Page 22 of The Alien’s Vicious Starflash Manor (Empire of Frost and Flame #2)

CHAPTER 21

LARA

M y hands won’t stop shaking as Lucilline helps me into the new dress the next day.

The silk whispers against my skin, cool and delicate, but all I can think about is how Ivrael’s fingers traced those same paths last night. How I melted under his touch, surrendered to his will.

“Hold still!” Kila buzzes around my head, her tiny wings whirring in irritation. “Your fidgeting is making it impossible for Lucilline to get the dress on straight.”

“I’ll manage,” Lucilline says.

The raya lands on my shoulder, her small hands planted on her hips. “I must say, you’re acting stranger than usual this morning.”

“Stranger than usual?” I meet Kila’s gaze in the mirror. “What does that mean?”

Despite the conversation, though, I’m barely paying attention, thinking instead of Ivrael…

How I fell to my knees and…

Oh, God. What is wrong with me?

My cheeks burn at the memory.

“Are you feeling well, miss?” Lucilline asks, her kind voice cutting through my spiraling thoughts. “You seem flushed.”

“I’m fine,” I manage, though my voice comes out higher than intended. “Just tired.”

“She’s been flushed since I got here this morning,” Kila announces, swinging her legs as she perches on the dressing table mirror. “And she wouldn’t tell me how the dancing lesson went last night, either.”

“It went…fine.”

“ Fine . Everything today is fine .” The raya waves her tiny hands in the air expressively. “I don’t believe you.”

Lucilline adjusts the dress’s neckline. The new gown is Cinderella blue again—of course it is—with silver embroidery tracing delicate designs across the bodice that echo the frost patterns Ivrael’s touch left on the gallery walls.

Fucking hell . Why can’t I quit thinking about him?

“Come, miss,” Lucilline says. “Sit at the dressing table and I’ll finish your hair.”

I glance at Izzy, sprawled across the bed, already dressed in a deeper blue gown that makes her red hair look like flames. “You’ll wrinkle your dress.”

“Kila’s right. You are acting weird.” Izzy props herself up on her elbows to study me. “Did something happen last night after I went to bed?”

“Oh, something definitely happened,” Kila trills, fluttering over to land on Izzy’s shoulder.

The back of my neck prickles with heat. Before I can respond, a sharp knock at the door makes me jump.

“Enter,” Lucilline calls out, still fussing with my hair.

Ramira glides in, the Icecaix maid’s jaw tense, her usual cold disdain hardened into something sharper.

Izzy sits up on the bed, dislodging Kila.

“His Lordship requests your presence in the receiving room,” Ramira announces, the words precise and brittle as icicles. Her gaze sweeps over my court dress, and her lips thin to a knife-edge. “As soon as you’re properly attired.”

My stomach does a slow flip. Of course he wants to see us. Of course I have to face him in the cold light of day, after I?—

“But not the raya,” Ramira adds, glaring at Kila. “I’m to return it to the kitchen.”

“No,” I say quickly. “I’ll take her down.”

Ramira snarls and starts to say something, but then Lucilline jumps in. “I will take her down once you’re ready to see His Lordship.”

My stomach turns flip-flops. I’ll never be ready to see him again.

“You are expected immediately ,” Ramira says.

“We’ll be there.” Izzy’s voice cuts through my panic. “Once my sister is ready.”

Ramira’s nostrils flare at Izzy’s casual tone, and Lucilline’s hands go still on my shoulders, as if holding me back from responding.

“Very well, my ladies .” The title drips with venom as Ramira executes a perfect curtsy and backs out of the room.

As soon as the door closes, Izzy lets out a low whistle. “Wow. Someone’s pissy about the new pecking order.”

“I’ve seen icicles warmer than that one,” Kila mutters, retreating to huddle under my hair against my neck where it’s warmer. “And I should know.”

“Can you blame her?” I ask, watching Lucilline pin up another section of my hair. “She’s served him loyally for years, and now we show up and suddenly get elevated to... whatever this is.”

“His special guests,” Izzy says with mock grandeur, then sobers. “Seriously though, what’s going on with you? You look like you’re about to face a firing squad.”

“More like she looks like she’s seen a ghost,” Kila pipes up from her warm spot at my neck. “A very handsome, very cold ghost, if you ask me.”

I reach up to gently swat at her, but she just giggles and burrows deeper into my hair.

I meet my own gaze in the mirror, seeing the barely concealed panic there. How can I explain what happened in the gallery? How I let myself get swept away by Ivrael’s intensity, his touch, his?—

“Nothing,” I finally say. “I just... I hate all this court stuff.”

Izzy’s reflection raises a skeptical eyebrow. “That’s why you’re blushing every time someone mentions His Lordship.”

“I am not!” But even as I protest, I feel fresh heat creeping up my neck.

“Uh huh.” She picks up a slice of bread Adefina had sent up for breakfast and takes a bite, still watching me.

“There,” Lucilline announces, stepping back to survey her work. “You look lovely, miss.”

I barely recognize myself in the mirror. The girl staring back at me looks like she belongs in this frozen fairy tale, with her upswept hair and elegant gown.

But I can still see the shadows in my eyes, the tension in my shoulders.

“We shouldn’t keep him waiting,” I say, standing quickly. Maybe if I keep moving, I can outrun these thoughts, these feelings.

This growing awareness that I’m in way over my head.

“Now I know something happened.” Izzy rolls off the bed. “You never worry about keeping him waiting.”

I smooth nonexistent wrinkles from my skirts, avoiding her gaze. “Things are different now. We’re supposed to be learning court manners, remember?”

“Sure,” she drawls. “That’s definitely why you’re acting like this.”

Kila laughs so hard she nearly loses her balance.

Lucilline busies herself tidying up, but I catch her hiding a smile.

Great. Everyone can see right through me.

“Let’s just go,” I mutter, heading for the door before any of them can question me further.

We split up in the hallway, Lucilline and Kila heading to the servants’ staircase as Izzy and I head down the central stairs. But each step toward the receiving room feels heavier than the last.

How am I supposed to face him after last night? How can I, knowing how completely I surrendered to him?

Knowing that some traitorous part of me still aches to do it again?

Get it together, I tell myself fiercely. It was one moment of weakness. It doesn’t have to mean anything.

But as Izzy and I approach the receiving room, I have a sinking feeling that nothing will ever be simple again.

“Ready?” Izzy asks as we reach the door, her voice gentler now.

No. I’m not ready. I’ll never be ready.

But I lift my chin and square my shoulders anyway.

Whatever happens in that room, whatever game Ivrael is playing, I won’t let him see how deeply he’s affected me.

I won’t give him that power over me again.

Even if every fiber of my being knows I’m lying to myself.

“This is going to be awful,” I whisper.

Khrint opens the receiving room door for us, his expression professionally blank. My heart stutters as we enter, but the room is empty.

“His Lordship will arrive momentarily,” Khrint says, and backs out of the room with a bow.

I blow out the breath I’ve been holding, feeling strangely let down.

The receiving room is too perfect, too pristine. Like everything in Starfrost Manor, it gleams with impossible beauty—white walls trimmed in pale blue, delicate frost patterns etched into mirror-bright windows, thick rug with intricate blue and white designs.

After a year here, I know it’s all designed to remind visitors of Ivrael’s power, his control over ice and cold.

“We should just run.” Izzy’s sudden whisper carries the edge of panic I’ve been expecting since Ivrael brought her here. “Right now, while they’re not watching us. We could make it back to the Trasqo Market?—”

“No.” I grab her arm, pulling her farther from the door. “Trust me, I’ve tried running. Repeatedly.”

Her eyes go wide. “What happened?”

I think of the cemetery, of undead kings and magical crowns. Of wolf-creatures with too-wide mouths full of ice-crystal fangs.

Of Ivrael’s punishments.

I push down the way my nipples tighten at that thought.

“Nothing good.”

“But there has to be a way.” She starts pacing, her new court slippers silent against the marble floor. “Maybe if we went a different direction?—”

“I’ve tried different directions. The woods are full of monsters. The fields are packed with snow. And even if we made it past all that, we’d still have to find our way back to the ship, figure out how to use it to get home.” I catch her shoulders, forcing her to stop and face me. “Iz, listen. I have a plan.”

She stills, studying my face with that analytical gaze that got her through advanced calculus at sixteen. “What kind of plan?”

“The firelords are coming to this peace summit thing, right?” I glance at the door, lowering my voice further. “If we can find one to help us?—”

“Like the one who burned down the ballroom?” Her tone drips skepticism.

“No, not that one.” I shake my head, remembering the screams, the flames, the horror of that night. “Neither of the ones working with Ivrael. But there will be others. Dragons, Izzy. Actual dragons who hate the Ice Court.”

“And you think they’ll help us? Just like that?”

“They might, if we can convince them we’re useful.” I bite my lip, considering how much to tell her. “Look, Ivrael keeps saying we have royal blood. That’s why he bought us. Maybe the firelords would be interested in that.”

Izzy’s eyes narrow. “You’re suggesting we trade whatever he wants from us to his enemies instead of giving it to him?”

“Exactly.”

“That’s...” She pauses, and I can practically see the equations forming behind her eyes as she calculates probabilities. “Actually not a terrible idea. But how do we know which firelords to trust?”

“We’ll have to be careful. Watch them at the summit. Figure out who’s already allied with Ivrael and avoid them.” I think of their golden scales gleaming in the Caixlights, the way the firelords plotted the ballroom’s destruction with such casual cruelty. “Some of them will be obvious.”

“And in the meantime? We just... play along? Learn all their ridiculous court manners and pretend we’re going to be good little Ice Court ladies?”

“Yes.” I squeeze her shoulders gently. “It’s not forever. Just until we can find someone to help us.”

She’s quiet for a long moment, that brilliant mind of hers no doubt analyzing every angle. Finally, she sighs. “I hate that this is probably our best option.”

“Me, too.”

“You’ve changed,” she says suddenly, searching my face. “The old Lara would have just kept running until she found a way out.”

The observation hits harder than I expect. “The old Lara didn’t know what was out there in the dark.”

Before she can respond, footsteps echo in the hallway. We spring apart just as the door opens, and Ivrael sweeps in with all his cold grace.

I catch Izzy’s eye one last time, seeing grim determination replace her earlier panic. She gives me a tiny nod—agreement, understanding, trust.

We can do this. We have to do this.

We just have to survive long enough to make it work.

I have to force myself to avoid reacting when Ivrael moves into the room to stand by a window looking out into the courtyard.

He’s outlined in morning light, golden hair gleaming, and for a moment I’m thrown back to last night—his hands in my hair, his mouth on my skin, his voice rough with need. His cock in my mouth.

Heat floods my cheeks, and I quickly look away, focusing on the intricate pattern of the rug beneath my feet.

“Good morning,” he says, his cultured voice betraying nothing of what passed between us.

Of course not.

To him, it was probably just another way to assert his control.

“Your Lordship.” I drop into a curtsy, grateful that at least I’ve had enough practice that I don’t stumble.

Besides, it allows me to avoid meeting his gaze.

When I straighten, I keep my gaze fixed somewhere over his left shoulder.

“Morning,” Izzy says casually, executing her own curtsy with even less grace—but far more confidence. She drops into one of the elegant chairs without waiting for an invitation. “What’s so urgent?”

A smile tugs at the corner of Ivrael’s mouth. “Lord Vazor will be arriving shortly with his daughters. They’ve agreed to assist with your court preparation.”

My stomach drops.

“Lord Vazor—the one who helped you arrange the attack?”

Ivrael’s eyes narrow, sparks flashing like stars in their depths.

I cross my arms, trying not to back away.

“The one,” he says carefully, “who will help ensure your survival at court.”

“Like you helped ensure the survival of your court members?”

“Lara,” Izzy hisses warningly.

But I can’t seem to stop myself. Maybe it’s leftover shame from last night, or fear of what’s coming, but suddenly all I want is to crack that perfect aristocratic mask he wears.

To make him feel something, anything, as intensely as what he makes me feel.

“Tell me, Your Lordship,” I continue, my tone matching Izzy’s from earlier, “will they be teaching us which nobles we can trust? Or just how to look pretty while we watch them burn alive?”

In an instant, he’s across the room. I stumble back, but he catches my wrist—right above the ribbon.

His touch sends electricity racing up my arm, and I hate how my body betrays me, leaning into him even as my mind screams to pull away.

“Careful, princess,” he murmurs, his breath brushing against my ear. “You’re not the only one struggling with control right now.”

The admission, however subtle, makes my pulse spike.

I force myself to meet his gaze, and what I see there steals my breath—hunger and frustration…

And something even darker.

Something that matches the storm raging inside me.

“I’m not struggling with anything,” I lie, my voice embarrassingly breathless. “I just want to know what game we’re supposed to be playing.”

His grasp slips farther up my arm, and his thumb traces small circles on my inner wrist. It takes everything in me not to shudder at the sensation. “This isn’t a game, Lara. This is survival.”

“Ahem.” Izzy’s pointed cough makes me jump. I’d almost forgotten she was there. “Should I leave you two alone?”

Ivrael releases me and steps back, his mask of cool control sliding seamlessly back into place.

The loss of his touch shouldn’t feel like falling—but it does.

“The twins will be here within the hour,” he says as if nothing happened. “They’ll help you learn to navigate court politics and proper etiquette. Their father will assist with... other matters.”

“Other matters,” I repeat flatly. “Like whatever you’re planning for the peace summit?”

A muscle twitches in his jaw. “Among other things.”

“And we’re just supposed to trust them? Trust you?”

“Yes.” His voice carries absolute certainty. “Because the alternative is death—or worse.”

“There’s always worse with you, isn’t there?” But the fight is draining out of me, replaced by bone-deep exhaustion. I’m so tired of trying to figure out his angles, his motives, his endless plots within plots.

So tired of fighting this pull between us.

“The twins understand what’s at stake,” he says more gently.

“Which is what, exactly?” Izzy asks. She’s been watching our exchange with sharp eyes, and I know I’ll be facing an interrogation later.

Ivrael’s gaze sweeps over both of us, lingering on my face for a heartbeat too long. “Everything.”

Before either of us can respond, Khrint appears in the doorway. “Your Lordship, Lord Vazor’s carriage approaches the manor.”

“Already?” Ivrael’s brow furrows. “They’re early.”

“Firelords,” Izzy mutters sarcastically. “No concept of scheduling.”

Despite everything, I have to bite back a smile. Trust my sister to cut through the tension with casual snark.

“We should greet them properly,” Ivrael says. “It wouldn’t do to seem unwelcoming to our allies.”

The word ‘allies’ catches in my stomach like a twist of barbed wire from a fence back home.

Is that what we are now? Allies in whatever schemes he’s plotting? Partners in his plans for revolution or revenge or whatever game he’s really playing?

Or are we just pawns?

“Come,” he says, holding out his arm to me. When I hesitate, something flashes through his swirling eyes—frustration? Regret? “For appearance’s sake, if nothing else.”

I place my hand on his arm, trying to ignore how right it feels. How my body remembers the way he touched me last night, stripped away every defense until there was nothing left but need and surrender and?—

No. I can’t think about that. Not now. Maybe not ever.

“Appearances,” I echo hollowly. “Of course.”

As we leave the receiving room, Izzy falls into step behind us.

I can practically feel her curiosity radiating forward, but thankfully she stays silent. I don’t have answers for her questions anyway.

I barely have answers for myself.

Ivrael’s arm is solid beneath my hand, his presence both comfort and torment. With every step, I’m acutely aware of him—the subtle shift of muscle beneath expensive fabric, the cool radiance of his skin, the way he adjusts his stride to match mine.

It would be so easy to lean into him, to let myself believe in whatever this is between us. To trust that maybe there’s more to him than the cold, calculating duke who bought me in the market.

But I remember the flames in his ballroom, the screams of the dying. I remember how he used that hellish inferno to test my power.

We reach the main entrance and step outside into the shining morning sunlight sparkling off the fresh snow in the courtyard.

My gaze darts to the gallows in the far corner, and nausea rises in my throat as I remember the boy who died on it.

Even if I remember the gallery, how completely I gave myself over to him—Twice now, a voice inside my head reminds me—I also know that no matter what I feel, no matter how my body responds to his touch or my heart aches for something more, I can’t trust him.

I can’t let myself forget what he is, what he’s done.

“Remember,” Ivrael murmurs as the carriages approach, the word seeming for a moment like an echo of my own thoughts, “everything depends on the next few days. Whatever you feel about me, whatever happened between us—none of it matters compared to what’s coming.”

I want to argue, to demand answers, to make him explain everything he’s not saying. Instead, I straighten my spine and lift my chin, donning my own mask of courtly indifference.

“Don’t worry, Your Lordship,” I say. “I know exactly how little any of it matters to you.”

He goes motionless beside me, but before he can respond, the carriages pull up to the manor. As the first firelord steps out, golden scales glinting in the morning light, I steel myself for whatever comes next.

I can do this. I can play my part, learn their games, survive their schemes. I can stand beside Ivrael and pretend my heart doesn’t race every time he looks at me.

I can pretend last night meant nothing.

I have to.