“My price is this. For two weeks, you will do what I ask, when I ask. No arguments. No refusals. Is that acceptable?”
Again she answered swiftly. Because she could endure anything for a measly two weeks. “Aye. I will.”
Romulis closed his eyes. A war waged within his mind, she knew. Duty versus desire. His father versus her. Which would emerge victorious? She waited, suspended on the edge of her bed. Her entire existence hinged on his answer.
“Very well,” he said softly, facing her once more. Determination shone in his eyes, yet there was a hint of regret. “I will help you reunite with Tristan.”
Triumph drifted through her, as absolute and powerful as the fourth-season winds. “How?” she demanded. “Will you escort me to him?”
“Nay, I will not,” he answered firmly. “When your two weeks end, I will bring Tristan to you. If my plan is not acceptable, then consider our bargain null and void.”
“It is acceptable,” she said quickly. “It is acceptable.”
“Mayhap, if you obey all of my orders quickly enough, I will even show you how to win back all of your powers.”
Anticipation slithered along her spine, wrapping around her like a hungry serpent in search of sustenance. She could barely contain her eagerness. Her body was desperate to reclaim her magic, and her hands were itching for the feel of Tristan, to once more hold him in her arms, to glory in his body pressed against hers.
“Whatever you must teach me, Romulis,” she assured him, “I will learn.”
He shoved both of his hands through his hair, sweeping the dark locks from his temples. Sweat kept the strands in place. He sighed. “I must bathe ere I speak my first order.”
“Yes, yes. Bathe. But hurry,” she commanded with a clap of her hands.
His gaze narrowed to tiny slits. “Best you recall who is helping whom.”
“Please hurry,” she amended.
“I think we will both come to regret this.” With a weary shake of his head, he strode from the chamber.
This man was going to be difficult to control, she mused as she lay back on the bed. Were she strong enough, she might have cursed Romulis inside a trinket box of his own. Then she would have two slaves to use at her leisure.
The thought made her smile.
CHAPTER TEN
You Must Accept All Punishment
As Your Due
JULIA’S TREASURES CLOSED at five o’clock sharp, and by then, Julia felt as if she’d just fought in a world war—and lost. Every time the bell above the door had chimed, Tristan had instantly swooped to her side, hovering over her shoulder and glaring like the wrath of God. He claimed he’d only wished to protect her. But she wasn’t sure if he meant to protect her from her customers or the door chime. The man did not like loud noises.
Twice she’d watched him stroke his knife and eye the blasted door with a do-you-want-a-piece-of-this glare. Though he hadn’t been looking their way, several patrons assumed he meant to commit a mass murder and had hastened away. The memory had her rubbing her temples in a vain effort to ward off the growing ache. She was only surprised the local PD hadn’t been called.
Never again would she put herself through this. If America’s economy collapsed and the only way to raise money was to nail Tristan inside her display case, she still wouldn’t bring him to work with her. Sure, women twittered over him and bought anything he recommended. And yeah, she’d sold more merchandise today than she usually sold in two weeks combined. It didn’t matter. The man smelled like a buffet of sensual delights and all that hovering nonsense had given her a serious case of pheromone toxicity.
Now her feet hurt, her stomach was filled with acid and regret, her headache was a thousand times worse, and she was so irritable it bordered on PMS. All she wanted to do was toss a few pain relievers down the hatch, soak in a hot, steamy bath, then go to bed for a year.
“Let’s go home,” she told Tristan on a sigh. “We can go to the mall another day.”
“Aye. Home.” He nodded. “This shopkeeping requires more energy than soldiering.”
“I’m surprised you think so. Most people assume owning an antique store means I spend my days playing games on my phone.”
“Then most people are fools.”
She locked all the doors, checked the windows, and strode to her car with Tristan at her side. He handled the ride home much better than one to the shop. This morning, as she’d eased onto the highway, his skin had turned an unflattering shade of green and sweat had beaded on his brow. Now he only gripped his hands on his knees, his color remaining high. For his benefit, she stayed five miles under the speed limit.
“What types of vehicles are used in Imperia?” she asked.
“Mortals ride horned stags or dragons. The Druinn, or magic wielders, use magic teleportation.”
“An actual dragon?” Astonished, she flicked him a quick glance. “As in fire-breathing, green scales and wings?”
“There is another kind?”
“I don’t know. Is there?”
“Nay,” he replied.
“Is your personal dragon-car the one you so often compare me to? Little dragon,” she mocked.
“Aye. Correct,” he said. “Dragons are revered for their courage, their offensive and defensive and their tenacity.”
Ohhhh. She melted into her seat and smiled slowly. I’ll never complain about the dragon nickname again. How sweet and absolutely endearing. Not exactly accurate, but still sweet. “And you think I’m dragon-like?”
“You faced down a warrior triple your size. Courageous. You disarmed me right from the start. Offensive and defensive skilled. You insisted on having your way. Tenacious.”
Was that how he saw her? Seriously? She reeled, the idea almost ludicrous, but also awe-inspiring. He’d just described the way she’d always hoped to be.
“Do you miss your home?” she asked. “The magic and the dragons?”
His pupils flared, his longing suddenly palpable. “I do.” Voice thick with emotion, he added, “I miss them
