Prince of Forever

by Gena Showalter

  Physically, he was faultless, majestic and regal, his wild fall of hair the perfect frame for his chiseled features. How easy it would be to go to him now, to straddle him and sink onto his length. To demand the pleasure he’d offered so willingly.

  Her face must have betrayed her thoughts because he parted his sensual lips the moment their eyes locked. His nostrils flared, and she gulped.

  Change the subject. Change the subject now. “Um, yeah, so, no lessons yet, but I bought you some clothes,” she managed to croak. “I hope they fit.”

  “I’m sure they are fine.” He swept his tongue over his lips, an intoxicating invitation she struggled to ignore.

  When he made no other reply, she prompted, “Put them on please. We need to leave. We’ve only got twenty minutes to get downtown. I always open the shop at eight o’clock, not a minute later.” Well, except for yesterday, but he didn’t need to know that. “Oh, I almost forgot. I bought you a present, too.”

  “A present…as in a gift?” His eyebrows drew together, and a flicker of surprise darkened his eyes, chasing away his seductive intent. “For me?”

  “Yes, for you.” Grinning, she handed him the bag with the knife.

  He glanced at her, then the bag. Her, then the bag. Finally he hesitantly accepted her offering. “I do not know what to say.”

  “Don’t say anything. I hated leaving you behind, I truly did, but I thought it would be safer for us both. Anyway, I’m rambling. Just open the bag.” Eagerness flooded her veins, almost bubbling over. “Well? What are you waiting for?”

  Slowly he smoothed the plastic aside and lifted a long, shiny black box. With exquisite care, he withdrew the blade from the velvet center and studied every angle. The sharp-edged metal winked in the light and fit perfectly in his hand.

  Silence surrounded them as she waited for his reaction. He simply continued to peer at the blade, as if he’d never seen a weapon before. Little by little, her excitement drained. He didn’t like the gift, did he? Maybe she should have gotten him a leopard-print thong instead. Or an entire box of whipped cream. What did he like? “I can take it back,” she rushed to tell him. “I can get you something else.”

  “No! Mine!” he said suddenly, his voice firm and unbending. His lashes swept upward, and he pierced her with such gratitude and reverence she wanted to promise to buy him an entire arsenal—guns, grenades and all. “You thought of me while you were out. You spent your hard-earned money on me.”

  Realization: he’d never received a gift before. And how utterly heartbreaking was that? This wonderful man had lived over a thousand years, yet no one had thought to buy him a present.

  She sank to the carpet to rummage through the sacks, eager to show him the rest. After a few moments, she withdrew a shirt, a pair of jeans and boxers. “Here, these are for you, too.”

  “I—thank you,” he said again, then placed the garments beside him on the couch and continued his scrutiny of the knife.

  “You’re very welcome. Now, we really do need to leave,” she reminded him. “I don’t want to be late.”

  “Tardiness can be a benefit, little dragon, especially if the time is spent in bed—or on the kitchen tabletop. Or on the floor. Mayhap one day you will allow me to prove all of this to you.”

  Each new word made her body ache in a different place. Her left nipple. Her right nipple. Between her legs. Behind her knees. Practically in a trance, she watched as Tristan set his blade to the side at long last. He eased to his feet. Tie by tie, he unlaced his pants, then inched them down his hips, revealing more and more skin.

  She would stop him. Yep. Any second now…

  The final lace opened, revealing—

  “Tristan!” she gasped. “What are you doing?”

  “I am undressing.”

  “I can see that.” And a lot more. “But why?”

  “Why else? To put on my new clothes.”

  “Oh.” With her sitting on the floor, and him standing a few feet away, their positions gave her a dazzling view of his assets. He was all taut male, hard muscles and, yes, he was large all over as she’d suspected. But she would never have imagined… Julia gulped, her body pulsing with need.

  “Is something wrong?” he asked innocently, acting as if he wasn’t naked now.

  “No, nothing’s wrong.” Nothing except the fact that she needed to catch her breath—and she would, just as soon as she looked away. But she couldn’t force her gaze to leave him.

  The phrase “a warrior’s mighty sword” suddenly made sense. Because dang. He could cut through anything with that beast—panties, reluctance, objections.

  “Tsk, tsk. You are staring, Julia,” Tristan said.

  Yes, she was staring, and she wanted to continue doing so. Since he had been rude enough to point it out, she couldn’t continue without being, well, rude.

  “Uh, I’m going to get my briefcase.” Did she even own a briefcase? Slowly she rose and inched from the room. She only tripped twice, though her attention stayed glued to his erection—him, only him—until the very last possible second.

  * * *

  TRISTAN WATCHED JULIA’S retreat. Alone, he allowed a slow, devilish smile to form, his good humor restored. Very interesting. Very interesting, indeed. Julia found his nakedness appealing. So appealing, in fact, she had been unable to glance away from him. That pleased him on every level, considering she had told him only last eve that she did not like him in that way. The little dragon more than liked him; she was transfixed by him.

  Ah, what a sweet revelation.

  Slowly his smile faded, however. Was that why she had bought him a gift? Because she wanted him and hoped to buy his affections…the same way he’d secretly hoped to buy the affections of his previous lovers?

  He sighed and pushed the question to the back of his mind, sensing an answer would not be forthcoming any time soon. A shock. He, a master of female passions, did not understand the workings of Julia’s mind.

  He tugged on his new clothing piece by piece. If he’d had the currency, he would have bought her the finest jewels, the purest stones to match her eyes. His way of saying thank you. Had any man ever bought her such a gift?

  I want to be the first. The only.

  He buried such a dangerous thought—for now—and turned his sights to figuring out what to do with this woman who defied him like a warrior, kissed him like he possessed the last breath of air for survival and treated him as if he were a man, not a slave.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Imperia

  The Sixth Season

  “WHAT DO YOU HERE, ZIRRA?”

  Rivulets of light trickled like liquid gold from the four suns, past the arched, beveled windows, encircling the tribunal chamber, giving it the appearance of a holy sanctuary. Two towering thrones perched on the verdant dais before her, both inlaid with precious stones from other worlds—ebony, ivory, assyri and merdeaux. Winged figures carved from the purest alabaster decorated the legs and seemed ready to burst into the heavens.

  The gleaming cream-and-rose marble flooring cooled her bare feet and reminded her of the cold emptiness within herself…and the reason she was here. Her ears filled with the crashing waves just beyond the palace’s gates outside, a potent reminder, as well.

  The High Priest sat beside his queen, regarding Zirra intently, his eyes a deep, fathomless blue. Mystical power charged the air around him, surrounded her, moved through her, a power so much greater than hers.

  Her fists clenched. Four seasons ago Percen had stolen Tristan’s box from her and cursed the pleasure slave to another world with a spell of his own. How infuriated she’d been. How infuriated she still was. She’d wanted to retrieve her slave immediately, but Percen had stopped her. He had snatched away her powers, wrapping her in a cloak of mortality so complete she could not summon any of her mystical abilities. Not a single one.

  ’Twas her punishment, he’d said, for nearly ruining his precious Alliance with the mortals.

  Bastard.


  “I will ask but one more time,” Percen said, a steely edge underlying his tone. “What do you here, Zirra?”

  Chin high, she stood in the center of the room, a gossamer froth of cerulean draping her body, her hands at her sides. She kept her expression impassive, though she could barely stand to look upon the High Priest. With the wild fall of his inky hair, the strength of his magic, and the blue pools that were his eyes, he should have been a beautiful man. Instead he was hideous. His body was twisted, and his left eye drooped low on his cheekbone. His nose was sharp and beaked.

  A pity he was not tolerable. She might have tried seducing him to her will, even though she’d vowed long ago never to take another Druinn as her lover.

  “I have come to demand the return of my powers,” she said defiantly.

  A chorus of “ooh” circulated across the swell of talon-carrying guards positioned strategically around each corner before an arduous silence sharpened its claws. The sound and the lack of sound ground together in disharmony like shards of broken glass.

  “You? Demand me?” he said, uttering the very words she’d once uttered to Tristan. “I doubt I will ever return your powers. You would attempt to retrieve Tristan, and that I will not allow.”

  “He belongs to me.”

  Percen’s brows furrowed together high on his forehead. “If I were capable of breaking another’s curse, I would have done so. As that is something no Druinn can do, I simply sent him away—where he will remain. Be glad I did not kill you.”

  Be glad I did not kill you, she silently mocked. “I demand you return him to me at once.”

  “More demands?” His tone sharpened with deadly precision. “There is a war brewing, Zirra. Many of my favored sorcerers have already joined the rebels in hopes of destroying our tentative bond with the mortals—something you nearly did all on your own. I punished you for your actions, and yet you continue to think only of yourself and demand I reward you. My answer,” he added casually, almost pleasantly, “is nay. And any who seek to aid you will suffer my wrath.”

  Dread fluttered sharp wings inside her stomach, cutting, slashing at her sense of hope. Her gaze flickered to the queen, poised lovingly beside the High Priest. Heather was the only one who held any sway with Percen.

  Zirra prayed the queen would aid her cause.

  “I agree with my life-mate,” Heather said, the sweetness of her voice as lyrical as a song. Almost absently, she reached out and squeezed Percen’s hand. “You would do well to leave this matter alone. To leave Tristan alone.”

  Curse them! How self-righteous they were, thinking they knew what was best for her. Well, she knew what was best. Tristan. Only in his arms did she feel beautiful and strong. Only when he obeyed her did she feel alive and wholly fulfilled.

  Through slitted eyes, she returned her attention to the High Priest. Their gazes collided, an icy clash of blue against blue, a stormy sea against a tranquil breeze. “You once cursed your own brother to a life of stone. My actions are no worse than yours.”

  He glowered at her. “I made reparations for my sins. My brother now lives quite happily with his life-mate and their children.”

  “Then allow me to make reparations with Tristan. I will become his life-mate and give him as many children as he desires.”

  “Nay,” Percen said with a smug grin.

  She nearly screeched as her rage leapt to another plateau. How easy it would be to reclaim Tristan if she possessed her powers and knew where he now resided. All she would have to do was open a vortex. Since she could not, her only hope lay with the High Priest. She must convince him to help her.

  “I have suffered my punishment for many seasons,” she grated. “Surely that is enough.”

  “Nay, ’tis not.” He paused, his expression pensive. “Mayhap I should give you to the mortal Great Lord and allow him to punish you.”

  “You would not dare. For you do not want him to know what became of his finest warrior.”

  “I would dare, Zirra. Doubt me not.”

  As her hope faded, longing stirred inside her. Tristan’s beautiful face flashed before her mind. She needed him. Must have him. Soon. Tristan was an addictive aphrodisiac and, once ingested, nothing else mattered but another taste. She hated him for the need he made her feel, but she was helpless against her craving for him.

  She had tried to humble him, to prove her mastery over his every action, yet each and every day that she’d owned his box, he had found a way to defy her.

  Aye, he’d ravished her body whenever she’d issued a command, but he’d never given anything more of himself. He had spoken of her death while his hands delivered expert—unfeeling—pleasure. He had glared at her with hatred while his tongue licked her skin. And yet, memories of his magnificence still had the power to make her shiver with delight.

  “Tristan is but a mortal,” she ground out. “He is nothing to you.”

  Heather, a mortal herself, took offense. “He is a mortal, yes, but that does not make him a lesser being.”

  “He fought for his Great Lord,” Percen said, “and he has fought for me, as well. He killed his enemies without hesitation or regret. He is loyal and trustworthy, a king at heart and a true legend among any race. What are you but a pitiful excuse for flesh, blood and magic? Well, magic no longer,” he added smugly.

  Though shaking with the force of her hurt and fury, she ignored his taunts. Percen hoped to humiliate her, nothing more, because she had once spurned him, once spitting in his ugly face and refusing his hand in marriage. She would not allow him to injure her spirit as payment.

  “Tristan is all that you claim,” she said. “I admit that. But he is also mine. He belongs to me.”

  Heather uttered a tinkling laugh. “He was never, and will never be yours.”

  Zirra’s teeth bared as Percen snapped, “Do not fear. One day Tristan will return to our land. One day—when Elliea wills it, not a moment sooner.”

  Joy and despair, impatience and delight all pounded through her. “If you bring him back now, I can make him love me. I know I can. He will even thank you for returning him.”

  A laugh boomed from Percen, a cruel reverberation that threatened to destroy her pride. “Why do you persist in this? He will never love you. You are not worthy of him.”

  I am worthy, she longed to shout, though her features never wavered from their tight, emotionless facade, never revealed a hint of her inner turmoil.

  “Get you gone from my sight, woman.” Regally he waved one hand through the air. “Your greed sickens me.”

  Fists clenched, teeth now bared, she snarled, “I will find a way to retrieve him, doubt me not. Tristan is mine. My lover. My property. And he will belong to me once again.”

  Percen’s nostrils flared at such blatant insolence. “You dare contest my will?”

  “I dare,” she said evenly, glaring up at him. “Oh, aye. I dare.”

  When the tribunal chamber cleared, Percen glanced at his life-mate, the queen of his heart and soul, the woman who had saved him from destruction. “Mayhap I should have Zirra killed,” he said on a sigh. “Her treachery will only grow.”

  “Our son would never forgive you if you hurt her.” Concern flashed over Heather’s aging features, her brown eyes wide. “Did we do the right thing, sending Tristan away?”

  “Aye, we did.” A long sigh slipped from his lips. “Worry not, my love. I will think of something to do with Zirra, something that will not upset our son.”

  * * *

  ZIRRA PACED THE confines of her chamber, her hands fisted in the silkiness of her robe. Every time she turned, her hair whipped against her back. Dark emotions pounded through her, as hot and stifling as the fire burning within the hearth. Heavy clouds, thunderous and gray, covered the four suns, only adding to her riotous mood. With a screech, she kicked a chair from her path and knocked her three-tiered vanity to the floor. Her prized crystal vase shattered, leaving a broken trail of jagged, opalescent shards.

  How dare Percen de
Locke treat her so shabbily. Oh, how she longed to punish him. To destroy his magic with her own, as he had done to her. Yet, as High Priest of the Druinn, his magic far surpassed hers, and she could do nothing to hurt him or counter his spell. Nothing!

  She’d lost her powers. Worse, she’d lost the people’s respect, becoming an amusing cautionary tale to chuckle about over meals. And she’d lost Tristan, just as he’d intended.

  I must have Tristan back. He’s mine. In a fit of pique, she lifted a jeweled goblet and hurtled it at the wall, where it thumped and fell unharmed. She’d owned her beautiful slave only a handful of seasons. Such a small amount of time, really, when you lived an endless eternity, yet her need for him had grown to incomprehensible dimensions.

  “Where is he?” she cried. What woman owned him now? Touched him? Tasted him? Welcomed his body?

  What woman felt the power he incited?

  Those thoughts caused tenebrous jealousy to completely awaken from slumber and invite a deep-seated wrath. She felt sick in the pit of her stomach and with another screech of fury, she flung herself atop her bed—the very bed on which she’d last enjoyed Tristan. The silky white cloth enveloped her like a lover’s caress, mocking her. She pounded her fists into the fur-lined mattress.

  “He belongs to me. Me!”

  A servant entered the chamber, her gaze wide and uncertain, as if she wasn’t sure what fate awaited her. “You called, Sorceress?”

  “Nay, I didn’t, you stupid—” Zirra stopped abruptly. All of a sudden, her breathing slowed, her rage eased. The solution was so simply, really, and she wondered why she had not considered it before. There was a Druinn male who would risk Percen’s wrath to help her. Oh, aye. The man hungered for her, after all, and with the proper incentive he would do anything that she asked.

  She almost laughed.

  “Where is the prince at this moment?” she asked.

  The servant’s fingers twisted the plain brown fabric of her gown. “He practices his magic in the white sands.”