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she became agitated.
    He considered that. He had been forced to pursue women before. Some simply liked to be chased. Was this a game Julia liked to play, then? After all, bed sport began long before the first piece of clothing was actually removed.
    Nay. No game, certainly. The woman radiated fear. She was like a newborn dragon unable to fly away from approaching danger. Was she simply surprised by his intent? Or, if he approached once again, would she retreat? Finding out…hmm, the prospect intrigued him.
    Grinning, Tristan closed the distance between them for the second time. Before she could order him away, he leaned down and sniffed. “I see you have taken care of the smell.” Stroking his chin, he studied her from top to bottom. “It does not seem as if you are in pain, and the hair is gone.”
    Her face scrunched up adorably in confusion, and shedropped those fringed lashes in shy perusal. “What are you talking about?”
    “Earlier you mentioned needing a bath, having your woman’s time and manlike legs.” He stared down the length of her. “I must say, they appear perfect to me. Slender. Smooth. The kind that lock a man in place until he gives you full pleasure. I am most thankful you are no longer wearing drocs.”
    Her gaze collided with his, her eyes alight with aroused wonder. “Drocs?” she asked, breathless.
    He smiled, drawing out his next words and finding more excitement in this one act than anything he could last recall. “Drocs are leg coverings, little dragon. Leg coverings.”
    “Leg…” Slowly realization set in. Red-hot color licked a path from her forehead to collarbone. “I’m in my pajamas,” she said. “I’m in my freaking pajamas.” Wide-eyed, she rose from her seat and raced out of the kitchen, both delicately shaped hands over her buttocks to shield his view.
    Tristan chuckled.
    But slowly, with the release of a breath, his humor abandoned him. This guan ren might be entertaining, but being owned, being chained to another, was far, far from humorous.
    Once Percen, High Priest of the Druinn, had learned of Zirra’s curse, the High Priest had cast a spell of his own, hurtling Tristan’s box away from Zirra, where he traveled from world to world, by fair means or foul. From one cruelty to another.
    Tristan knew why Percen had cast such a spell—to prevent the mortal Great-Lord from discovering that Zirra had broken the Alliance, already a fragile treaty at best, yet one that had at last ceased the war between their people. If word escaped that the Alliance had been broken, war would have once again raged.
    While Tristan loathed the High Priest’s reasoning, he understood his actions.
    Mortal rebels wanted control of the Druinn, and in turn, Druinn rebels wanted control of the mortals. In their attempts to dominate each other, they killed innocent people and destroyed a once-prosperous land. Before his curse, Tristan had looked forward to quashing them both, for he enjoyed the peace and harmony the Alliance promised.
    Peace…ah, would he ever know its sweetness again? During the centuries of his enslavement, he had endured such anguish, such humiliation, the memories still made him shudder. He was forced to wonder, always wonder, how many more women he would serve in his infinite lifetime. One thousand? Two? He scowled. After so many guan rens, he should have been used to his bondage, should have shrugged at the thought of one more woman. He could not.
    He could only pray for his freedom.
    But he knew it would never come.
    In the beginning, he had searched for a woman to cherish, a woman to entrust with his heart. Then he had realized that if he fell in love with a woman and uttered a true declaration, there would be no magic to hold himto whatever planet he found himself on. He would hurtle back to Imperia. Alone. Forced to live his life without his true love.
    “Love,” he spat. The word was a curse more foul than the one he currently endured. To love a woman was to live