“We’re going out again tomorrow,” Faith continued, ignoring the many hints Julia had dropped.
“Go home and start getting ready now,” she said, making a shooing motion.
Her sister remained undeterred. “Refusing to leave your bed isn’t going to help you. Thousands of women have been dumped all over the world. You have to pick yourself back up and prove you can live without him.”
“He didn’t dump me.” She’d heard every word. Had heard Tristan tell her to live her dreams, had heard his unspoken vow of love. He’d left with Zirra to save her. Oh, how she ached for him, for the tortures he must be enduring. “He was forced to go.”
Faith snorted. “That man was a mountain. No one could force him to do anything he didn’t want to do.”
“Yes, they could.” Her voice almost imperceptible, she told Faith the entire story. Her sister didn’t believe her, and she didn’t have the strength to convince her.
She’d closed her shop this past week. She simply hadn’t had the time or the energy to work. She needed Tristan, and her every waking moment was spent here at the house, in bed or on the computer, searching for information about magic and spells, something, anything to lead her to Imperia.
To Tristan.
So far, she’d found only emptiness and despair.
“I miss him so much,” she told her sister, and one lone tear slid down her cheek. That was all it took for the dam to break. She sobbed and shook with the force of her grief, all of her tears cascading down her cheeks, wetting her pillow.
Faith gentled a hand down her hair, held her tightly and cooed soft words of comfort.
But there was no comfort to be found.
* * *
Imperia
ON THE LAST DAY of his required season without Julia, the fine hairs on the back of Tristan’s neck rose, warning him of a coming adversary. He sat atop his horned stag, darkness surrounding him and his men. They had already fought many battles, and he knew many more were to come. It was as if he had never left this place, his battle instincts were so sharp and attuned. Mayhap that was because he only wanted Julia in his arms, and was willing to do anything to get her here.
He knew his men wondered why he fought so hard, harder than ever before. He had told only his friend, Roake, who had agreed to fight at his side, giving his aid.
In a low, quiet tone, he cautioned his army to guard their flanks. Danger lurked nearby. The talon at his side hummed with anticipation. Tristan clutched the hilt, ready. Oh, aye. A battle brewed.
A war cry sounded—and it was not his.
Rebel attackers jumped from the trees, blades hoisted in the air, the only thing visible in the night. Combat began seconds later. Tristan’s talon sliced through the air, vibrating when it connected with flesh.
Energy flowed through his veins. Battle always had that effect on him, always gave him added strength. Yet this time, his energy stemmed from his desire to be with Julia. This was his last day without her—if she wanted to come to him. He had to believe she did. Otherwise…
He’d lived a year without her. He could not go another day.
He fought like a man possessed. He heard men scream in pain. The blood of the rebels ran like crimson rivers along the grassy field. The muscles in his arms and back burned, not completely healed from the many battles he had already endured these many cycles, but he kept fighting, wielding his weapon with deadly intent. There was too much at stake to give up now.
When he finished off one man, two others attacked. He stepped backward off his stag, blocking a blow to his midsection. Then he lunged out, taking down one assailant in a single fluid spin. As he straightened, something stabbed at his back.
On instinct, he dove to the right, a movement that prevented a talon from sinking past bone and muscle and saved his life. Wincing as the new wound throbbed in protest, he whipped around. His combatant grinned, sensing victory, and raised his arms. The silver metal glinted in the moonlight as it arced downward.
Without pause, Tristan unsheathed the blades Julia had given him as he spun and stabbed upward. Instant contact. With a painful scream, the man collapsed.
More men attacked from the trees, and he and his men continued to fight. Not long after, Roake sounded the victory shout. Loud, buoyant cheers covered the lingering sounds of battle, the moans of the hundreds of men lying wounded and bleeding in the grass.
Tristan rubbed a weary hand down his equally weary face, then gazed up at the heavens. He had had enough. It was time.
“Percen,” he shouted, praying the High Priest heard him. “I fight no more until our bargain is complete.”
* * *
JULIA LAY IN BED. She wore the same T-shirt and sweat pants she’d worn every day since Tristan left. They were his, and she welcomed the small bit of comfort they brought her. Another week had passed without him. Another awful, lonely week.
She was no longer sleeping. She only tossed and turned and imagined.
When would this terrible ache subside? She just didn’t know. As she clutched her pillow to her chest, she heard a voice boom through her home. She jolted upright, startled.
“Do you wish to go to him, lass?” It was the same Scottish burr she’d heard at the flea market when she’d bought Tristan’s box.
She didn’t question her sanity. Wouldn’t be taking any chances. She simply shouted, “Yes! Can you take me to him?”
As soon as she uttered the words, her world began to spin. She squeezed her eyes tightly closed. Colors swirled behind her lids, and something whizzed in her ears. How many minutes passed, she didn’t know. Please let this be real, she thought, trying to kindle her growing hope.
An eternity later, the spinning ceased.
When she opened her eyes, she had to blink
