“Mimosas in the morning?” Shahin studied her Kept, who had stirred up mix of orange juice – and where had Ty gotten that? She had to assume it’d figured out how to Meentik it up – and, even more improbably, champagne. “Hardly manly.”
“Neither of us, my dear Keeper, can be counted as manly. You may be as tough as one by some estimations – although I’d say they’re wrong. You’re as tough as a woman, which I’d count as far stronger.”
“You want something. And you’ve dangled far afield of your answer.” Neverthless, she sat down, swirling the drink and watching the bubbles rise.
“Don’t I always want something?”
“Well, often, at the very least. Is this poisoned?”
“Of course not.” As if to prove it, Ty lifted the glass. Before the slender hermaphrodite could drink, however, it flinched, running afoul of an order. “If I may?”
“You may.” Shahin took a ridiculous pleasure in that order, although it had been laid in as a supply-train precaution, rather than out of sadism. Don’t eat more than I or my lieutenants put on your plate. She hadn’t said drink, but she’d proven to be impatient with any loophole-searching.
Ty sipped the mimosa. “Not poisoned, dear Keeper.”
“Very good.” She sipped her own. “And very good. Your Working?”
“My Working.” His shoulders rolled. “I didn’t have any orders against this sort of thing…”
“No. I’m certainly not going to stop you from a domestic Working. Especially not one this good.”
She was intrigued to watch the set of his shoulders relax. He’d been worried. Interesting. “Now.” She leaned forward, watching him flinch away. “What do you want?”
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