Zirra sat at the edge of her bed, her sheer white gown clinging to her every curve. Had there ever been a woman more alluring? She fairly hummed with mating heat. She radiated it, smelled of it, moved with it. He had lusted for her since the first moment he had seen her, and his desire for her had not lessened over the years. Nay, it had grown.
He had known instinctively that she was his chosen life-mate. Yet she always denied him. A lesser man might have given up long before now. Mayhap he should have admitted defeat. He liked to think he possessed too much pride to beg for her attentions.
But here he was. Here he was, willing to accept any scrap of tenderness she might offer.
When she had summoned him, she’d interrupted his magic and talon practice, yet he eagerly dropped his sword and came to her, just because she had need of him. He’d hoped she meant to at last accept him. But she hadn’t. Instead she had asked him to help find her former lover.
The rage he had felt at that moment still beat within him. He yearned to cleave Tristan in two. At the very least, beat the warrior to a bloody mass.
Unable to do either of those things, he agreed to help Zirra find him. Because now she owed him—and he had every intention of collecting. Soon. Not yet, but soon.
“Are you peeking?” he asked her.
“Nay.” She squeezed her eyelids so tightly little grooves formed at the edges. Her voice was tight with irritation when she added, “Why will you not call him back?”
“Because his box will then belong to me, and I wish not to own him. Do you wish for me to own him?”
“Nay,” she shouted vehemently. Then more calmly, “Nay.” She paused. “If you owned him, you could gift the box to me.”
“But I would not. I would cast the cursed thing into the nearest hearth and happily watch the man inside burn.”
Her eyelids popped open. “You would not dare—”
“Aye. I would. Now offer no more complaints, or I will leave you here on your own.”
It was a threat neither of them believed, for he wanted her too severely. Needed to taste her too desperately. And they both knew it. He would give her anything she asked, even another man, if only to know her passion just once.
I am a fool, he thought with disgust.
“Close your eyes,” he demanded again. She did.
Guilt wound through him. He was disobeying his father, a man he respected, a man he admired. Still that did not dissuade him. As if an invisible cord tugged him, he strode to her. She sensed his nearness and tiny bumps rose on her flesh. Her scent drifted to his nostrils, magic and moonlight, and was so completely arousing he gritted his teeth against the pain of wanting her. Unable to stop himself, he traced a fingertip over the curve of her ear, then tangled his hand in her hair. Her lips parted on a wispy catch of breath.
Dewy mist swirled from the sea, past the windows, kissing her cheeks and neck, dampening her hair and silky blue robe. She was beauty and strength epitomized, a woman who would appeal to any who looked upon her, yet there was something very vulnerable about her, something at the periphery of her smile. Insecurities, mayhap.
“Reach inside yourself,” he whispered. “Find the source of your magic.”
Her lips pursed as she concentrated. The fact that she did not hesitate sent another surge of anger through him, battling with his desire, mingling with his guilt. He wanted to hate Zirra, wanted again to hurt Tristan. How did such a man, who lacked any mystical powers, command such devotion from this sorceress?
Scowling, he dropped his hand to his side. “My father’s spell did not destroy your powers. It merely covered them, like a blanket. Reach under the blanket.”
“There,” she said excitedly. “I can see what you mean.” She clapped her hands, keeping her eyes tightly closed, and he suddenly sensed a charged energy enveloping her. “I have it. I have it!”
So lovely. So deadly. “Now open your mouth,” he commanded roughly.
Her lashes fluttered open, casting shadows upon her cheeks. When she saw him, she gasped, startled. “Romulis?”
“Hold on to the source of your power and open your mouth,” he commanded once more, his voice rough with the force of his desire.
Just as before, she obeyed.
He crushed his lips to hers, his tongue immediately pushing deep and hard. Her teeth scraped him. Greed and decadence were her flavors; heady, forbidden, and he did not want to like them, but he did. All too well.
She purred, a deep throaty sound. His powers swirled around them, blending with the mystic abilities she clasped in her mind. Arcs of energy charged and lit the air and hummed along their skin. He pressed his erection between her thighs. Her nails bit into his shoulders. He palmed her breasts in his hands, measuring their luscious weight. She ground herself against him, searching for completion. He groaned, a sound of victory and joy, because he felt her need and knew she wanted him.
“Oh, Tristan,” she breathed.
Romulis jerked away. Enraged, he glared down at her, taking in the swollen redness of her lips, the dewy desire in her eyes. His chest rose and fell rapidly. How dare she say another’s name while he kissed her. How dare she! He could withstand many things from this woman, but not that. Never that.
Her eyes widened when she realized what she’d done. “Romulis,” she said, shaking. She even reached for him, but he shrugged her off. “Do not be angry with me. Please. I cannot succeed without your help.”
She cared only about his anger and the fact that he might change his mind and not aid her cause. And still he wanted her. His fists clenched at his sides. “Angry?” he said with deceptive calm. “My emotions matter
