“Go to him. Tell him I request his presence in my bedchamber right away.”
The young girl gave a relieved nod and hurried to obey.
“I will have you yet, Tristan.” This time, Zirra did allow herself to laugh, giddy for the first time since Percen cast his traitorous spells.
Romulis strode into her chamber a short while later, all aggression and malevolence. His bare chest glistened with sweat, his muscles laced with sinew and scars. Tiny white crystals were embedded in his pectorals, used as conduits for his magic.
He looked every inch the savage, dangerous warrior that he was, yet all the more potent because his magic hummed all around him, as sharp and deadly as any talon. His booted feet crunched the broken vase on the floor, when he suddenly halted at the edge of her bed, a dark tower against the whiteness of her walls and furnishings, and stared down at her. His features were bold and striking. Silky black hair hung to his shoulders, framing his golden eyes and bladelike cheekbones.
On numerous occasions, he’d attempted to lure her to his bed. She always spurned him quite forcefully, sending him away frustrated and angry, for she never dabbled with the Druinn males. They were too volatile and uncontrollable; with a wave of their hand, they could curse or bless you.
As you both blessed and cursed, Tristan?
Be quiet, common sense! This isn’t about me.
While she relished that power within herself, she did not welcome it in another. The way Percen had so easily stripped her of her mystical abilities only proved her reluctance to take a Druinn lover was well placed.
Though Romulis knew how she felt, he desired her still. Obviously. He would always desire her. The knowledge burned in his eyes. Oh, he might despise himself for his weakness, but he was helpless against it, and she couldn’t blame him. Look at her. Perfection.
“What is it you wish this time, Zirra?”
Her shapely brows furrowed as she offered him a pouty scowl. “Your father has stolen my mystic abilities and sent my slave to another world.”
“I know.” He paused a moment to rest his hand against the alabaster column rising beside him. “All of the palace knows, in fact, and none of us care.”
She forced her expression to remain unaffected. To reveal an emotion was to admit you had a weakness. “Will you bring Tristan back to me?” Watching him, she lounged seductively against the furs and traced her fingertips over the curve of her hip. “I would be most grateful.”
“Is that the only reason you called me? If so, I will take my leave of you now.” He spun toward the entrance.
“Wait! Please. I only wish to punish him,” she lied. “I’ll be indebted to the man who aids me.”
He slowly turned to face her. His lips slanted in an insolent grin. “How indebted, sorceress?”
“Show him to me. Just a glimpse. That’s all I ask. Please, Romulis. I will spend the night with you.”
His eyes lit with something dark and wicked. “Very well,” he said, punctuating each word. “I will give you a single glimpse of Tristan.”
He lifted a crystal shard from the shattered vase and used it to scoop a flaming ember from the hearth. Smoke ribboned all the way up to the vaulted ceiling as he muttered a spell. The magic’s essence scented the air with roses and spice. He moved the fingers of his free hand in a wide arc. Directly above the smoky cloud, oxygen began to swirl and liquefy. In the center of the dappled liquid, Tristan’s image materialized.
Zirra smothered a hungry gasp and forced her body to remain where it was as the mortal she’d dreamed of these many eves filled her vision. He was sitting atop a plain black chair, his arms locked behind his head as he stared up at a ceiling.
He was so deep in thought the fine lines around his eyes were tight, his lips drawn tight.
Her mouth watered for a taste of him.
What thoughts tumbled through his mind? Did he think of her?
She reached out to touch him but grasped only air. Her disappointment was nearly a living thing, and she screeched, “You must show me another glimpse of him, Romulis. You must.”
His hands lowered to his sides, and Tristan’s image floated away. Romulis laughed with forced humor. “You know I will not risk punishment for you. Not even for a night with you. None of us will.”
“Percen is your father. He will never punish you.”
“My answer is still nay.”
“Surely you can do something for me,” she cried. “Or there will be no night for us.”
“Aye, I can do something…but I will not,” he said firmly. “Keep your night. Tristan has had many guan rens since you and he does not need your interference in his new life. The woman he is with now might just set him free.”
No, no, no. But one of this Druinn’s gifts was the ability to see into the future and know. Just know. She could not doubt he spoke true. “Where is he now? Where? Who dares to claim my property?”
Stubbornly he remained silent. Yet his gaze traveled over her hungrily, desperately.
“Please! Help me, Romulis. I am not above begging.”
“Zirra—” he began.
“Romulis,” she returned, gentling her tone. Watching him through the shield of her lashes, she turned to her other side, lounging seductively, her hair draped over one shoulder. She knew she presented a picture of carnality, an image that inspired the lust of legions. “Bring him back to me, and I will give you anything you desire.”
“Nay,” he said, though he hesitated this time.
She persisted. “Anything you desire of me is yours, Romulis. Anything. All you must do is help me.”
Minutes dragged by, an eternity. What thoughts swirled through his mind, she did not know.
“You will do anything I ask?” he finally said.
“Aye,” she answered without consideration to the consequences. Hope edged within her, and she knew she would pay any fee this Druinn asked.
“My price is this. For two weeks, you will do what I ask, when I ask. No arguments. No refusals. Is that acceptable?”
Again she answered swiftly. Because she could endure anything for a measly two weeks. “Aye. I will.”
Romulis closed his eyes. A war waged within his mind, she knew. Duty versus desire. His father versus her. Which would emerge victorious? She waited, suspended on the edge of her bed. Her entire existence hinged on his answer.
“Very well,” he said softly, facing her once more. Determination shone in his eyes, yet there was a hint of regret. “I will help you reunite with Tristan.”
Triumph drifted through her, as absolute and powerful as the fourth-season winds. “How?” she demanded. “Will you escort me to him?”
“Nay, I will not,” he answered firmly. “When your two weeks end, I will bring Tristan to you. If my plan is not acceptable, then consider our bargain null and void.”
“It is acceptable,” she said quickly. “It is acceptable.”
“Mayhap, if you obey all of my orders quickly enough, I will even show you how to win back all of your powers.”
Anticipation slithered along her spine, wrapping around her like a hungry serpent in search of sustenance. She could barely contain her eagerness. Her body was desperate to reclaim her magic, and her hands were itching for the feel of Tristan, to once more hold him in her arms, to glory in his body pressed against hers.
“Whatever you must teach me, Romulis,” she assured him, “I will learn.”
He shoved both of his hands through his hair, sweeping the dark locks from his temples. Sweat kept the strands in place. He sighed. “I must bathe ere I speak my first order.”
“Yes, yes. Bathe. But hurry,” she commanded with a clap of her hands.
His gaze narrowed to tiny slits. “Best you recall who is helping whom.”
“Please hurry,” she amended.
“I think we will both come to regret this.” With a weary shake of his head, he strode from the chamber.
This man was going to be difficult to control, she mused as she lay
back on the bed. Were she strong enough, she might have cursed Romulis inside a trinket box of his own. Then she would have two slaves to use at her leisure.
The thought made her smile.
CHAPTER TEN
You Must Accept All Punishment
As Your Due
JULIA’S TREASURES CLOSED at five o’clock sharp, and by then, Julia felt as if she’d just fought in a world war—and lost. Every time the bell above the door had chimed, Tristan had instantly swooped to her side, hovering over her shoulder and glaring like the wrath of God. He claimed he’d only wished to protect her. But she wasn’t sure if he meant to protect her from her customers or the door chime. The man did not like loud noises.
Twice she’d watched him stroke his knife and eye the blasted door with a do-you-want-a-piece-of-this glare. Though he hadn’t been looking their way, several patrons assumed he meant to commit a mass murder and had hastened away. The memory had her rubbing her temples in a vain effort to ward off the growing ache. She was only surprised the local PD hadn’t been called.
Never again would she put herself through this. If America’s economy collapsed and the only way to raise money was to nail Tristan inside her display case, she still wouldn’t bring him to work with her. Sure, women twittered over him and bought anything he recommended. And yeah, she’d sold more merchandise today than she usually sold in two weeks combined. It didn’t matter. The man smelled like a buffet of sensual delights and all that hovering nonsense had given her a serious case of pheromone toxicity.
Now her feet hurt, her stomach was filled with acid and regret, her headache was a thousand times worse, and she was so irritable it bordered on PMS. All she wanted to do was toss a few pain relievers down the hatch, soak in a hot, steamy bath, then go to bed for a year.
“Let’s go home,” she told Tristan on a sigh. “We can go to the mall another day.”
“Aye. Home.” He nodded. “This shopkeeping requires more energy than soldiering.”
“I’m surprised you think so. Most people assume owning an antique store means I spend my days playing games on my phone.”
“Then most people are fools.”
She locked all the doors, checked the windows, and strode to her car with Tristan at her side. He handled the ride home much better than one to the shop. This morning, as she’d eased onto the highway, his skin had turned an unflattering shade of green and sweat had beaded on his brow. Now he only gripped his hands on his knees, his color remaining high. For his benefit, she stayed five miles under the speed limit.
“What types of vehicles are used in Imperia?” she asked.
“Mortals ride horned stags or dragons. The Druinn, or magic wielders, use magic teleportation.”
“An actual dragon?” Astonished, she flicked him a quick glance. “As in fire-breathing, green scales and wings?”
“There is another kind?”
“I don’t know. Is there?”
“Nay,” he replied.
“Is your personal dragon-car the one you so often compare me to? Little dragon,” she mocked.
“Aye. Correct,” he said. “Dragons are revered for their courage, their offensive and defensive and their tenacity.”
Ohhhh. She melted into her seat and smiled slowly. I’ll never complain about the dragon nickname again. How sweet and absolutely endearing. Not exactly accurate, but still sweet. “And you think I’m dragon-like?”
“You faced down a warrior triple your size. Courageous. You disarmed me right from the start. Offensive and defensive skilled. You insisted on having your way. Tenacious.”
Was that how he saw her? Seriously? She reeled, the idea almost ludicrous, but also awe-inspiring. He’d just described the way she’d always hoped to be.
“Do you miss your home?” she asked. “The magic and the dragons?”
His pupils flared, his longing suddenly palpable. “I do.” Voice thick with emotion, he added, “I miss them more than I can ever say.”
As he sat there, memories surely playing through his mind, sadness overshadowed the longing, and something inside Julia cracked. Poor baby. How much had he lost? Not just his home and his transportation, but his family and his friends. The only world he’d probably ever known.
At the house, she urged him to sit at the kitchen counter as she slapped together a couple turkey sandwiches. Tristan ate the first batch…plus five more.
So far the guy had cost her three hundred and forty-eight dollars in food and supplies, plus the loss of her sanity. A good bargain? Earlier she would have said absolutely not. Now, the jury was still deliberating.
“Best we go to the mall after all,” he said, putting his plate in the sink. “I do not like these clothes you have provided me with. These—” he motioned to the sweat pants with a wave of his hand “—leave me suspended.”
The thought of battling crowds while Tristan “protected” her from salesclerks swept away every ounce of relaxation she’d managed to gain. “How about we—” She paused, the last part of Tristan’s speech registering. “Uh, Tristan, you are wearing the underwear I gave you, right?”
He canted his chin to the side, his eyes changing from green to blue to purple, each color crackling with confusion. “You speak of the small scrap of cloth I found in the bag?”
“Yes!” How to explain, how to explain? “It’s keeps your—” she pointed to his crotch “—you know from flapping around.”
“Ah.” He shook his head. “A strange garment, that, and one I did not make use of the way you described. Instead, I tore strips of cloth from this underwear and used them to secure my new blade to my thigh.”
Which meant he had spent the entire day with only a pair of sweat pants between Julia and his…assets.
Oh, my. “So you didn’t like the briefs, but what about the boxers?” When he gave her another confused frown, she explained the difference.
“I do not recall seeing these briefs. Only boxers.”
Wonderful. She’d either left them in the cart or her sedan’s trunk. “I’ll see if I can find you a pair. That way, you won’t feel quite so…suspended.” And was she really sitting here, peacefully discussing a man’s underwear?
I’ve made progress already and my lessons haven’t even begun!
Grinning, she grabbed her coat and practically skipped outside. But when she stepped off the porch, she made the mistake of looking past her shrubs. Her blood flash-froze, and so did the rest of her. There, trimming the hedges that surrounded his house, stood Peter, her next-door neighbor. Her love interest.
Julia’s happy-go-lucky mood vanished in an instant, her tongue thickening like a block of concrete. She didn’t want to face him until she’d completed her lessons—or even started them, for that matter.
More panicked by the second, she scrambled for a hiding place and ended up kneeling behind one of her bushes, not twenty feet away from him.
Several prolonged minutes ticked by as she continued to watch him. If she were a dragon, she would march over there and flirt. Yes, yes. I can do this.
She took a step. Or tried to take a step. She went nowhere fast, already imagining the spectacle she would make. It’s official. I’m a coward.
If she could get his attention someway… No, if she did something like jump up and announce her presence, Peter might think she was foolish. She really, really wanted him to believe she was wonderful.
Only one solution popped into her mind. I have to wait him out.
Her study of him intensified. In his late twenties, early thirties, Peter had a full head of brown hair, tanned skin, and a lean body. He always wore a smile, as if forever pleased with the world around him.
He was reserved and didn’t always know what to say, so he would sympathize with her predicament. And he wasn’t so beautiful women would flock to him, trying to steal his affections. He was perfect for Julia. The kind of guy her mother told her she could win.
And yet, Julia didn’t feel drawn to him and definitely didn’t crave his kis
s. She didn’t dream of him when she closed her eyes. Not at night and not during the day. She didn’t imagine getting naked with him. Instead, Tristan still occupied her thoughts. She liked the way he moved, sensuous yet sometimes predatory, and the way his eyes crinkled at the sides when he teased her. While his muscles bulged with strength and he’d had plenty of opportunity, he’d never actually hurt her. He’d always been careful of her smaller size.
As soon as she realized she was comparing the two men, shame washed over her. Throughout her entire childhood, she’d been compared to her sister, and oh, it had hurt.
Faith plays the piano so beautifully. Why can’t you, Julia?
Faith won first place at the track meet. Better luck next time, Julia.
All of the boys adore Faith. If you’d just try a little harder, Julia.
So Tristan resembled a legendary warrior king, and Peter didn’t. So what. Big deal. No matter a person’s temperament, hopes and dreams, they would age. Their beauty would fade. And really, a pretty face and perfect body only guaranteed one thing: you were temporarily nice to gaze upon.
She knew that. So why did her palms sweat and her heart pound whenever Tristan entered a room? Why did she feel unaffected by Peter, a man who seemed made specifically for her?
Julia didn’t have the answers, and it didn’t matter. It didn’t! Once she spent time with her neighbor, romantic feelings might come. And if not, there were other men out there. Men just like him. Someone would make her crave kisses and caresses with the same fervency as Tristan.
A cool breeze drifted by, calming the sudden fire in her blood. Kissing and caressing Tristan…
Julia swallowed a screech of frustration. Surely Peter possessed some quality that overshadowed her pleasure slave. Hoping for a better view, she pushed several branches out of her line of vision. The brittle foliage tickled her check, but she wouldn’t complain. Finally she had a crystal-clear view.
Peter paused, shears in hand, and turned toward her bushes as if he’d heard a noise. Her heart drummed. If he spotted her…
He frowned. “Julia?” he asked, unsure.
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