I want to be the first. The only.
He buried such a dangerous thought—for now—and turned his sights to figuring out what to do with this woman who defied him like a warrior, kissed him like he possessed the last breath of air for survival and treated him as if he were a man, not a slave.
CHAPTER NINE
Imperia
The Sixth Season
“WHAT DO YOU HERE, ZIRRA?”
Rivulets of light trickled like liquid gold from the four suns, past the arched, beveled windows, encircling the tribunal chamber, giving it the appearance of a holy sanctuary. Two towering thrones perched on the verdant dais before her, both inlaid with precious stones from other worlds—ebony, ivory, assyri and merdeaux. Winged figures carved from the purest alabaster decorated the legs and seemed ready to burst into the heavens.
The gleaming cream-and-rose marble flooring cooled her bare feet and reminded her of the cold emptiness within herself…and the reason she was here. Her ears filled with the crashing waves just beyond the palace’s gates outside, a potent reminder, as well.
The High Priest sat beside his queen, regarding Zirra intently, his eyes a deep, fathomless blue. Mystical power charged the air around him, surrounded her, moved through her, a power so much greater than hers.
Her fists clenched. Four seasons ago Percen had stolen Tristan’s box from her and cursed the pleasure slave to another world with a spell of his own. How infuriated she’d been. How infuriated she still was. She’d wanted to retrieve her slave immediately, but Percen had stopped her. He had snatched away her powers, wrapping her in a cloak of mortality so complete she could not summon any of her mystical abilities. Not a single one.
’Twas her punishment, he’d said, for nearly ruining his precious Alliance with the mortals.
Bastard.
“I will ask but one more time,” Percen said, a steely edge underlying his tone. “What do you here, Zirra?”
Chin high, she stood in the center of the room, a gossamer froth of cerulean draping her body, her hands at her sides. She kept her expression impassive, though she could barely stand to look upon the High Priest. With the wild fall of his inky hair, the strength of his magic, and the blue pools that were his eyes, he should have been a beautiful man. Instead he was hideous. His body was twisted, and his left eye drooped low on his cheekbone. His nose was sharp and beaked.
A pity he was not tolerable. She might have tried seducing him to her will, even though she’d vowed long ago never to take another Druinn as her lover.
“I have come to demand the return of my powers,” she said defiantly.
A chorus of “ooh” circulated across the swell of talon-carrying guards positioned strategically around each corner before an arduous silence sharpened its claws. The sound and the lack of sound ground together in disharmony like shards of broken glass.
“You? Demand me?” he said, uttering the very words she’d once uttered to Tristan. “I doubt I will ever return your powers. You would attempt to retrieve Tristan, and that I will not allow.”
“He belongs to me.”
Percen’s brows furrowed together high on his forehead. “If I were capable of breaking another’s curse, I would have done so. As that is something no Druinn can do, I simply sent him away—where he will remain. Be glad I did not kill you.”
Be glad I did not kill you, she silently mocked. “I demand you return him to me at once.”
“More demands?” His tone sharpened with deadly precision. “There is a war brewing, Zirra. Many of my favored sorcerers have already joined the rebels in hopes of destroying our tentative bond with the mortals—something you nearly did all on your own. I punished you for your actions, and yet you continue to think only of yourself and demand I reward you. My answer,” he added casually, almost pleasantly, “is nay. And any who seek to aid you will suffer my wrath.”
Dread fluttered sharp wings inside her stomach, cutting, slashing at her sense of hope. Her gaze flickered to the queen, poised lovingly beside the High Priest. Heather was the only one who held any sway with Percen.
Zirra prayed the queen would aid her cause.
“I agree with my life-mate,” Heather said, the sweetness of her voice as lyrical as a song. Almost absently, she reached out and squeezed Percen’s hand. “You would do well to leave this matter alone. To leave Tristan alone.”
Curse them! How self-righteous they were, thinking they knew what was best for her. Well, she knew what was best. Tristan. Only in his arms did she feel beautiful and strong. Only when he obeyed her did she feel alive and wholly fulfilled.
Through slitted eyes, she returned her attention to the High Priest. Their gazes collided, an icy clash of blue against blue, a stormy sea against a tranquil breeze. “You once cursed your own brother to a life of stone. My actions are no worse than yours.”
He glowered at her. “I made reparations for my sins. My brother now lives quite happily with his life-mate and their children.”
“Then allow me to make reparations with Tristan. I will become his life-mate and give him as many children as he desires.”
“Nay,” Percen said with a smug grin.
She nearly screeched as her rage leapt to another plateau. How easy it would be to reclaim Tristan if she possessed her powers and knew where he now resided. All she would have to do was open a vortex. Since she could not, her only hope lay with the High Priest. She must convince him to help her.
“I have suffered my punishment for many seasons,” she grated. “Surely that is enough.”
“Nay, ’tis not.” He paused, his expression pensive. “Mayhap I should give you to the mortal Great Lord and allow him to punish you.”
“You would not dare. For you do not want him to know what became of his finest warrior.”
“I would dare, Zirra. Doubt me not.”
As her hope faded, longing stirred inside
