He snort-laughed. “I must admit, I am growing more and more intrigued by this karate of yours. Do you, mayhap, practice the sport naked?”
“Only on rainy days,” she replied, her tone dry. “Now let’s go.” Laden down with sacks, they visited three more shops, buying shoes and accessories and yes, slinky lingerie, which she bought while Tristan was distracted with the “amazing delicacies” found at the food court. Meaning yes, he ate corn dogs, french fries and cake pops.
No matter where they went, he hovered over her. She needed protecting, he said, and therefore he would be protecting her, end of story. If a man glanced her way in a manner remotely unfriendly, friendly, kind, or hostile, her charming, playful companion morphed into a demon from hell. He scowled. Growled. Clenched his fists.
It was all exasperating. And wonderful. Someone cared about her well-being.
At home, she planted Tristan in front of the TV, planning to take a relaxing bubble bath. Like any man, Tristan became fascinated with the remote control.
Go figure.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
You Must Always Submit To Your Mistress Whether She Is Present Or Not
TRISTAN EASED BACK on the velvety chaise, stroking his new dagger and staring up at the ceiling. In the center, lights dripped like forgotten tears, their essence draped by burgundy-and-cream-colored glass. A clatter of voices drifted from the talking box in front of him, and he heard the sound of children giggling and racing outside, just beyond the royal-blue stained glass window.
They were so happy out there. So free. They did not know how it felt to beg for one’s desires.
But Julia did. She had begged him.
At the clothing store, she’d asked him to leave her alone, and when he refused, she had begged him.
Begged him.
He hated himself for it, because he knew all too well how it felt to grovel. If he could rip out his heart and give Julia the offending organ, he would.
How many nights had he spent on his knees, hands clasped, tears streaming down his cheeks as he pleaded with his father for necessities? How many eves had the male taken him into town, tied him to a post, then whipped him until only thin strips of skin were left on his back? All for the sheer pleasure of hearing Tristan cry for mercy?
Innumerable.
The pain of those years even overshadowed the ones he’d spent as a pleasure slave. He easily recalled the humiliation and depravation. If he’d needed to eat, he’d begged. If he’d needed a blanket to warm his body, he’d begged. If he’d needed to rest, he’d begged.
There were days he would have willingly dropped to his knees and pleaded for a simple show of affection from the father who was supposed to love him—affection he never received. As a small measure of revenge, he had learned to repress his body’s reactions, never crying out, never showing weakness no matter what cruelty was inflicted upon him. He’d simply channeled his energy into another direction. Seduction. At such a young age, he became a lover of great talents, learning the nuances of the female form, learning every secret place that brought a woman pleasure. In return, he found a short reprieve from the harsh reality of his life.
Then, at sixteen seasons, he met Roake, a boy of sixteen who had endured his own share of anguish. The two of them struck out on their own. Together they practiced wielding a sword until their skill surpassed even that of their Great Lord. They fought for their city, dispatching countless rebel troops. And as a reward, the Great Lord had given them land of their own.
Finally Tristan had owned a home, a home he admired.
Then Zirra had placed him in bondage.
The salvation he had always found in a woman’s arms ultimately became his downfall, his sexual knowledge the bane of his existence, yet his only means of escape. How ironic. How cruel. During the first span of his curse, he had ceased thinking of sex as a pleasure, instead seeing it as a means to an end. Except with Julia. He didn’t dread the thought of being with her. Nay, he yearned for her with every fiber of his being, and neither escape nor obligation had anything to do with it.
Why did she continue to resist him?
He was beginning to think that all the knowledge in the galaxies could not win her devotion. And he so badly wanted to win her. She was a woman of surprising depth. Her smile held warmth and sunshine and such captivating beauty he was still awed by its majesty. Her anger held traces of fire and frost, and he often found himself longing to spark her ire simply to soothe her.
Sometimes she seemed a volatile mixture of emotions—need, fear, surety, doubt—as if she didn’t know her own desires. Because of some of the things she’d said today…
I’m too big for this garment.
This dress wasn’t made for a woman like me.
People will laugh if someone like me wears this in public.
She considered herself plain and unworthy of anyone who was not. How had she ever become so deceived? To Tristan, she radiated kindness, generosity and compassion; the more he’d gotten to know her, the more her inner beauty magnified her outer beauty, giving her such luminescence, such tranquility, that no other woman could compare. She was precious, worth so much more than she could possibly imagine.
Jaw clenched, Tristan tangled a hand through his hair. Mayhap love was not the monster he’d considered it.
Every muscle in his body tensed as he prepared to deny the words, but the thoughts never formed. Nay, he could not deny them, for he had begun to suspect the emotion came with…perks. Knowing a woman’s smile belonged to him and him alone… watching passion blaze in her eyes every time they neared each other…tasting her sweetness every morning and night for the rest of his life…
He knew, though, that falling in love with Julia would be so much
