Prince of Forever

  Return to Imperia in this scorching, significantly updated classic from New York Times bestselling author Gena Showalter, originally published as The Pleasure Slave.

  Curiously drawn to a battered jewelry box, Santa Fe antique dealer Julia Anderson could never have anticipated what—or rather who—it held inside – a handsome warrior who swears his devotion to her. Tall and sinfully handsome, Tristan ar Malik is hard to resist and determined to fulfill her every desire.

  A rogue on the battlefield and the bedroom, Tristan resolved himself to a life of servitude after being cursed…. until he met Julia. The passion between them is unlike anything he’s ever experienced, and he only wants more. Yet even though revealing his true heart would break the centuries-old spell that entrapped him—freeing him from the box—it would separate them forever…

  Prince of Forever

  Gena Showalter

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Epilogue

  PROLOGUE

  Imperia

  The Fifth Season

  “I WANT YOU AGAIN, Tristan.”

  I always want him, the need never ceasing.

  Waves crashed against the cliffs outside the bedroom, creating a lulling rhythm that floated upon sea-kissed beams of moonlight that filtered through stained glass windows. The sweet scent of gartina and elsment teased her nose, a palpable omen of magic few could comprehend or even acknowledge.

  Naked, Zirra leaned against the window frame. The exact spot her lover had taken her less than an hour ago.

  When he failed to respond to her words, she arched her back and skimmed a hand down the flat plane of her stomach, hoping to entice him visually.

  Still no response.

  “Tristan?” She glanced over her shoulder at the male who had pursued her relentlessly for the past two weeks, winning her heart.

  He sat at the edge of the bed. He’d already donned a pair of black drocs, the kind warriors wore into battle. The darkness of his hair hung in wild disarray over his muscular shoulders as he fastened a pair of combat boots on his feet and eyed her with amusement. “You know I must go, nixa.”

  Nixa. An endearment she cherished. It meant “irresistible lover.”

  So why was he resisting her charms? “Why must you go?” She had him once, only once, but she needed more. Annoyed, Zirra abandoned her pose of relaxed beckoning and stalked to the bed. She didn’t bother to cover herself with the silky white sheet, but left the plump mounds of her breasts bared for his view. “And why do you deny me the pleasure of your touch?”

  He closed the distance between them, took her hand, and drew her to the bed, where they both sat. Had she ever seen a more beautiful male? Long, dark hair…lavender eyes framed by lengthy black lashes…a face so perfect it sometimes hurt to gaze upon him.

  He ran a tongue over his straight white teeth. “I must journey to the palace for instruction from my Great Lord. A rebellion brews in Gillirad.”

  “But I—”

  “I cannot disobey a direct command from my sovereign. This you know.”

  Her brow knit in annoyance. Tristan acted as if her nakedness no longer tempted him in any way.

  Mayhap it didn’t. Mayhap he referred to every woman as nixa.

  Tendrils of fury danced along her spine. Earlier she had kissed and licked a path down his entire body, had taken him deep into her mouth as she’d never done for another man. When she had finished, he’d slid himself inside her, pumping and grinding erotically, giving her a rapture so complete she had begged for mercy. Yet she thought she remembered peering at him as he seemed to fight a…yawn. Yes! That’s right.

  Her fists clenched so tightly her knuckles whitened, and her long oval nails dug into her palms, cutting deeply into the skin. She had given Tristan everything she had to give, and yet she, a revered priestess of the Druinn with powerful magic beyond imagining, had failed to truly satisfy him. And because of her failure, she might soon be discarded like a worthless piece of garbage.

  “Will you return to me?” she grated.

  “I will…not. I’m afraid our time together has come to an end.”

  Rage ignited deep in her chest. Irresistible lover? Hardly. He’d had her, and he was done with her.

  The urge to hurt Tristan, to destroy him in some way, coursed through her. He’d addicted her to his touch and now planned to abandon her, leaving her alone in the vast emptiness of her bed, desperate for more of him. Dying for more of him.

  He must suffer as I suffer. And yet…

  Her need for his affection proved a vehement demand she could not ignore, and she found herself reaching out, gripping his well-defined forearm. Even now, his features drew tight with annoyance. He exuded the sensual eroticism of a man who existed only to pleasure his woman. She wanted, needed, to be the one who obtained his eternal devotion. Mayhap then the constant ache in her heart would be filled.

  “We belong together,” she said, her words emerging on an ethereal wisp of breath. “Life-join with me and I will give you more than any other woman is capable of giving.”

  He did not even pause. “I’m sorry, but nay.”

  “Treasures. I will give you treasures beyond your wildest dreams.” With a flick of her wrist, she tossed her long black hair over one shoulder. “If you so desire, I’ll create a planet of your own to rule.”

  “Zirra,” Tristan chided softly as he lounged across the mattress and propped his weight on his elbow. “Best you recall my words before I ever entered this room.”

  “You told me you wanted me more than anything.”

  “Aye. I did.”

  Did?

  “But I also told you I could not commit to you,” he continued.

  “I remember,” she admitted through clenched teeth. But she hadn’t let it stop her from having him. She’d been so certain he would change his mind. Of course, she’d been blinded by Tristan’s male perfection at the time. The way his pale violet eyes had promised untold passion. The way his hard, muscled body had moved with sinewy grace.

  “Nothing has changed,” he said. With a touch as gentle as his tone, he ran a fingertip down her cheek. “Nor will it ever. You are Druinn, and I am mortal. Permanent ties are forbidden between our kind. I am sorry.”

  Once again, rage blazed through her, hot and hungry. No one treated her this way. No one. “I will give you one more chance to bind yourself to me.”

  He pushed to his feet, uttering a husky chuckle that usually made her shiver with delight. Now the sound merely fueled her anger. “Or you will what, nixa? Boil my eyeballs in water to create a potion? Render my manhood flaccid for all time?”

  He dared mock her? “Oh, no, my fine warrior. I will do much, much worse.”

  Not the least affected by her ominous warning, he lifted his bloodstained sword from its inclined position against the wall and hooked it to a metal link pressed betw
een his shoulder blades. He bent down and placed a quick kiss upon her cheek. “I had fun with you, nixa.”

  Without waiting for a reply, he turned on his heel and strode to the door.

  The rage got the better of her, propelling her to her feet. “You desire women above all things, Tristan,” she called, and he paused, his back to her. “Now I will make you a slave to them. I will make you a slave to me.”

  Discard a priestess and suffer.

  Scowling, she snatched up the jeweled trinket box he’d given her. One of many gifts he’d used to manipulate her emotions. With a screech, she hurled it at him. It sailed past his ear when he leaned to the side—he leaned without turning to watch the box’s progress. It crashed to the floor, unharmed.

  Tristan spun and faced her, his expression incredulous. And just a little fearful? “What are you doing, Zirra?”

  No longer “nixa,” then? “No one refuses me,” she told him, her body remaining taut in all its naked glory, fury and indignation an invisible cloth. “And you, my handsome mortal, shall pay for doing so.”

  “Attempt to harm me, and you will destroy the truce between our people. War will erupt.”

  Oh, she knew all about the truce. Mortals never attempted to destroy her people’s Kyi-en-Tra Crystal. The source of their magic. In return, the Druinn did not use those powers against the mortals.

  She laughed, yet the sound lacked humor. “You think I fear war? I welcome the chance to enslave your people. Besides, your Great Lord will never discover what I have done to you, because you will not be able to tell him.”

  “Zirra—”

  “Unless you beg me to become your life-mate. Then I will swear never to harm you.”

  Lavender fire instantly blazed in his eyes. “I will never beg you, or anyone, for anything.”

  “Then you have brought this on yourself, Tristan ar Malik.” She arched her brows in mocking salute and raised her hands in the air, palms up.

  Growling low in his throat, Tristan advanced, his intent to immobilize her evident with his every step. A simple wave of her hand froze his feet in place.

  Surprise flashed across his features a split second before he glared at her with such hostility she shivered. She refused to allow a mortal to frighten her. She closed her eyes, splayed her fingers wide and chanted, “From now until love finds you true, a woman’s slave I shall make of you. Trapped inside the trinket box you’ll be. Only when summoned will you be free.”

  Wind howled as it thrashed and clawed its way through the spacious chamber, whipping the white gossamer cloth over the windows and rattling the very foundation of her home. Energy erupted and glowed all around, striking like bolts and spears. Her ears rang.

  She raised her arms higher and finished the spell. “When summoned, your will matters none. The whims of your mistress must be done. This I bind, this I speak, so let this new reality manifest.”

  One moment Tristan stood before her a strong, virile man. The next he was gone. The small jewel-encrusted box she’d thrown at him now rested on the floor in his place.

  With a grin, she bent down and clasped the box in her hands. A wave of giddiness swept through her. Tristan now belonged to her—only to her. And over the next thousand years or so, she would enjoy letting him make up for his behavior today. He would learn well his mistake in seducing and abandoning a priestess of the Druinn.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Santa Fe, New Mexico

  Ways Of The Pleasure Slave

  The Slightest Whim Of Your Mistress

  Is Your Highest Law

  THE BLARE OF A HORN SOUNDED. Again.

  Gripping the wheel of her sedan until her knuckles bleached white, Julia Anderson glanced down at her speedometer. Six miles per hour over the speed limit. The driver behind her found this completely unacceptable and honked for the millionth time, a demand that she get out of the way or hit the gas.

  The morning sun had yet to make an appearance, but the waning moon and towering streetlights revealed two open, easily accessible lanes. There was no reason to ride her tail like this.

  Even still, the honking persisted for another mile.

  By then, Julia’s nerves felt frazzled beyond repair. Her foot shook on the gas pedal. She rolled her shoulders and drew in a deep breath, but neither action managed to relax her. She cranked up the volume on her favorite opera, La Bohème.

  That didn’t help, either.

  I’m a calm, rational woman. I will not become unnerved by a little honking. Well, not any more unnerved.

  Honk. Honk. Hoooonk.

  She gnashed her molars together. She didn’t have a temper; she really didn’t. Not usually anyway. But right now she wanted to slam on her brakes and give that driver a crash-test-dummy demonstration. Instead, she allowed her car to gradually slow.

  “What do you think of moseying along, Speedy?” she mumbled.

  Apparently, he didn’t like it. As hoped, he whipped his little Mustang into another lane and accelerated quickly, coming up to her side. As soon as their cars aligned, he rolled down his window to shout and wave his fist at her. The moment she recognized him—her greatest competition at work—Julia forgot she believed in thinking before acting. She forgot that she preferred to act rationally in all situations—and she gave him the bird.

  That’s right. She held up one hand and extended her middle finger. In a hiss of fury, the red sports car roared away.

  Shock still coursed through her when she reached her destination. She, a woman who prided herself on her calm, rational behavior, had just flipped off her biggest competitor.

  And it had felt good. So deliciously good.

  Chuckling, she parked her car. Her amusement faded when she saw the red Mustang parked in front of the Kreager Flea Market. The best place for buying antiques to fix up and resell in her store, Julia’s Treasures.

  Irritated all over again, she gathered her purse and stepped into the frigid Santa Fe morning. A strong wind immediately blustered by, making her shiver. She tugged the lapels of her coat tighter and hurried toward the only building in sight.

  The Mustang’s owner waited near the metal doors. When he spotted her, he glared, hostility radiating from him.

  She came to an abrupt stop and watched him warily. At five-foot-six or -seven, he wasn’t much taller than she. His thin cap of hair gleamed with a thick film of mousse, and a round belly protruded over the elastic waist of his wrinkled pants.

  She squared her shoulders. He’s going down. And I’ll be the one to give him the final push. He must have sensed her determination to outmaneuver him, because he placed one foot in front of the other and crouched down ever so slightly. The classic fighting stance.

  This meant war.

  She stiffened her resolve, refusing to run back to the safety of her car. She stared at him through slitted eyes, not willing to look away or even blink. To do so showed weakness, and the desire to win this battle had already grown to unimaginable proportions. While he was closer to the door, she was a good twenty years younger and a hundred pounds lighter.

  He didn’t stand a chance.

  Suddenly a click reverberated through the cover of silence. The flea market had just opened.

  Jumping into action, Julia pushed and elbowed her way past her competition. She glided through the double doors a split second before he did. Yes! Victory. Smiling with pride, she grabbed a basket and began her treasure hunt.

  Antiques. Ah, that one word sent ribbons of delight rushing down her spine. Over the years she’d been called many things. Garage-sale junky. Thrift-store devotee. Auction-house addict. She had accumulated so much stuff she’d had two options: buy an antique store to sell her wares or become buried alive in her collection.

  She’d opened Julia’s Treasures the day of her twenty-third birthday. While the little shop hadn’t flourished in the two years since, it had survived when others had failed. It was her pride and joy, a place where she found peace and happiness. Unlike the rest of your life, a hidden corn
er of her mind supplied.

  “Hey,” she said, then pressed her lips together. I’m happy with the rest of my life. So what that she wasn’t a great beauty and she carried a few extra pounds on her short, round body. So what that she had no fashion sense and didn’t know how to attract the attentions of a potential boyfriend. “I’m happy,” she repeated, her tone firm.

  As she wandered through the market, her old, ratty sneakers squeaked, drawing the attention of several sellers’ intent on luring her over. Knowing exactly what she wanted—and what she didn’t—she ignored them. She bypassed a table of porcelain dolls and didn’t look twice at the stand laden with Depression glass.

  In the back, next to a slightly worn cherry vanity, she spotted an old corncob pipe. She studied the aged wood from every angle, then lifted it to her nose and sniffed. The faint scent of tobacco drifted to her nostrils. She grinned. She already had the perfect customer in mind.

  Next she examined a colorful blown-glass carousel, but decided to forgo purchasing such an expensive item when she didn’t have a buyer lined up. The rest of the items on the table received a cursory perusal before one object in particular drew and held her gaze. She moved a bouquet of plastic flowers aside and stared down at what looked to be an old jewelry box.

  The sides were chipped, and the outer layer, which at one time had probably been a glossy white, was now a dull yellow-brown. There were several holes where colored glass, or maybe even precious gems, had once resided. Overall an extremely ugly piece, yet something about it called to her.

  Biting her lower lip, she ran her fingertips over the surface. The cool exterior sent a shaft of warm, inviting heat up her arm, and she jolted. Tingles raced down her spine, making her shiver. Intrigue intensifying, she attempted to raise the lid, but the stubborn thing refused to budge.

  That didn’t dissuade her. She wanted this box. Badly.

  A voice with a slight Scottish accent asked, “See something you like, lass?”

  Julia glanced up. A man who appeared to be in his early two hundreds with a beaked nose and eyes that drooped low on his cheekbones regarded her expectantly.

  Those eyes…they were as fathomless and blue as an ocean, and she would swear they peered into her soul.