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.
Nay, love was not worth the hardships it would bring.
“Love?” Julia asked. “What about it?”
Tristan ignored the question and surveyed the room, taking in details that had been overshadowed by Julia’s presence. The small space and low ceiling did not hamper the artistry of her decor. Fresh flowers overflowed from colorful vases. Elegant chairs pushed against a dark, ornately carved table. A finely woven rug lined the polished wood floor. Delicate, all. His large frame simply did not fit within the constrictions of this home.
What kind of place was this Am-erica? Were all the inhabitants as small, fetching and seemingly kind as Julia? A wave of anticipation crashed over him. What did the little dragon have planned for him this night? Only conversation?
He was about to find out.
She returned, rosy color blooming in her cheeks. She looked anywhere but his direction. Disappointment struck when he spotted her new clothing. Long black drocs shielded her legs, and a neck-to-waist black chemise covered her chest. Save for her face, not an inch of skin remained visible. Pity.
She paused in the doorway, keeping a wide distance between them, as if she didn’t trust herself to stand too close. “Enough conversation. We need to put you to bed.” He might have eased another woman from her embarrassment, if only to circumvent a barrage of orders meant to punish him. He had no inclination with Julia. Her skin possessed a rosy glow, as if she’d just been roused from a vigorous bout of lovemaking and she only wanted more. Why do anything to disturb that image? Thus, he said nothing.
“Well?” she snapped, a hint of exasperation
