“I’d better attend to Lahs,” Pelori sad as she deactivated her jammer and replaced in inside her sleeve. “This can’t have been good for him,” she added with a pointed frown at DelMonde.

“Hell, I not start the damn thing,” Del grumbled.

“Joron, since Lahs is occupied, I will ask you to dispose of your used clothing,” Ve’el said, arching a significant eyebrow and gesturing subtly to her sleeve.

“Yes, my Lady,” the engineer replied with only a brief sneer of distaste. Making sure the robe was properly belted, he bent over and picked up the torn tunic and pants. An’ these were so pretty, he thought wryly.

He moved to the apartment’s recycling unit, placing the clothing in it. Then he had to take a deep breath to walk past Spock to the bedroom to retrieve new apparel. He glanced over his shoulder more than once as he chose the most sedate outfit the younger Romulan possessed, which wasn’t saying much. He caught the thought – Romulan slut – before it could fully form in his mind. When he reentered the common rooms, Spock was standing at the large picture window, his body tense and stiff, staring out at nothing,

Good, DelMonde thought. Stay there until – Again he stopped the un-Romulan thought of “’til you rot, you bastard” and forced himself to instead complete it with, you have calmed your nerves.

Then he went to his resting room to retrieve his bottle of ale. Rather than drink it in solitude, like he wanted, he made himself return to the dining area and sit at the table. He even got himself a glass.

Seven centuries and eighty-seven. Seven centuries and eighty-eight. Seven centuries and….

Lady Ve’el reached behind her head to stop her slave as he combed out her hair. “What are you doing, Lahs?”

The non-gift blinked. “I am brushing…”

“No. What are you thinking?”

In the mirror, she could see her slave’s eyes grow wide and wary.

“I am counting, Mistress,” he replied as he quickly tried to figure out why this could be an offense. “Second Master instructed me to do so.”

Ve’el raised an eyebrow. “He did?”

“He finds my thoughts repellant and told me that I should count instead,” Lahs explained shame-faced.

“Instead of what?” she pressed.

“Instead of thinking inappropriate thoughts – but I was not thinking inappropriate thoughts, Mistress,” he hastened to add. “The numbers make patterns. I like to think about the patterns.”

Inwardly Pelori MacEntyre groaned. More damned artifacing. Romulan house servants were usually taught to count only as high as fifty. In the body of a Russian polymath, though, Lahs had in one evening figured out that he could use the same linguistic pattern to get the rest of the way to one hundred. Once there, he’d chosen the wrong word, but was otherwise successfully extrapolating his way to a thousand. At this rate, he’d be re-inventing differential calculus by the end of the week…

MacEntyre sighed. When things calmed down…If things calmed down, she simply had to devote some time to shoring up the integrity of the blocks in Lahs’ brain. Not tonight though. Her nerves were absolutely worn raw from the Tarvak’s assault on Del and its aftermath. She had used up her last reserves of strength.

I will deal with him, child, Ve’el assured her. Sleep.

Don’t be too hard on him, MacEntyre requested before relaxing into the background of her own mind.

“Lahs,” Ve’el used her grip on his wrist to pull him forward so that he was standing beside her. “It is odd for a house slave to be preoccupied with numbers.”

The non-gift hung his head. “Yes, Mistress.”

“You may count, but only as high as you have been taught to,” she informed him, reflecting that her boring little Lahs was becoming a creature of strange passions. “What need does a slave have to count to a thousand? If a guardsman ordered a thousand lashes for you, you’d probably be dead before you reached fifty.”

“Yes, Mistress.” In his mind, she could hear the creature make a notation – Fifty = Death. Aloud he said, “I should have asked your permission first, Mistress.”

“No.” She gave him an indulgent smile and patted him on the back. “Tonight you were right not to bother me with trivial matters.”

His concern for her silently poured out in a small quiet stream that Ve’el could feel through the hand she still held to his back. The Romulan was fascinated by her host’s ability to sense the life flame within creatures. Even this non-gift seemed to have a life flame deep within him… Probably some leftover from the Human locked inside his brain…

“Do not be troubled, Lahs,” she stroked his back comfortingly. “These things do not concern you.”

“No, Mistress,” he replied dutifully, but his disquiet continued unabated.

“Do you not think me wise enough to restore harmony to my household when such disturbances occur?” she asked, half-teasing.

“I think you very wise, Mistress,” the slave replied, his life-flame beginning to glow with desire for her. “And very beautiful.”

Ve’el, MacEntyre roused. Get my hand off this man’s ass.

The Romulan had let her fingers slip down to caress her slave’s nicely muscled hindquarters.

Very well, she thought drawing her hand back. Instead of withdrawing it, though, she landed it across the non-gift’s backside with a resounding smack. “Run me a bath,” she ordered, grinning at his sharp intake of breath and the comical way his eyes widened.

Ve’el, MacEntyre warned.

“And be quick about it,” the Romulan added, heedlessly giving the slave another sound smack on the rump to hurry him along as he turned and headed for the bathing chamber.

Ve’el, MacEntyre repeated.

I’m just going to have a bath. The lady stretched languorously. You’re fatigued, child. Go to sleep.

He has a girlfriend.

Ve’el let her silence explain how little this Human concept or the actual Human female in question meant to her.

He would want to remain faithful. I have to protect that.

The Romulan rolled her eyes as she tied her hair up into a temporary pile on top of her head. I’m not going to damage him.

I don’t assume you want to damage him, MacEntyre replied, still not quite able to muster the necessary strength to push herself to the foreground. Fuck him, yes. Damage him, no.

Ve’el leaned into the mirror and picked up a treated cloth to remove her eye makeup. I own that body. It is my prerogative to amuse myself with it.

No sex.

And if I stayed within the sort of boundaries you were sensitive enough to grant Joron and Tarvak? Ve’el’s mental voice was gently accusing.

It hurt MacEntyre’s exhausted brain to even try to begin to deal with another emotional tug-of-war with one of these stubborn Romulan ghosts. Nothing from below the waist to above the knee? she put forward as what immediately occurred to her as an acceptable compromise.

If that’s what you wish, Ve’el agreed as if it made little difference to her.

Well… Pelori was too tired to argue. She felt her mental eyes closing. Okay… But behave yourself. I’ll be watching.

Sweet dreams, child. Ve’el smiled as she headed for her bath.

The bathing chamber was equipped with a large freestanding tub. Lahs had already put the little steps up to the side of it for her. As she entered the chamber, he set down the scented oils he was adding to the water and stepped behind her.

In her mind, Ve’el could see that the slave kept his eyes averted from her body as he helped her step out of her robe and into the bath. She could also tell that the thought of her naked body so close held him in delicious torment as he did so. As she settled herself into the warm, fragrant waters, she watched the non-gift fold her robe with exaggerated care.

It was common practice to place a thin covering cloth over the top of the tub to hold the heat and humidity in for as long as possible. Returning to the tub, the slave kept his gaze decorous as he stretched the white fabric out over her as reverently as if he were laying a sacramental cloth over an altar.

“Lahs,” she called lazily when he turned to leave. “I’ll want you to wash my hair.”

“Yes, Mistress.” The poor creature was already nearly in an agony of desire. He was too flustered even to remember how to count as far as fifty as he went to the cabinet where the cleansing oils were kept.

“Laaahs,” she stretched out the syllables of his name playfully. “I don’t want your clothes to get wet.”

“Yes, Mistress,” he replied in a choked voice. Keeping his back carefully to her, he methodically stripped off his garments, revealing the olive-bronze skin of his surprisingly broad shoulders and delicately muscled back that tapered to narrow hips. The non-gift had the lean but sturdy legs of a man who enjoyed playing sports and the invitingly curved rump of a …

Hey, MacEntyre’s mental voice interrupted her reverie. Behave yourself.

My dear child, Ve’el replied archly. My eyes are well above my waist.

Since Lahs was no longer primarily a bedslave, it would have been presumptuous of him to approach his mistress naked… particularly in the state of obvious arousal he was in at this moment. Therefore he donned a thin wrap cloth, quickly knotting it into a brief version of the sort of scant loin covering Pelori associated with beings called “Sumo wrestlers.”

Ve’el found the way the slave tried to conceal his burgeoning erection behind the towels and bottles of cleansing oils he carried charmingly ineffective.

“If you will permit me, Mistress,” he asked before carefully lifting the back of her head and lowering the neckrest so that water spilled into the washing basin behind the main body of the tub.

The Romulan let him go about his task unmolested for several minutes. The soothing motion of his fingers on her scalp lulled MacEntyre deeper and deeper into unconsciousness.

“Lahs,” Ve’el said, when the slave tilted her head further back so he could pour a cup of rinse water through it. “Do you like the color of my hair?”

“Oh, yes, Mistress,” he affirmed fervently. “It is most beautiful.”

She looked up at the non-gift as he gently pressed the rinse water out of her flowing tresses. Although the slave tried to maintain the proper distance, he could only resist meeting her gaze for so long. When finally his warm brown eyes locked on to hers, she gave him an inviting smile. Even without the mental gifts, she would have been able to read the hunger in his face. Ve’el tilted her head further back and let her eyes fall half-closed. She pursed her lips then let them fall slightly open as if she wished to be kissed.

Catching the creature of the verge of lowering his mouth to hers, she softly ordered, “Wash my feet, Lahs.”

The slave swallowed and squeezed his eyes closed. “Yes, Mistress,” he replied, his voice cracking with the effort it took to try to quell the raging fire within him.

Ve’el piled her clean hair back up on top of her head and tied it loosely in place with a damp wrap as the slave crossed to the foot of the tub and knelt. “Use the soapstone on my heels, Lahs.”

Steam from the tub rose in a cloud about the creature as he folded back the covering cloth and put one arm into the scented water. She saw his lips tremble with insuppressible excitement as she made him search for her ankle for a moment. His long fingers felt almost commanding as they finally closed around her instep.

So the Human man inside my slave doesn’t like to be teased? Ve’el thought, as the non-gift lifted her foot from the water and began his ministrations resolutely. Too bad for you, Human.

As she had dimly sensed, the creature – among its many odd fascinations – had a love of women’s feet. Although it tried to steel itself and focus coolly on its task, the little beast could not resist noting how perfectly formed her toes were, how daintily the foot arched, and how smooth her heels were under the soapstone.

The foot was almost a woman’s body in miniature for him with its smooth and graceful curves echoing the form of the waist and back. Lahs’ bedslave training taught him that many zones of sensation were concealed in the foot. Massaging those areas as he was doing now could relax or arouse.

“Is it clean?” Ve’el asked as the non-gift dipped her foot back into the water.

“Yes, Mistress,” he nodded, checking the side of her foot for smoothness with his thumb.

“Very clean?”

The creature looked up, puzzled. “Yes, Mistress.”

“I’m not certain,” she said petulantly. “I wish you to test it.”

The slave blinked. “How do you wish me to test this, Mistress?”

“Put your lips to my foot,” she ordered with a small smile. “See if you can taste any dirt.”

The little beast’s eyes almost crossed with sudden rush of desire that swept over him. Struggling to master himself, he drew in a ragged breath before lowering his mouth to her instep.

Lady Ve’el bit her lip with pleasure as the former bedslave began to expertly flick his tongue against the sensitive pressure spots on the bottom of her foot. Her own loins began to warm pleasantly as the creature kneaded the most responsive areas between his capable lips.

Despite his disciplined caution, the little beast began to throw himself in to his task with growing abandon, even going so far as to nip her heel quite impudently at one point. He let his tongue explore the length of her foot and invade the recesses between her toes while in his mind he dreamed vividly of giving her whole body the same ardent service.

Lady Ve’el floated inside his dream, letting the Indiian gift within her turn it into a pleasing virtual reality of erotic stimulation. Her own cheeks were as flushed as his when she called, “Lahs.”

The creature looked up with eager anticipation.

She smiled cruelly as she draped one arm over the edge of the tub. “My hands are also dirty.”

Her own Romulan gifts let her appreciate the stimulating rush of conflicting emotions in the creature as it forced itself to obediently move to kneel by her side. This was a type of pleasure too. Some owners became obsessed with forcing their non-gifts to extremes of feeling while they mind-watched as if it were a private theatrical presented for them. Ve’el much preferred straight-forward physical satisfaction, but since that was being denied to her…

“Not that hand,” she said, pulling her left away from him. She laid her right on top of her bare breast. “This one.”

The Human man inside Lahs gave her a reproachful look, but the slave had to bend forward and carefully begin to rub the soapstone in small cleansing circles beginning at her wrist and working his way methodically downwards.

She rested her left hand lightly on his naked back as he labored under her direction. The color in his cheeks grew higher as the creature pressed his lips tightly together and forced himself to focus narrowly on his task… which of course was impossible.

To challenge him further, she arched her hand so that the hardened tip of her nipple would be clearly visible between her fingers. In her mind’s view, she could feel the slave’s acute awareness of how painfully erect he had become.

She patted his backside in reproof when he began to shift uncomfortably. “Be still, Lahs. Concentrate on what you’re doing.”

“Yes, Mistress.” The little beast’s voice had dropped to an un-slave-like growl. A spark of anger began to glow in the Human man’s life flame.

“Show me your hands, Lahs,” she demanded abruptly.

The slave returned fully as he straightened and turned over his palms. The incriminating traces of the whip-marks from the near-forgotten incident at the bar were still visible.

“You’ve been a naughty boy, Lahs,” she scolded in a purring tone. “You didn’t think such misbehavior would escape the notice of your mistress, did you?”

“No, Mistress,” the slave replied, fastening his eyes on the far wall. The Human inside him was too aroused to make his tone properly humble, though.

“Bend over,” she ordered. “And take your punishment.”

She moved so that when he positioned himself over the side of the tub, his face was directly over her breasts.

"Open your eyes,” she commanded, giving his up-turned buttocks a sharp slap.

“Yes, Mistress,” he whispered, his mouth so close to her that she could feel his breath on her nipple.

Each smack of her palm against the cheeks of his rump that the loin-wrap left bare propelled him slightly forward, bringing his lips or nose into occasional contact with her breast.

Ve’el, MacEntyre’s voice in her mind was faint and heavy with sleep.

I’m taking care of the incident in the slave pen, Ve’el hushed her comfortingly as she continued to slap her slave’s backside at an almost languorous pace. As I promised to do for you.

Okay... MacEntyre mumbled, her mind willing to dismiss this as a mere dream. Don’t hurt him. He’s a nice guy…

Oh, very nice, Ve’el agreed, pausing to caress one hot naked cheek before slapping it again.

The slave was biting his lower lip. Small groans began to accompany his sharp intakes of breath with the impact of each smack against his burning rump.

His discomfort, Ve’el knew, was greatly magnified by the tantalizing contacts with her breasts. The creature’s erection was pressed so that it was forced to thrust impotently against the cool tiles of the tub’s wall in rhythm to his punishment.

“My little Lahs trying to start a fight,” she tsk-tsked, stroking the non-gift’s hair as she continued to slap its backside with her other hand. “What were you thinking?”

“I… I…” the beast stammered, its mind too overloaded to function.

“Was it because he made fun of you?” She ran her thumb up the outer curve of the non-gift’s pleasingly large ears. “Are you so sensitive?”

The slave’s entire body shuddered with the ecstasy of her touch. “Please let me seek release, Mistress!” the creature pleaded piteously. “Please let me seek release!”

“While I’m punishing you?” She gave the slave’s rump a particularly sharp slap. “Really, Lahs, you do get the most ridiculous notions sometimes…”

The creature moaned in a misery of arousal as her discipline continued at a leisurely pace. The poor thing was damp with sweat and seemed near tears.

“I told you to keep your eyes open,” she scolded, pushing her right breast forward with the next slap.

Blind with desire, the beast took it into his open mouth. He sucked and pulled at her breast with a combination of the greedy lust of a man and the desperate skill of a bedslave.

Twisting her fingers firmly in his hair, she lifted the slave’s head. “There,” she said with an imperious smile. “Your punishment is complete.”

The creature’s breath was coming in hard gasps. Its eyes glittered wildly as he tried to regain control of himself. “Thank you, Mistress,” he breathed. His face and heaving chest were flushed to an almost luminescent green.

“Very well, then.” She released the slave and pushed the trailing strands of her hair up. “Now, Lahs,” she commanded, holding her hands behind her head as she sat up in the tub. Warm, fragrant water dripped from her firm, naked breasts. “It’s time for you to wash my ears.”

She almost chuckled as the creature’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head. “Please, Mistress…” he rasped.

“Yes?” she asked languidly.

“If.. I am afraid… Mistress, I couldn’t bear it if I… soiled…” The rush of utter humiliation came with the image of the thing he couldn’t bring himself to say, that of his seed spilling involuntarily from his body at the erotic thought of touching her ears.

But my little one, that is precisely what I intend, she told him.

He gasped, his surprise both horrified and utterly grateful.

Touch me, now, she ordered. And let the thoughts of your desire pleasure me.

“Mistress… how can I dishonor you so…” he squeaked.

“Because I command it, Lahs,” she said.

Swallowing hard, the non-gift knelt at the side of the tub, reaching out hesitantly.

Fill your thoughts with your hunger for me, Lahs, she told him. Helplessly, the emotions and needs came spilling from his mind. As his fingers delicately stroked her exquisitely shaped ears, she heard and felt the fleeting touch of her breast on his lips. The taste of her nipple was a lightning bolt of arousal and it brought to his mind other tastes, rich and moist, the saliva pooling in his mouth. She saw, as he did, the bright red triangle of hair that dived between her legs and the promising glories that lie beneath it. His thoughts became cruder, more graphic, as he imagined first his tongue, then his fingers in that cleft. Ve’el arched, nearly feeling the touch that was fire in her mind. Her response emboldened him, his breathing ragged as his brain became flush with a thousand pictures, a thousand positions in which he could service her body. Her own panting made her breasts rise and heave, her head falling back into the still-gentle caresses of her sensitive ears.

The thoughts grew more erotic, more explicit, the fever in his mind and in hers increasing, feeding the hungers of their bodies. When he at last brought the images in his mind to those of his organ sliding into her, she gasped aloud. The purely mental stimulation climbed to its peak, holding there for breathless minutes. Ve’el felt it when orgasm began building in the non-gift, and she let it bring her to her own shuddering climax. She heard the cry from the creature as her body tensed, then crashed, and his hands slipped from her ears as he collapsed to the floor beside the tub.

It took several glorious minutes for the heat of his performance to fade from her mind. She reveled as long as she could in the tingling sensation of afterglow, then, with a sigh, rose from the rapidly cooling water. She stepped over him and retrieved one of the towels he had brought to the tub’s side, wrapping it around her.

“Be certain to clean the tiles well, Lahs,” she said, and patted his slumped, trembling body as she left the bathroom.

My Bonded, come to me.

DelMonde nearly jumped out of his skin at the warm yet undeniable command that came in the tone he now identified as Tarvak. It wasn’t that the mind-voice sounded that different from Spock’s, but there was a surety and – he shuddered at the word – passion in it that he knew the Vulcan would never use.

Leas’ not on me, he thought sourly. He took a deep breath, cursed at Joron, then closed his eyes and let his awareness fade.

Joron nearly flew into his Bonded’s arms. He smiled, holding tightly to the strong body, his mouth seeking to kiss the lips that had been so long denied him. Tarvak obliged him, their tongues and breath mingling with relieved urgency, then gently broke away.

Allow me to look at you, Tarvak murmured.

Joron grinned again, and took a step back.

He looks much like you, the older Romulan said, his gaze traveling critically over his Bonded’s new body.

You’re younger, Joron returned teasingly.

One eyebrow rose. And that pleases you, does it?

Of course, was the impertinent reply. It means we’ll have even more time together.

Tarvak’s lips curved into a soft smile. He reached out, his hand skimming across Joron’s face. So beautiful… he sighed.

The muscle tone is good, the younger man said, flexing them as if to prove a point. Not as strong as I’m used to, but…

Then I will have to be certain to be gentle, Tarvak said. This body is every bit as strong as my own.

Joron shivered. You have to be gentle, Tarvak?

His Bonded frowned. The union in which that would be most critical is denied us, he said, then his expression again softened. And since that is the case, no, I don’t expect I’ll have to be particularly gentle after all.

Joron laughed. Come, my beloved, he whispered, his hands moving slowly along his sides and hips. Come explore this new body.

Are you allowed to be naked for me, my Bonded? Tarvak asked, though his gaze was riveted on Joron’s hands.

It was Joron’s turn to frown. We are not allowed to touch below hips or above thighs, he answered with an appealing pout, then he gave a wicked smile, but no one said anything about looking.

Then the question becomes, can I resist such temptation? Tarvak said wryly.

Let’s find out. Joron took a step forward, giving Tarvak another thorough kiss, pressing close to the older man’s body. You rise for me already, he murmured lasciviously.

As reliably as the sun, my beloved, Tarvak returned. The younger Romulan laughed again, then moved sensually away, stripping off his clothing with practiced hedonism. He turned slowly, allowing Tarvak to view every inch of his frame, letting his fingers explore the contours and responses of his new body. He could feel the desire of his Bonded increasing, hear the sharp intake of breath as he teasingly stroked the not-quite-Romulan-sized erection.

I long to taste you, Tarvak murmured hoarsely.

Joron licked his lips. I taste Romulan, he said.

Tarvak snorted in amusement, then held out his arms. His Bonded danced into his embrace and again their mouths found each other’s. The kiss was long and passionate, lips moving against lips, tongues intertwining, playful, then sensual, then hungry.

I want you, Tarvak! Joron breathed. I need you!

Come, then, came the guttural command, but Joron pulled away, taking a deep, calming breath.

No, it’s too soon, he managed. I haven’t looked at you, I haven’t explored the differences in you.

Exploration can come after we are again one, Tarvak growled. I have been too long denied.

But once we are sated, the others will demand…

Once will not sate me, beloved, Tarvak promised. He held up his hand, his fingers already parting. Attend me, my Bonded. I have need of you.

With a flush of pleasure, Joron eagerly lifted his fingers to meet those of his Bonded.

It was not yet dawn when Joron opened his eyes. He could feel the other struggling to reassert dominance, and he sent a pleading, persuasive, a few moments more and used the unusual power of the isti’li to ensure it. He sat up from his comfortable position, held in the crook of Tarvak’s arm on their shared bed, to really look at his Bonded’s new form.

The Vulcan body was younger, considerably younger. Joron was generally a good judge of such things, but he knew Vulcans lived longer than Romulans and so perhaps aged differently. But if the body before him had been Romulan, he would have guessed the age to be near forty. A young male, he thought. Surely in his prime. It wasn’t that Tarvak was – had been – ugly or repulsive. But the hardened Warrior’s body had been battle-scarred and had lived at least twice the apparent years of this new figure.

Joron skimmed his fingers wonderingly over the warm flesh, through the mass of silky black hair at Tarvak’s chest. He had only known it liberally flecked with grey. The dark color of the neat beard was also new; Tarvak’s own facial hair had been almost white, the hair of his head the same, with the wiry texture that often came with age. To see the neat, soft, black bangs made Joron wonder if this was what Tarvak had looked like as a young man

The ears were long and well-shaped, perhaps a bit more curved inward than had been Tarvak’s own. But he knew from the brief caresses he had been permitted that evening that they were just as exquisitely sensitive. The thought filled him with longing.

Impulsively, he pulled the coverlet aside, drinking in the site of his Bonded’s nakedness. He ached to do more than look, but with the satiation of the mental union the night before, he was mindful of the restrictions he was under. He wanted to avoid doing anything to jeopardize their new positions until their stratagem was complete.

Lean strength was evident in the line of muscle in Tarvak’s new arms and legs. The stomach was flat and firm – after years out of the campaigns, Tarvak had developed a bit of a paunch. Slender hips, perhaps more narrow than Tarvak’s had been, but the organ… how he longed to feel that impressive length and girth stab deeply into him!

He shuddered, feeling the hunger rising in his own body. Mental union was rich and sweet, but the body ached with need unfulfilled. Surely, it would be an ungracious way to leave his host, to fill the Human with Romulan fire and give it no release.

Your thoughts are delightful, Dei’lrn, but incautious, Tarvak suddenly murmured.

I accepted no restriction on the use of his own hands… Joron retorted, neither surprised nor upset that the older Romulan had been awake but silent for some time.

We cannot afford to begin to push boundaries so soon.

Can you truly argue that his body will be better off for having been enflamed with no…

I could not help but watch such pleasure, Tarvak chided gently, and that, I think, would violate the spirit of our agreement, if not the letter.

Joron made a petulant face.

Tarvak sat up, pulling his Bonded close. Let me extinguish your flames, now, beloved.

And that will ease this body’s hungers?

No, of course not.

There was a significant pause, and Joron began smiling. And – perhaps – if the body burns hot enough, for long enough…

Your grasp of strategy and tactics is most impressive, my Bonded.

My Kah-lir, I adore you! Joron laughed, and readily succumbed to his husband’s desires

Hours later, Spock awoke with a start. His limbs were entangled with DelMonde’s, the engineer’s head resting on his chest. For a moment, the Vulcan was paralyzed with rage and mortification. Both their bodies were naked, both organs fully tumescent despite the fact that DelMonde was still soundly asleep. With an effort of will he made his body relax, then stiffly attempted to disentangle himself without waking the Human.

With the luck that had plagued him on this mission, he failed utterly.

He felt it when DelMonde came abruptly awake. In an instant, the engineer was scrambling out of the large bed, his face twisted in a sneer of revulsion.

Get your hands… began with hard vehemence, and Spock immediately pulled the sheet up to cover his hips.

Calm yourself, he sent, carefully neutral. Strong shields snapped into place in the mind of the younger man. When DelMonde had relaxed from his automatic fighting stance, Spock said, “Good morning, Joron.”

“Morning – Tarvak,” the Human returned in a growl.

“You are in obvious need of j’lat,” the Vulcan continued, hoping that it sounded gently amused and not a condemnation.

“Yes,” came the tight reply. “I’ll see if Lahs has served breakfast yet.” DelMonde hesitated, then with a clenching of his jaw indicative of stubborn refusal of any embarrassment, turned and went to their shared closet to get dressed.

Spock kept his eyes averted, and waited until the young man had left the room before rising to chose his own clothing, dreading the day ahead.

Behind his shields, DelMonde was muttering a string of increasingly vile curses. He could still taste the Romulan coppery spice on his tongue, and it made him long to spit out the evidence of Joron and Tarvak’s kisses. The raging erection that refused to go away only made his mood more foul.

Fucked up, mother-fuckin’ bullshit! he seethed. ‘Some skin-to skin contact is unavoidable,’ but nobody tell me I gonna wind up wit’ that bastard’s arms ‘round me all fuckin’ night!

He shuddered, his treacherous brain insisting on making the connection to the Vulcan’s arms around someone else all night. The despair that not enough alcohol and no sapphire had allowed to engulf him while on the Enterprise pulled at the edges of his mind.

Leave me th’ fuck alone! he told it harshly. I not need more shit now!

To his surprise, it was easily put away.

He was almost sorry for being unable to have an excuse to flood the Vulcan with all the pain and rage that was decidedly the bastard’s due.

Ve’el was already at the table, Lahs kneeling beside her, the slave’s lips curved in a soft smile, when Del walked into the dining area. “Good morning, Joron,” she said, smiling herself. “I trust you slept well?”

“How would I know?” DelMonde grumbled, then added with a show of teeth, “I was asleep.”

Ve’el chuckled at the ‘joke.’

“Lahs, j’lat,” he added as he took a seat at the table.

“At once, Master,” the non-gift responded, and his smile didn’t fade as he brought the carafe and a large cup, filling it with the hot, brown liquid.

DelMonde glared down at him. “You’re in a good mood this morning,” he observed, his tone just short of ugly.

“It is my pleasure to serve,” Lahs added, and Del’s empathy twinged with the secret amusement that rose in Ve’el.

”Your service is suddenly pleasing to you?” he commented dryly. The beast blushed and Del was suddenly aware, through Joron’s amused speculation, of what might cause such a joyful demeanor. A flush of jealousy that most decidedly did not come from Joron filled him.

What did you do with him? he sent privately to the half-Indiian inside Ve’el.

What? came the startled response.

Nothing untoward, was Ve’el’s smooth interruption.

The emotional sensitivity that was as much a part of Joron as it was of DelMonde wasn’t so easily fooled or placated. Joron chuckled lewdly. DelMonde hardened in bitter anger.

Tell me, he demanded.

You dare…? Ve’el began, while Pelori began an immediate search of her memories. Calm yourself, child, Ve’el snapped. I obeyed your restrictions.

He came? DelMonde rejoined in disbelief as he picked up the night’s events from Pelori’s explorations of Ve’el thoughts. You let him…!

It was quite unavoidable, Ve’el said with a frown at the intrusion. And you really don’t want the poor thing to suffer needlessly, do you?

When I have to suffer… Del began stridently.

Ah, but that’s your choice, my dear, Ve’el interrupted. As should be obvious, even under the limitations you have insisted on, you could…

Enough! Pelori broke in, and her mental presence was glowing. Ve’el, we will discuss this privately.

Of course, child, Ve’el nearly purred.

Del eased out of the contact with the woman – two women, he corrected, but regardless of that reality, he felt betrayed by and furious with Lieutenant MacEntyre. She an’ her damned superiors set me up, he thought angrily, and it reminded him too strongly of other betrayals, other times he had been set up. He turned his bitterness on the only readily available target.