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That’s when Marcel places a finger beneath my chin and raises my face to meet his gaze. He stares into my eyes, and nods reassuringly – filling me with more faith than any words would have done.

Then, he looks up to the room.

“Time to go.”

His voice has a snarl to it – but it’s not directed to any of us standing in the Aurelians’ living quarters. Instead, I feel the anger pouring from him and know it’s directed toward this ‘Lord Oblog’ dignitary – the ‘Finger’ of the Toad King and the same bastard who attacked my transport ship and condemned me to this terrifying ordeal.

I pause, though – raising my hand.

“I need my boots.”

It’s not me talking – it’s the old me. She talks through my lips, commandeering my voice – looking at the slime-encrusted combat boots I walked in here with, heaped beside the door. They were spared the garbage disposal, which tore my clothes to ribbons – just like they’ve survived the three life-or-death rescue missions I’ve worn them through. They’re good boots – boots that have walked me out of more tough situations than I’d like to count.

A good pair of boots is hard to find.

Marcel ignores me, leaving Tessa and I barefoot as he begins walking toward the door.

I’ve no choice but to follow him. I’ve got that collar around my throat – and I’m not sure Marcel would even notice the extra weight if he was forced to drag me along behind him.

As we approach the door, I reach out desperately for my boots – my fingertipsalmostgrazing the leather. Before I can grab them, though, Marcel abruptly turns and hefts me right off the ground – holding me like a fireman might cradle a child as he pulls her out of a burning building.

I yelp with indignity as he lifts me.

“I willnotallow my property to be sullied by Toad-scum,” the towering Aurelian sneers as he carries me. I feel so tiny in his massive, muscular arms – near weightless in his powerful grip. I know we need to present theillusionthat Tessa and I are his slaves – but the way he talks to me makes me wonder if this veneer of possessiveness actually sinks deeper.

If Lord Oblog questions the Aurelians’ actions, it’ll be because the Toad dignitary knows the Aurelians aren’t loyal to his cause – the cause of profiteering, slavery, cruelty, and sadism.

But whatarethe Aurelians loyal to?

It’s not the Aurelian Empire – that much I already know. No Aurelian devoted to their Empire or Queen would work with a Toad. Neither would they smuggle shipments for the Priesthood – the faction stoking the fire of insurrection within the Empire. It’s the Priests who are dividing the Aurelian race – split between those Aurelians still loyal to Queen Jasmine, and those whose loyalty has been tainted by their desire to return to the Old Ways.

But I know Marcel and his battle-brothers aren’t loyal to the Priesthood, either – or they’d be believers in the Old Ways, too – and Marcel, or Lucius, or Quint would haveclaimedme by now, as they’d believe their right would be.

I shiver at the memory of Lucius’s huge bulk, and then imagine himforcingapart my protesting hands – his massive thighs spreading my legs open as I desperately tried, and failed, to keep them together.

It’s as if the pleasure dress can sense my conflicted thoughts – and the sentient fabric begins to tingle and tantalize me – stimulating every inch of my skin as I’m cradled in Marcel’s huge, powerful arms.

He strides through the doorway, out into the Toad-controlled areas of the ship. Tessa is in Lucius’s hands, behind me – carried in exactly the same way; like a weary child in the arms of an indulgent parent.

We’re carried effortlessly down the corridor. When we reach the corner, the last of the arid dryness in the air is drowned out by the humidity and moisture preferred by Toad-kind. As my breath becomes heavy, I start to miss the desert-like dryness of their quarters. The disgusting humidity clings to me like the embrace of a stranger.

At the end of the next corridor, Toads intercept us. After a quick glance at the towering warriors, they scurry away like frightened rats. They’re clearly terrified of the Aurelians.

Can you blame them? The way Marcel so casually lopped the head from one of them with his Orb-Blade – merely for ripping open my shirt – demonstrates that their nervousness is well-warranted.

Marcel ignores them, as if they pose no threat to his triad. He carries me further into the bowels of the enormous vessel – until we finally reach a wide hallway that ends abruptly in a huge pair of double doors, guarded by two looming Bullfrogs; each one at least eight-feet tall.

“No Orb-Weapons,” one of them grunts, glancing down at the hilts of the Orb-Blades that hang from the Aurelian’s belts.

Marcel pauses. His expression gives away nothing, but as I’m cradled in his arms, I can sense his brain whirring like a computer, trying to resolve this demand.

“We were ordered to wear formal dress,” he eventually retorts. “According to Aurelian protocol, such attirerequireswe carry our Orb-Weapons.” He pauses for effect. “Unless you wish to defy the orders of the Finger himself, that is?”

The Bullfrog pauses for a second, narrowing his big, glistening eyes. Then, he lifts one of his wiry arms, and places his communicator watch to his lips – murmuring into it secretively.

Seconds later, the two Bullfrogs step back, and the huge doors open. The guards usher us through – although the triad act as if they’re not even there as they stride past.

This is clearly Lord Oblog’s throne room itself. Marcel strides into the towering chamber with his spine straight and his head held high – but there’s a chorus of jeers and ugly chuckling as we enter.