Prince of Forever Page 4

  “I am not complaining, litt—Julia. I’m glad you do not have a man.”

  Julia gulped, not liking the sudden, possessive perusal he gave her. “Is it because jealous husbands are a nuisance?”

  Yeah. Sure. “Because no one has ever asked me.”

  Hey! Wait a second. She was now offended for married men and women everywhere. Because of Tristan’s profession—chosen? forced?—he might not know much about romantic relationships. To arm him with knowledge, she launched into a speech about the importance of keeping vows and the joys of being in a commitment, something she’d never experienced firsthand.

  It wasn’t long before Tristan’s eyes glazed over, and he yawned. “Do you not believe in the sanctity of marriage?”

  “I do not have the luxury as I must do whatever my guan ren commands.” His steely tone scraped the very air around them.

  She had to assume guan ren meant “master.” “I’m sorry,” she said, hoping to soothe him. “Being a slave, even a pleasure-centered one, must be awful.”

  “Such a life is torture every minute of every day,” he grumbled.

  Goodness gracious, there had to be some way to help him. The prospect of owning another human being was beginning to make her queasy. “Is there anything I can do to free you?”

  He didn’t answer for a long time, his expression changing from hopeful, to disappointed, to angry. Finally all emotion cleared, and he said simply, “Nay, you cannot. What is required is impossible. I must find my one true love.”

  “Why is that so impossible?” Surely this man had loved, and been loved, by everyone he’d ever met. For people like him, gorgeous and self-assured, love acted as a magnetic force. At least, that was what Momma used to tell her before dying of ovarian cancer.

  That muscle was ticking in his jaw again, and she could tell he didn’t want to answer her question. Then, he spoke, the words exploding from him as if propelled by a force greater than himself. “Love is an emotion I am unable to experience.”

  She blinked up at him. “Unable to… You’re joking, right?” Everyone could experience love.

  “Nay, I am not joking.”

  He was serious—deadly serious—but since he had a sword, she wasn’t going to try to change his mind.

  Julia rubbed her temples. What am I going to do with this tall, dark and sinfully delicious pleasure slave?

  She could panic.

  No. That wouldn’t do. Having grown up with extremely volatile parents, she preferred to calmly wade through her problems.

  She could return the box to the flea market.

  No again. The dealer’s market only ran once a month, and the vendors always changed. The previous owner might not be there and, more than likely, he wouldn’t refund her money. Besides, she felt sorry for Tristan. No telling what another woman might force him to do.

  Julia’s back straightened, and she squared her jaw. No doubt about it, she was keeping him so she could free him.

  “Look,” she said and sighed. “I’ll be honest. I’m not interested in owning a slave, but I would love a big-brother type.” Ignoring his dubious expression, she continued. “Anyway. If you’re going to stay with me for a while, we need to talk, to iron out some details.”

  “Such as?” he asked, though his expression made it quite clear he was really thinking, Hush your mouth, wench.

  “Such as what exactly what we expect from each other. Where you’ll stay, what you’ll do. That sort of thing.” She motioned with a wave of her hand, indicating the chair directly across from her. “Please, have a seat.” Let the discussion begin.

  Though the scowl he offered her said he’d rather skin her alive with his sword, he folded his long, gorgeous legs under the table. The chair creaked in protest.

  Giving him a grateful smile, she sat down as well. Where to begin? She’d never been in this kind of situation before, with a half-naked man mere inches away. Should she begin with the sleeping arrangements, or casually work her way around the subject?

  “Where am I?” he asked, his gaze darting.

  “America. Santa Fe, New Mexico, to be exact. My home.”

  “Santa Fa? Am-erica.” One dark brow arched, confusion flittering in the crystalline pools of his eyes. “I do not know of these places.”

  Not know of the mighty US of A? “How long were you trapped inside that box?”

  “I last emerged eighty-nine seasons ago.”

  Uh, what? “Why track time through seasons?” And how much time was that? There were four seasons in a year. If you divided eighty-nine by four, you got 22.25. That meant twenty-two years had passed since he’d last emerged from the box. Twenty-two. He looked thirty—maybe.

  Hold up. Did he not age? Like, at all?

  “In Imperia, a season is a year.”

  “Oh. Oh wow.” He’d lived for more than eighty-nine years. She gulped and asked, “And before my predecessor?”

  “I was blessed with twelve seasons alone, then emerged in Arcadia. Before that? I hardly recall.”

  Arcadia? So, twelve years on top of the eighty-nine. She studied his smooth skin and marveled. “Just how old are you, Tristan?”

  “Roughly one thousand and five hundred seasons, I think.” He leaned back in his chair, a buffet of masculine delights. “I stopped counting several centuries ago.”

  Her jaw nearly dropped to the floor. She hadn’t expected that. He didn’t age. He was a living, breathing antique, yet he looked so handsome, so virile. “Do you eat lots of magical bran or something?”

  He tilted his chin to the side. “I do not understand.”

  “It’s just that you appear so young. Too young to be so old.”

  Bitterness hardened his features, like clay drying into pottery. “Once the binding spell was cast, I ceased aging. A courtesy of the black-hearted sorceress, Zirra.”

  Sorceress? Binding spell? Julia continued to flounder. “She cursed you?” Curses were real? “But why?”

  “Why does any woman curse a man?”

  Because she’d been spurned hung in the air unsaid. Jaw clenched, she asked, “Did you deserve it?”

  “No one deserves this,” he snapped.

  Right. Okay. He was cursed, and she couldn’t help in that department. Moving on. “Your home. Imperia.” Her stomach tightened, her thoughts spiraling in a direction she didn’t like. “Is it, um, on Earth?”

  His lips pressed together and thinned, forming a tight line. “Nay.”

  He said no more, but more was not needed. The thought of life on another planet or dimension or whatever stretched her imagination to the limit. Remember, your own personal pleasure slave is sitting mere inches from your reach. So interplanetary travel? Not too hard to believe, actually.

  “If we’re from—” she had to swallow her disquietude before she continued “—from different planets, how do we look the same? How do you know my language?”

  “Why should we look different? And one of my former mistresses cast a spell, ensuring I understand and speak whatever language is spoken to me.”

  Tone dry, she told him, “Magic language. Of course. I’m surprised I didn’t guess.”

  His warm, rich chuckle rained over her, a silky caress against her skin. “I think you speak another untruth, little dragon.” Still grinning, he cast his gaze over the kitchen. “What manner of home is this?”

  She let the nickname slide. Dragon wasn’t actually an insult, was it? Dragons were powerful warriors, something she would kill to be. Well, not kill kill. But she could throw an elbow or something if necessary. Wait. Tristan had asked a question. What had—oh, yes. “What do you mean?”

  “It is so…small.”

  “Small?” She laughed. “You’ve got to be kidding. This place is three thousand square feet.” Double the size of her childhood home. Practically a mansion.

  “Three thousand of your tiny feet, mayhap.”

  “I am not tiny, Conan.”

  He shook his head. “I am Tristan, not Conan.”


  “Never mind.” With a sigh, she waved a hand through the air. “You know, for a pleasure slave, you lack certain pleasuring skills.”

  “Do I?” He rose with an innate grace at odds with his massive size. “Thankfully, I can remedy your impression in only a few minutes.”

  Julia almost jumped out of her skin. “I don’t know what you’re planning, but I know I won’t like it.”

  “You will like it,” he vowed, those lavender irises heating. “This I swear. I have been pleasuring women for centuries now, and know exactly where to touch you to make you scream.”

  Oh, holy Lord on high. Help me. “I’m sure you do, but I promise I don’t need a demonstration.”

  “There’s only one way to know for sure…” With that, he strode around the table, heading straight toward her.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Always Gain Permission Before

  Touching Your Mistress

  WITH A SPEED any superhero would envy, Julia’s guilt fled, replaced by confusion, panic and a dash of eagerness. “What are you doing?” she demanded as Tristan continued his wicked-minded approach.

  He stopped only a whisper away and positioned his hands on both sides of her chair, leaning in to her. His hard body ignited sparks of want deep inside her. A want to touch…a want to lick…

  Lick? Her eyes widened. Who am I?

  “I am giving you a demonstration,” he said huskily, “of the pleasure I can give.”

  Her heart pounded sporadically, unleashing a tide of conflicting emotions. Did he plan to kiss her? Or…more?

  Before her tongue had a chance to turn to mush, she blurted out, “There will be no pleasuring me in this house!” The prospect of bodily delight both frightened and intrigued her. He was a stranger, after all, but sweet goodness he was handsome.

  I’m shallow, then?

  No, no. He’s only cute because he’s being kind.

  He uttered another sexy, rumbling chuckle. “So you wish me to oversee your displeasure?”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  When he brushed the tip of his nose against hers, she hastened to add, “I meant you will pleasure me right now.”

  “That is all I desire, little dragon,” he breathed, and yet, it was not desire that lit his eyes as he leaned in for a kiss. He looked resigned. And how humiliating was that?

  Irritated with him—and herself—she turned her head away. He kissed her cheek, then drew back with another frown.

  “You will please me,” she said carefully, “by staying on your side of the kitchen.”

  One of his dark brows arched. “You are sure about this?”

  “No. Yes. Yes, I am sure. You stay on your side, and I’ll stay on mine.”

  “Such is your command, and such will I do.”

  * * *

  TRISTAN MOVED to the other side of the table. His very presence flustered little Julia, and he would be lying if he claimed he did not like it. The slight trembling of her body, the parting of her lips. The deep color in her cheeks. Oh, he liked. He liked very much indeed.

  I do? He cursed inwardly and struggled to fortify himself against her understated appeal. Why did she appeal to him on any level? No other mistress ever had.

  Some of those mistresses—also known as guan rens—had been great beauties, while some had been undeniable hags, but all had made use of his body, quickly earning his hatred. Perhaps Julia’s reluctance to do so had turned the plain little mouse into an irresistible seductress?

  Wait. She’d rebuffed him—thrice!—so now he wanted to touch her? The eons of captivity have rotted my brain.

  Over the years, he had served many women of many different worlds. Except for a rare few, each guan ren had been selfish and vapid, expecting him to give total and complete obedience while offering commands and empty promises. Some hadn’t wanted him sexually, but they had certainly taken full advantage of his ownership.

  Clean this, slave. Massage me, slave. Kill my enemy, slave. He’d heard every demand imaginable.

  “This is better?” he asked Julia.

  “Much,” she replied with a relieved grin. A genuine grin. “I only want a conversation.”

  That grin… His chest clenched. He shouldn’t like this woman. Not any part of her. Still. Little Julia had yet to request anything except his absence, and his intrigue with her continued to grow.

  In a way, she reminded him of Imperia. Her eyes…they brightened with green fire every time he pricked her temper, just like a dragon’s eyes.

  She is half mouse, half fire-breather. All feminine delights.

  For a moment, he allowed himself to imagine that things would be different with her, that she truly wanted nothing more from him than conversation. However, cynicism soon overrode his optimism. How many times had he dared hope for a measure of compassion only to find indifference?

  Countless.

  Give this one time, and she would demand submission just like the others. At least bedding her would be no hardship.

  Right now, the little dragon wore only a pair of panties and a thin white chemise held in place by tiny scraps of material, leaving most of her creamy skin visible for his perusal. He suspected she’d forgotten about her state of undress. Otherwise, she would have sprinted for cover.

  She possessed long dark blond hair and smooth white skin. Full, luscious breasts led to a curvy waist. Her hair hung down her back in a symphony of colors, from glossy dark brown, to gold, to the pale locks that framed her face.

  Her cheekbones were high, her nose perfectly sloped. At first and second glance, her prettiness wasn’t readily apparent. The more he had studied her, however, the more he liked what he saw. She was an intriguing blend of courage and timidity, prudishness and sensuality.

  It was the prudishness that drew him most. That stay-away, do-not-please-me demeanor challenged him in a way nothing had in centuries. Every time he hinted at carnal indulgence, she became agitated. Why?

  He didn’t actually think she played hard to get. He’d pursued women before, some interested in being chased, nothing more. Not Julia. The woman radiated fear. Was she simply surprised by his intent? Or, if he approached once again, would she retreat?

  “You’re staring,” she said, shifting from left to right.

  “Yes. I’m also regretting my retreat.” For the second time, Tristan closed the distance between them, the urge to tease her again irresistible. Before she could order him away, he leaned down and sniffed her neck. The sweetness of her scent fogged his head. She smelled like a field of wild oraberries; they grew in the darkest parts of Imperia, where few dared to tread. “I see you have taken care of the odor.” He straightened and stroked his chin, studying her from top to bottom. “It does not seem as if you are in pain, and the hair is gone.”

  Her features scrunched up adorably in confusion, and she dropped those fringed lashes, peering at his booted feet. “What are you talking about?”

  “Earlier you mentioned needing a bath, having your woman’s time and manlike legs.” He gave those legs a languid once over. “I must say, they appear perfect to me. Slender. Smooth. The kind that lock a man in place until he gives you everything you want, everything you need. Mmm. Yes. I am most thankful you are no longer wearing drocs.”

  Her gaze collided with his again, her eyes alight with aroused wonder. “Drocs?” she asked, breathless.

  Why wonder? She acted as if no one had ever complimented her before.

  Ignoring the tightening of his chest, he smiled and drew out his next words, finding more excitement in this one act than anything he could recall. “Drocs are leg coverings, little dragon. Leg coverings. Your legs happen to be bare.”

  “Leg…” Slowly realization set in. Red-hot color licked a path from her forehead to her collarbone. “I’m in my pajamas. I’m in my freaking pajamas.” Wide-eyed, she rose from her seat and raced out of the kitchen, both delicately shaped hands over her buttocks to shield his view, calling, “Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look.”


  Tristan chuckled. But with the release of a breath, his good humor abandoned him. This guan ren might be entertaining, but being owned, being chained to another, was far, far from humorous.

  Once Percen, High Priest of the Druinn, had learned of Zirra’s curse, he’d cast a spell of his own, hurling Tristan’s box away from the sorceress. Tristan had traveled from world to world, by fair means or foul. From one cruelty to another.

  He knew why Percen had cast such a spell—to prevent the mortal Great Lord from discovering Zirra had broken the Alliance, already a fragile treaty at best, yet one that had ceased a centuries-long war between their people. If word escaped that the Alliance had been broken, war would rage once again.

  While Tristan loathed the High Priest’s reasoning, he understood.

  Mortal rebels hoped to control the magical Druinn, and in turn, Druinn rebels hoped to control mortals. In their attempts to dominate each other, they had killed innocent people and destroyed a once-prosperous land. Before his curse, Tristan had looked forward to quashing them both, for he’d enjoyed the peace and harmony the Alliance promised.

  Peace. Ah, would he ever know its sweetness again? During the endless eons of his enslavement, he had endured such anguish, such humiliation, the memories still made him shudder. He wondered, always he wondered, how many more women he would be forced to serve during his infinite lifetime. One thousand? Two? He scowled. After so many guan rens, he should have been used to his bondage, should have shrugged at the thought of one more woman. He could not.

  He could only pray for his freedom.

  Freedom he knew he would never receive.

  In the beginning, he had searched for a woman to cherish, a woman to entrust with his heart. Then he had realized that if he fell in love with a woman and uttered a true declaration, there would be no magic to hold him to whatever planet he found himself on. He would return to Imperia in a flash. Alone, always alone, forced to live the rest of his life without his true love.

  “Love,” he spat. The word was a curse more foul than the one he currently endured. To love a woman was to live without her.