Napoleon's first clue that his dislike of Mark Slate might be justified was the change in the Russian. The moment their transport deposited them in front of what could only be described as a slum, all the previous bravado literally drained out of him.

*Follow your instincts and your heart, my son* the voice of Julian Solo echoed in his head.

Slate took out what resembled a credit card and swiped it across a hidden strip lodged in the ancient doorknob. There was a metallic click; the false door slid open.

The opulence that greeted him came as no surprise considering all he'd seen; however, it was the size. The living room alone was twice the size of his.

"Would you like a bath or a shower?"

The soft voice in his ear brought Solo back to the matter at hand. "Do I get you as my guard?” he asked, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.

The blond chuckled. "You'd do well to curb your arrogance, Captain; you are, as you Westerners say, 'in our turf'. Besides, my relationship with Mark is none of your concern."

Solo noticed that the bravado had returned in Slate's absence. "Did I ask?"

Illya ignored the question and headed for the bathroom.

Solo followed, his instinct telling him not to let the Russian out of his sight.

Both men pulled up short as Slate blocked their entrance to the bathroom.  "Draw his bath then get yourself into the bedroom", he ordered the blond. "You, Captain Solo", he addressed his guest. "I'll show you to your room."

Napoleon felt his anger rise but once again, held his tongue. Patience. "Thank you", he replied. "Which way?"
His host pointed to his left and stood aside, a clear indication he was to go first.

As he moved to obey, he spared the Russian a quick glance. The fear and humiliation in those beautiful eyes tore at his heart.
"Captain?” Slate prompted him.

Solo smiled, sheepishly. "Sorry. I was admiring my surroundings. Excellent taste", he lied.
 

"This room will afford you some privacy, Captain Solo", Slate announced as he ushered his guest into a large, well-appointed bedroom. "It is at the opposite end of this hallway, away from our room", he added as an afterthought. "Your bath will be ready in five minutes", he continued. "When you have finished, you will return to this room and wait. When dinner is ready, I'll send Illya for you."

With that he existed the room, closing the ornate French doors behind him. Napoleon remained still, listening for the telltale click that would indicate he was now a prisoner. When it did not come, he opened one of the doors and cautiously scanned the hallway. There was no guards posted; but there was a distance light at the other end.

With a speed born of fear for Illya's safety, he moved down the hallway. As he drew nearer could hear voices: Slate's and Kuryakin's.

"Please, Mark, not here", Kuryakin pleaded.

"Whenever I please, Illya", Slate hissed. "Remember who is at stake."

"One day I'll kill you for this", Kuryakin retorted.

Slate laughed the sound of malice. "You little slut! You want the Yank, don't you? Think he'll save you? I've seen the look in his eyes. When I get through I'm certain he'll have fun. Now, get out of those clothes!"

"Mark, please..."

The slap was loud enough to reverberate through the hallway, Illya cried out in pain, then the sound of clothes being torn. Unable to contain himself any longer, Napoleon gathered all his strength and kicked the partially opened door in. What he beheld further fueled his anger.

Illya lay, face down and naked, on the huge bed, straddled by Slate. The blond was trying to struggle but Slate's weight held him down.

"Wait your turn, Captain!” Slate sneered, turning to look at the intruder. "When I'm through with him, he's all yours. Unless, of course, you'd care to join me?"

Solo merely smiled, one filled with deadly intent. Lunging forward he tackled Slate, the momentum pulling his off Illya, and carrying both of them to the floor. Napoleon's powerful right cross ended the brief struggle.

Illya, for his part, could hardly believe his eyes. He had witnessed the struggle Solo had waged on his behalf; yet he remembered Slate's words - *When I get through, I'm certain he'lll have fun. * 'What would I expect, now that he knows what I am?' Illya thought morosely. Now the American stood over him. "Well, what are you waiting for?” he snapped, tired of these games.

The fear that still clouded the blue eyes sealed Napoleon's decision. Holding up his hands in the gesture of surrender, he sat down next to this man whose life had suddenly become very dear to him. "Your permission, Illya, one day", he replied, hoping the blond heard the truth in his voice. "I have decided. I will join you. Will you trust me?"

Illya, however, still remained unconvinced. "Prove it", he demanded.

Solo rose and went over to an ornate rack filled with ancient weapons. Taking down a wicked looking dagger, he returned to the bed. "My voice speaks my pledge upon the honor of my family; this...” he paused, held up his palm, "is my pledge to you." With that he made the slash across his palm, from right to left, drew blood, then held out the dagger, hilt first, to Kuryakin.

Illya, his heart filled with pure joy, took the offered dagger and repeated the ritual, ending it by entwining their fingers. "The blood has spoken, Napoleon. We are pledged. The day either of us breaks it that person shall die", he intoned.

"So be it"; Napoleon intoned, then leaned forward to capture the perfect lips.