Master Trey is in a lather. Not the good kind.

Trey: Son of Tallav, #4 Sons of Tallav
Trey yanked his shirt from the locker, grabbing his comm and slamming the door shut. His leather pants had no pockets just clips where he could hang his favorite toys, so he gripped the comm with his teeth and strode toward the door while buttoning his shirt. Damn woman. This was the third time and by no means the charm. It was the end.

He knew right where she’d be. Where she was every day and late into most nights. The hall to the staff entrance cleared before him. He slammed his palms into the slab of plasti-steel door that secured the employees-only entrance to the Whip Hand, stepping out into the flawless weather that made each Beta Tau dome a luxurious oasis.\

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