacEntyre explained. What affects his telepathic powers will also affect yours.

And Spock’s also?

The Indiian paused. She hadn’t considered that, but it made sense. It also explained why all four minds, host and guest – all six, she corrected herself ruefully – could so easily shut each other out.

Yes, she answered Tarvak’s statement, Spock’s also.

Thank you for the information, Lady Pelori, Tarvak returned. While the memory of my Bonded’s death is a painful one, I would not have wanted to forget it. It is a part of what we are, he answered her query before she could even fully formulate it, and makes this time all the more precious to me.

Pelori nodded thoughtfully.

The communications terminal was blinking when the four entered their apartment. An eyebrow rising in surprise, Pelori went to answer it. She was even more surprised when the small screen resolved into the face of Legate Ramok.

“Legate!” she exclaimed, her voice conveying both astonishment and pleasure.

“Lady Ve’el,” Ramok replied with a small bow. “I was hoping you would have returned from your appointments.”

“Yes, it was most exhilarating. I thank you again for recommending us.”

“My Tribune reported that the Telanate were well pleased – as I knew they would be,” Ramok confided with a smile. “I gave them rather glowing reports of my impressions of you and your husbands. I’m glad they found them to be no exaggeration.”

“You are too kind, Legate,” Ve’el said with an artful flush.

“Ramok, please, Lady. I would like you to consider me a friend.”

“Then you must call me simply Ve’el,” she returned.

His smile grew bolder. “Ve’el, then. I am certain you will be contacted regarding your acceptance before the day is out.”

“Really? Ramok, I must inform Tarvak and Joron! They will be as delighted as I am!”

“At your earliest convenience, of course, Ve’el. If I may take up a moment more of your time…”

“Of course, Ramok. I am entirely in your debt.”

The Legate chuckled. “T’would that it were, my dear. I would like to request the pleasure of your company at the Pil'ani House this evening. They are giving a performance of one of my favorite plays, ‘Journey From The Altar Of Souls.’ Do you know it?”

“I have heard of it, Ramok, but I have never been fortunate enough to see it performed.”

“Ah, then it is settled. You must be my guest this evening.”

“With my husbands?” she asked coyly.

“But of course, dear Ve’el. I am an honorable man,” he replied, and winked.

She flushed again. “Will the Lady Holsa be joining us?”

Ramok’s smile turned the tiniest bit sour. “My Lady-wife accompanies me everywhere – except on official business.”

“How fortunate you are to have such a devoted mate,” Ve’el said, and let her pleasure fade to match his.

“You understand much, my Lady,” the Legate stated with admirable subtlety.

“And you endure much, my Lord.”

The Legate allowed this to pass with no more than a brief flare of his eyebrow.

“Well, then, dear Ve’el, tonight, at the hour of Sevroth.”

“I will look forward to it, Ramok,” she replied softly.

I not wearin’ that. DelMonde’s voice was adamant in Joron’s mind.

Why not? It’s the latest fashion for…

Sluts?

Romulan Warriors are proud of their bodies.

Yeah? So why Tarvak not be lookin’ like he out trollin’ fo’ a good time?

Joron made a face. He’s the Senior Husband.

So it only you ‘juniors’ who dress like whores?

Joron studied his reflection in the mirror. He thought the admittedly revealing clothing was quite becoming. It was a beautiful dark brown color, the top in a rich brocade. The tree-trunk shape that covered the front of his torso had an inviting modified triangular cut-out across most of the upper chest, topped with a high neck and long sleeves, and a tapering ‘V’ shape down his back, leaving his sides completely bare down to his hips. His legs were encased in a form-fitting brown material with a teasing ‘V’ of brocade emphasizing his genital area, and an attractive lacing up the sides. It was, he thought, an elegant, handsome presentation.

Tarvak likes to display my beauty, he thought smugly.

When it your beauty he displayin’, I not say a word, the engineer growled.

Joron sighed. I’ll never understand this thing you Humans call ‘modesty.’

So, you gonna change?

Certainly not.

The Romulan ignored the continued grumbling in his head as he turned from the mirror to smile at his Bonded. Tarvak looked splendid in a high-necked, black bodysuit with gold, purple and silver accents over tight-fitting leggings of matching purple and gold.

“You look every inch the lord, tonight, beloved,” he said to the older Romulan.

“We must continue to make a good impression,” Tarvak answered modestly.

See, he know somet’ing ‘bout ‘Human’ modesty, Del commented sourly.

Joron frowned. “And do you find my choice of clothing offensive or inappropriate?” he asked pointedly.

Tarvak’s gaze was filled with warm longing and sensual delight. “Not at all, my Bonded. You are quite ravishing.”

So there!

Shee-it, I swear t’ god I gonna puke.

Lahs noted that his Mistress looked extremely regal and exceptionally beautiful, but the thought carried none of the improper longing that had plagued him the past two days. Perhaps the medicine First Master had given him was curing his spacesickness after all. Her dress was a rich purple in color, floor-length, sleeveless and strapless with unattached sleeves of the same color, the upper arms being lace, with elbows to wrist solid material.

“You are lovely, Mistress,” he ventured, a proper slave’s compliment.

She gave him a slight smile. “Yes,” she said. “You did well with my hair tonight, Lahs.”

“Thank you, Mistress.”

She turned in her seat at her dressing table. "I expect you to behave yourself this evening,” she said sternly. “That I’m allowing you out at all after last night…” She shook her head. “If you disgrace me again I’ll be much, much less lenient.”

Lahs shuddered. “Yes, Mistress,” he said softly. “Thank you for allowing me this chance to redeem myself, Mistress.”

“If your two co-conspirators are present, I’d advise you to stay as far away from them as possible.”

Lahs hung his head at the term ‘co-conspirators.’ “Yes, Mistress.”

She turned back to the mirror. “Change into something suitable,” she told him. “I’ll want at least some of your proper discipline to be evident to Lady Holsa and Legate Ramok.

“Yes, Mistress,” Lahs said, and left her to go to his own small closet, dreading the stay in the slave pen.

Tarvak and Joron let Ve’el settle Lahs in the slave pen and stood just outside its entrance, waiting for the Legate and his lady-wife to arrive. They were speaking quietly to each other when Centurion Deron approached them – then both had to suppress the shock of their hosts. Behind him, Wen was crawling on hands and knees, his throat encircled with an elaborate collar. Fine chains ran from it to matching wrist cuffs, and a long, leather leash was held securely in Deron’s hand.

Tarvak recovered first. “Centurion,” he said, giving the man a proper salute.

“Ah Tarvak, Joron,” Deron said with a pleased smile. “I was hoping you would be attending the performance. Where is the lovely Lady Ve’el?”

“She is placing Lahs in the slave pen,” Tarvak replied.

“So the little beast is fit to walk?” Deron chuckled.

“As is Wen,” the older Romulan returned with the hint of a frown.

Deron, of course, misinterpreted the expression. “Oh, you needn’t be concerned, Tarvak. My pretty bedslave was properly punished, I assure you.” He glanced down, an ugly smile replacing his earlier one. “Weren’t you, Wen?”

“Yes, Master,” the non-gift replied.

“Why is he chained?” Joron managed, voicing not his concern, but that of the Human within him.

“He is learning what it is to be humble,” Deron returned. “Aren’t you, Wen?

“Yes, Master. Thank you Master,” the bedslave replied quietly.

The Centurion gave the leash a sharp yank. The slave choked. “Thank you Master for what?” Deron barked.

“For teaching me to be humble, Master,” Wen rasped out.

Deron caressed the pretty face. “Good boy,” he murmured, then released the pressure at the collar. “I hear that that beast, Krel, is confined to his bed,” he confided with a sniggering leer. “Poor Holsa will be in a foul mood, today, mark my words.”

“And why would that be?” Tarvak enquired politely, although he could feel the discomfort radiating from his Bonded’s mind.

Deron snorted. “Let’s just say that the Legate isn’t always able to keep up with my sister’s needs.” The Centurion’s eyes took on an odd gleam. “A problem I’m certain Lady Ve’el would have no familiarity with.” He winked, and Tarvak felt Joron’s shudder.

“Well, that’s done,” Ve’el’s voice said as she exited the slave pen, then stopped, her face losing its distaste. “Good evening, Deron!” she exclaimed. “I wasn’t aware you’d be meeting us!”

“The Legate is most generous with his offers,” the Centurion replied with a small bow, then leaned forward, his voice lowering. “I am told the interviews went quite well. So well, in fact, that you and your house are being considered to begin training immediately.”

“Immediately?” Ve’el returned with a fair expression of coy dismay. “But the play…”

Deron chuckled. “You are a vixen, my Lady. I mean ‘immediate’ in the less literal sense. Within a day, possibly even as soon as tomorrow.”

She flushed prettily. “You and Legate Ramok have been so kind to us,” Ve’el began.

At the mention, Deron’s smile faded. “The Legate is most concerned for the needs of the training base,” he agreed.

Ve’el arched an eyebrow. “Oh? Do you think there’s nothing more – personal – in his attentions?”

“He is husband to my sister, Lady,” Deron said with just a hint of disapproval. “I would be most – dismayed – if there were any impropriety in his behavior. Not that I could blame him – “ The smile returned. “Or, indeed, any man, Lady Ve’el.” And he bowed again. “Will you forgive a short absence as I see to this little beast?” He gave Wen a light kick.

Ve’el glanced down as if just noticing the non-gift. “My what pretty adornments,” she said. “Wherever did you get them? I think Lahs would look quite handsome in them.”

“It will be my pleasure to make you a present of ones just like them,” Deron returned.

Ve’el clapped her hands. “Oh, you are too kind, Deron!”

“Not at all, my Lady. Not at all.” His eyes turned briefly to Joron, sudden, naked lust written on every line of his face. “I will see you all again shortly,” he said, then snapped the leash. “Come, pet.”

As Wen crawled after Deron’s deliberately long strides, Joron closed his eyes, shivering.

Ugh! Tarvak heard from his Bonded’s mind. His emotions make my skin crawl!

Joron, what… Tarvak began, and was flooded with the image that had been in Deron’s mind – Joron similarly collared and chained, kneeling at Deron’s feet. He dares…!

Calm, my beloved, Joron soothed. I don’t think the old lech can control his thoughts.

Such disrespect of one who is Bonded…

So why you dress him like a slut? DelMonde drawled pointedly.

Joron winced at the surge of rage Tarvak aimed at his host.

Hey, settle, Tarvak, ol’ buddy, Del said with no hint of remorse. I jus' sayin'...

Don’t! the Romulan snapped.

Jesus, he a l’il bitty bit touchy, non?

A condition you should be familiar with, since you have sullied a Bond before, Tarvak growled.

Del’s mental mouth snapped shut

He was only jesting, beloved, Joron said softly, if a little uncertainly.

But I am not. He did interfere with Spock’s Bond.

But that can’t be our concern, husband. Their lives are theirs, and ours… He gave his Bonded a warm mental caress. …are ours.

Tarvak shuddered, regaining his control. You are wise, beloved.

Joron smiled at him. A quality I learned from you, my love.

Go To Part Seventeen
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