There was still ten minutes left of class, but I left the floor anyway and headed for the shower. I was no fit company and I suddenly felt drained. It was a mental exhaustion as opposed to being worn out from my martial arts class, the weight of loss and frustration bogging me down. I'd failed to protect my mate. Regardless of who was more powerful and the circumstances, I'd failed to stop another from taking and hurting what was mine. And he was hurting; I could feel it sometimes when I brushed up against the blocked link, though I knew he tried to keep it buried within himself.Damn martyr.Marcus was waiting just inside the dojo when I came out of the bathroom, his usual kind expression on his face as he spoke with Sensei. It was an interesting picture. Marcus was a little over six-feet of well-groomed, older gentleman, his skin lightly golden where you could see it, his tailored butler's suit helping to hide his well-muscled build. Kind blue eyes and short, dark brown hair just. Jeremy wondered idly how he could wave both hands so wildly and not have the telephone fall from his shoulder, and what difference the hand waving made to the person on the other end of the line, but continued, "As to where they want to go, and why, I expect they wish to rejoin their party aboard the Kobekistani Royal Yacht Imperial Voyager. I assume they merely got lost in the airport." I agree," said the policeman, "But I have to be certain that these are not people who fear oppression in their own country and wish asylum here in the European Union. I must hear that from their own mouths to be sure." Oppression?" thundered Jeremy, faking almost losing his temper, "Dottore, please. These are staff in the personal service of the Golden Palace and of His Magnificence, the Emir Mahmoud Abdullah, may he live for ever. How can you think for one instant that they suffer from oppression?" Please, please, I did not say I thought that, merely that I have to hear it from their own lips to.
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