Prince of Forever

by Gena Showalter

  “Agreed.” Who would he tell?

  “You will…you will…never wear your sword in my house.” She smiled triumphantly, and he knew she expected him to balk or, at the very least, to bargain.

  He wanted to balk. Being without his weapon made him vulnerable to attack, and really, he knew nothing concrete about this modern world, nothing of its people. The knowledge frustrated him, yet he said, “I agree to all of your conditions, Julia.”

  She paused, her mouth forming a surprised O. Then, she rewarded him with a second smile, making his heart race. “Thank you, Tristan.”

  “Do not thank me yet.” He stood to pace back and forth, back and forth in front of the kitchen counter. “Lesson one is clothing. You should wear them; they shouldn’t wear you. This,” he indicated her slacks and blouse with a sweep of his hand, “is a travesty, and a travesty is all wrong for you.”

  A new blush stained her cheeks. “When you did become an expert on fashion?”

  “It is a requirement of my field of…work.”

  The blush brightened. “We can go to the mall, I guess. It has the largest assortment of clothes.”

  “What is a mall?”

  “A big building filled with clothes, food and other things being sold to the public.”

  “Ah, a market,” he said, both wistful and resigned. In Imperia, he’d loved taking females to the market. The way they’d blossomed with excitement, looking at him with adoration anytime he’d made a purchase…

  A pang of longing rent his chest. Here, he had no money, so he had no way to make a purchase. He’d have to find another way to earn a look of adoration from Julia.

  Could he?

  They would soon find out…

  * * *

  “THE MALL IS currently closed. We’ll go this evening after I close my own shop,” Julia said, then paused. She had to open her store in a little less than an hour. And just what was she going to do with Tristan while she worked, hmm? She could leave him here where he’d grow bored and possibly execute something. She could send him back inside his box, but he might hate her for the rest of her life. She would hate anyone who kept her captive.

  Guess she’d have to take him with her. A shiver of anticipation slid down her spine, followed by a shudder of dread. First, however, he needed new clothes just as badly as she did.

  Having a pleasure slave grew more complicated by the second.

  Looking him over, Julia chewed on her bottom lip. “Before you can leave the house, we’ll have to find you more appropriate clothing.” Preferably something less sexy, something that covered every inch of his bronzed, come-and-lick-me skin. “We might have to hit a supercenter.”

  “What is wrong with my drocs?” he demanded.

  She gave him another once-over. In those leather tights, with no shirt, he resembled an exotic dancer playing the part of a rogue pirate, and perversely, she wanted him to stay that way. Except, equally perverse, she didn’t want any other woman seeing him like that.

  “They’re too tight,” she informed him. “I can see the outline of your…your… I can just see things I’m not supposed to see, okay?”

  He crossed his arms over his chest and uttered a patronizing snort. “If a warrior’s clothes are loose, they are easily grabbed by his enemy.”

  “But we’re not at war.”

  “Silly dragon. Enemies are all around us, always. Some are seen, some are hidden.”

  “Fine,” she said on a sigh. “Keep your pants. You still need a shirt, though.”

  “Mayhap it would be easier if we stripped naked and stayed here.”

  “No!” she shouted, though her body screamed, Yes. Oh, yes. “Will you stop doing your pleasure slave thing? Unless this is part of my training?”

  A muscle jumped beneath his eye, an indication of anger, but still he purred, “Will you find me appropriate attire, little dragon?” His voice was pure, unadulterated sin, and seemed to suggest he could wear her.

  Images of draping her naked body over his, of her arms slung around his shoulders and her legs wound around his waist, flashed inside her mind. A delicious shiver rocked her on her feet as she sucked her bottom lip into her mouth.

  “Do not do that,” he suddenly growled, all traces of seduction gone.

  Confused by his abrupt mood shift, Julia blinked up at him. “Don’t do what?” Don’t imagine licking your muscles? Too late.

  “Do not bite your lip. It is bad for you.”

  Um, what the what? “It is not.”

  “If you continue,” he said, purring again, “I might add another parameter to your lessons. No biting of the lips—I mean, no biting of your own lip. You may bite me as much as you like. Now, about the clothing. I had decided to wear a shirt. You may fetch me one.”

  “Oh, I may, may I?” She rolled her eyes. “There’s a supercenter a couple miles from here. It’s open 24/7, and it will have everything you need.” Again she glanced down his big, hard body. “I just hope they have big enough sizes.”

  “We will leave immediately.” Without waiting for her reply, he pivoted on his heel and stalked to the door.

  “Wait!” Julia bolted after him. What had gotten into him? She grabbed his arm, a puny action, really, when dealing with a man as massive as Tristan, but it had the desired effect. He stopped and faced her, his brows winged upward.

  She’d known him such a short time and already she could judge his moods. Arched eyebrows meant one of two things: he was confused, or he was angry.

  Confusion didn’t make sense in this case. So what reason did he have to be angry?

  “You can’t go,” she told him. Thankfully, she’d only be gone an hour, probably less, and that didn’t leave much time for him to get into trouble on his own.

  “Why not?” he demanded.

  Oh, yes. He was definitely angry. Hoping to soothe him, she gentled her tone. “Here in America, we can’t go into a business establishment without being completely covered. We have a policy of no shirt, no shoes, no service.”

  “This policy mentions nothing of leg coverings. Does this mean that once you find me a shirt and shoes, I must remove my drocs?”

  Yes! No! “You must wear all three items at the same time.”

  “I do not like the rules of your world,” he grumbled.

  “You may not like them, but you still have to obey them. So you’ll stay here, and I’ll go. No exceptions. When I return, you’ll change and then we’ll go to my store.”

  Stubborn, he shook his head. “I will go. I will protect you.”

  What if she left and he attempted to follow her? What if he got lost? Or told someone about his box, and that someone tried to break into her home to steal it? Cringing inside and hating her next words, she straightened her shoulders and stared up at him. “I—command you to stay here. Now, if I’m going to open the store on time, I have to hurry.”

  His jaw hardened in an instant, and the heat in his eyes cooled, glazing with frost, turning the violet to icy steel. He no longer resembled the warrior she’d come to desire, but the resentful slave she’d first met.

  Disappointment thundered through her, as potent as her sudden sorrow.

  “I shall do as you command, of course,” he said, his tone devoid of emotion.

  The lack of sentiment made him appear so…so brutal. Like an unfeeling monster capable of any dark deed.

  I have to do this. For his own good! He couldn’t leave the house dressed as he was.

  Knowing there was nothing she could say to ease his pride, she remained quiet as she gathered her purse and keys. Tristan was a hard man, one who obviously yearned to unleash the full measure of his authority. She couldn’t help but admire him and wish she possessed some of his inner strength.

  He’ll have fun while I’m gone. He could explore the house…and break all of her antiques. He could watch TV and learn more about the modern world. He could go for a walk…and demand to pleasure every woman he encountered.

  Fighting a wave of jealousy
, she pinched the bridge of her nose. Maybe leaving Tristan here alone wasn’t such a smart idea, after all.

  Once again, she played with the idea of ordering him back into his box, the only sure way to prevent any trouble. One heartbeat passed. Two. With a sigh, Julia discarded the idea once and for all. How could she, in good conscience, ask another human being to lock himself within a tiny crypt, just to ensure he didn’t flirt with other women?

  Tugging her bottom lip into her mouth—and finally realizing how often she actually did it—she slipped on an old pair of tennis shoes. She glanced up, only to find Tristan watching her, his blank expression still in place. What thoughts rolled through his mind?

  “I shouldn’t be gone more than half an hour,” she said, a catch in her voice. “Don’t answer the door and please, please, don’t use your sword on anyone.”

  “Whatever you desire…mistress.” He sneered the last word. “Remind me. Did I or did I not swear not to use my sword in your home?”

  “Tristan—” Trying to convince him to see things my way? Seriously? She closed her mouth with a snap. An apology would do no good. He wanted to go with her. He deserved to go with her. However, she refused to change her mind. As the ticking of the wall clock filled her ears, she slipped into her coat. “I’m doing what I feel I have to do. Here, you’ll be safe. You won’t get lost,” she said. “I promise.”

  He turned from her, giving her his back, rage wafting from his pores.

  The urge to stay bombarded her, but still she put one foot in front of the other, heading for the door. Regret burned hot, searing her. Step. Step. Step. He would forgive her because…just because!

  She exited the house, a crisp gust of wind hitting her full force. Going from contentedly warm to impossibly cold played havoc with her internal thermometer, and she shivered. After pulling the lapels of her coat together, she palmed her keys and hopped down from the porch.

  Automatically, her gaze sought her shrubs. Thankfully, they were still alive. Her sister was fond of telling her that she possessed the Black Thumb of Death, anything green and leafy sure to die in her care.

  Julia sighed. Tristan wasn’t green or leafy, but she was having trouble taking proper care of her alien, too.

  * * *

  TRISTAN FOUGHT HIS fury as silence enveloped him. Julia had issued a command, her will superseding his, just like all the others he had served. Her careless disregard for his wishes roused the worst side of him, a bloodthirsty beast who roared and pawed for release.

  A beast who lived to make his mistresses miserable in little ways. The only way he could strike back at all. Order him to fetch water, and he would. Straight out of out a toilet. Command him to give you an orgasm, and he would. While allowing his distaste for you to shine through his expression. Demand he kill your enemy, and he would. But he’d pin the crime on you however proved necessary.

  For some reason, he didn’t want Julia miserable—yet. He wanted to shake her. Maybe spank her, too. But hurt her in some way? No. So, he would keep the beast on a leash. He would obey her, but offer no extras. No kindnesses or conversations. No teasing. No more dreaming of her soft body positioned beneath his.

  He’d hoped Julia was different, but she wasn’t. And that was a good thing. Now he didn’t have to worry about softening.

  He shouldn’t place too much significance on any of sweet things she’d done, or the fact that thoughts of her with this other man—this Puny Peter—had awakened Tristan’s deepest possessive instincts. Even now, his blood boiled.

  He needed something to do, something to occupy his mind until Julia’s return. He scanned the chamber. Mayhap he would assuage his curiosity about his hostess and search the home from top to bottom.

  His eyes lit on the windowed alcove where morning sun flooded into the room, and he nodded. Aye, he would learn the layout of the house and discover more about his newest guan ren.

  Mirrors framed in ebony and gold hung on the walls. Pillows with shiny turquoise, emerald and lavender beads were scattered across a raised settee. A cobbled hearth sat devoid of embers. A place with character and hidden depth, like Julia herself. Both were bold and passionate, a maze of untapped delights.

  Tristan cursed. I’m already softening again, aren’t I?

  How did she do it? How did she do what no other woman had managed and short-circuit his anger? How did she make him want to learn more about her?

  He expelled a sigh and turned his attention to boxes stacked inside Julia’s living room, digging inside. The first overflowed with toys, clocks and silverware. The second had books with half-naked men and women on the covers. Intriguing. Had Julia read these tomes?

  In still another box were dishes, porcelain flowers and vases, all carefully packaged. Well, well. Julia was a treasure connoisseur. No wonder she’d purchased his box. She had recognized its value.

  Still curious about his hostess, he journeyed up a creaking flight of stairs, down a hallway with two closed doors. He opened the first and cocked his head to the side, unsure he was seeing what he thought he was seeing.

  The chamber was filled with old toys and a cradle. A tomblike silence greeted his ears. The walls were white, the floors unpolished. And the next chamber appeared exactly the same. Toys, a cradle, a crib. Cracked paint and splintered wood. Below, she had carefully arranged her trinkets and furnishings to reflect a certain ambiance. Here she had left the room in disarray, choking the life from the light. Why? And why all the baby things?

  Did she have children? Or was she pregnant, expecting one? He pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth. She didn’t look pregnant, but maybe she was only a few weeks along. Who was the father? Or she simply wished to have children.

  Some of the tension drained from him. Once, he’d eschewed the idea of marriage. And his many mistresses had not helped sell the idea of joining his life to another’s. But here, now, gazing at the makings of a nursery, he wondered how it would feel to have a happy wife at his side, their children running around their home.

  The pang in his chest reignited, nearly ripping him in two.

  A loud, shrill noise ruptured the silence, reminding him of a messenger of death on a battlefield, and he jolted. Forget his wants and wishes. Alert, ready for combat—anything to defend Julia’s home—Tristan raced down the stairs.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Every Part Of Your Body Belongs To Your Mistress

  AT THE SUPERCENTER, Julia grabbed Tristan a bit of everything. Jeans, sweat pants, T-shirts, shoes and underwear in every style, all extra-extra-large, of course. She only prayed they fit. A man that big probably needed extra room to breathe.

  On her way to check out, she passed the hunting and fishing section, where she spotted a display case of knives. One in particular drew and held her gaze, and she paused to study its intricately carved hilt. The metallic blade gleamed sharp and deadly.

  She knew instinctively that Tristan would cherish the weapon. Was it smart to purchase a blade so easily hidden? No, probably not. Would that stop her? No, definitely not. She’d hurt him. No matter how valid her reasons, she wanted to make it up to him somehow.

  “I want that one,” she told the clerk.

  “Excellent choice, ma’am.” With a face smothered by freckles and bright, silver braces covering his teeth, he looked about twelve years old. The giant tattoo on his forearm—a squirrel eating a pair of nuts—upped his appearance to seventy. “The handle is a wicked work of art.”

  “Wicked, you say?”

  “Oh, yeah. Totally bitchin’.”

  She’d have to remember to inform Tristan of that fact.

  Julia paid for the rest of her purchases, spending over three hundred dollars. “You better appreciate this, Tristan,” she muttered, wheeling the basket to her car.

  A ten-minute, uneventful drive later, she parked her sedan into her driveway. As she lifted the bags from the trunk, one of the handles tore, the purchases spilling out. “Argh! Tristan?” she called. No response. “Tristan?” Aga
in, no response. Frowning, she gathered everything together as best she could and stumbled inside the house.

  Tristan was perched on the living-room couch, his sword out of the box and resting on the woolen rug in front of him. He leaned over the coffee table, his fingers picking at her phone, which was now in more pieces than a jigsaw puzzle. Mouth agape, Julia dropped her purchases on the floor, a hard thump sounding.

  “What have you done to my telephone?” she gasped out, anchoring her hands on her hips.

  “I have conquered it,” he said, looking up at her with pride. Worse, his tone carried unspoken words: Bow to your knees and thank me for this great service.

  At least he was no longer emotionless.

  “I don’t have another landline,” she growled.

  “Then my work here is done.”

  She shook her head in bewilderment. What did I do to deserve this? She’d never kicked a puppy or kitten, had never run over a child who played in the streets. She’d lived an honest life and gave to her favorite charities every year.

  Tone dry, she asked, “Um, what happened to the knowledge you gained from other worlds far surpassing mine?”

  “That it does.” He leaned back, pressing against the pillowed chaise, his arm draped over the edge, curving his hand over the chair as if he caressed a lover. He locked his other arm behind his head and slanted her a glance between half-lowered lids. The pose was carnal, seductive, and her breath caught at the sheer magnificence of the man. “You were right, nixa. There is much you have to learn about seducing a man.”

  Her cheeks heated. First of all, she thought she hated the nixa nickname most of all. Whatever it meant, he tone seemed to turn the word into a curse. Second of all, Tristan’s insult—wait. Were his eyes twinkling with mirth?

  They were! They really were. He hadn’t insulted her ability to greet a man; he’d merely teased her. Had he forgiven her? “Destroying phones certainly puts you in a good mood.”

  He hiked his shoulder in a semblance of a shrug. “Ready to begin your first lesson?”

  Yes! No! Anytime she drew near him, inexplicable things happened to both her mind and her body, and she could never quite gain the upper hand. He had only to speak; heck, he had only to glance at her, and she craved the forbidden—she craved him.