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.
