Page 1 of The Alien's Cruel Starfrost Domain

CHAPTER 1

LARA

Even before my eyes flutter open, my teeth are chattering.

I wake up shivering and roll over on the hard flagstones in the fireplace hearth, the rough surface bruising my shoulder blades, the tiny imperfections digging into my skin.

I’m always so cold here.

Every morning I hope it’ll be warmer—that the remnants of last night’s embers will take away the chill if only I turn to face the fireplace.

I’m always wrong, and today is no exception.

So instead of huddling closer for warmth, I stand and brush the ashes away from my grimy blue jeans like some Cinderella in a fucked-up fairy tale, surrounded by monsters.

But I’ll never have a Cinderella ending. Then again, after almost a year among the Caix—on another planet, far from Earth—I’m pretty sure Cinderella didn’t really get a happily ever after, either.

Because happily ever after is the biggest lie of all. At least, that’s what I’ve come to believe since the day my own evil stepfather soldme in the Trasqo Market to the frozen alien nobleman. To Lord Ivrael Eluwyn, the villain of my story. Or possibly he’s the hero—in which case, I’m the villain.

You never know for sure with fairy tales—not until the end, anyway.

As I move to restart the kitchen fire, though, I’m not thinking about fairy tales. I’m too cold to think anything, so I take the shovel from the stand beside the fireplace and scrape out the ashes from the night before.

The buzzing against my collarbone alerts me Kila’s awoken in the crook of my neck, so I pull my sweater away from my skin to give her an exit.

She flits out, her expression at finding herself still in Ivrael’s household as miserable as I’m sure mine must be. She shakes out her blonde hair and rubs her tiny eyes as she whirs her wings, working out the morning kinks.

I made the mistake of calling Kila a pixie once. After she figured out what I meant, she informed me haughtily that she is a Starcaix raya. Apparentlypixieis a human term for her kind, and somehow that makes it inherently offensive—even if nothing else about associating with me offends her.

“Anything new?” she asks, glancing around the kitchen before settling on my shoulder and wrapping herself in the scrap of woolen fabric Adefina fashioned into a cloak for her when she first arrived in this frozen hell.

I shake my head wordlessly before trading the shovel for the poker and stabbing at the few remaining embers to bring them to life, then blowing on them until sparks catch the kindling I’ve piled atop them.

Adefina bustles in. She takes one look at my work and clucks her tongue. “He won’t be happy if his breakfast is late.”

As if I don’t know that. But I duck my head and nod, trying to move more quickly. Part of me doesn’t want to finish my fire-stoking because it means moving to my other duties, and the kitchen is the warmest part of the castle.

The only warm part.

I know it could be worse. I could have been sold to one of the other Caix of the Ice Court—the Icecaix. Sold to one of the ones who sees humans as playthings to be used up. Left outside on this godforsaken planet to freeze to death once their owners get tired of their toys.

Don’t get me wrong. Duke Ivrael is cold, and he certainly has a cruel streak. I’ve seen it in the way he treats the lesser Caix of the Ice Court.

But as long as we complete our tasks according to his exacting standards, he ignores his servants. That’s what I am here. A servant. Beneath notice.

I finish prodding the single ember into a crackling flame and hold my hands out toward the fire to warm them, watching the food cooking on the iron implements suspended from the metal rod running across the top of the fireplace. Finally, the toast on the grate browns, and the liquid in the pot begins to bubble.

“Out of my way, girl,” Adefina says, but not unkindly.

I move to help her prepare the duke’s breakfast. She hands me a silver spoon, and I dip it into the tea she pours into a cup, stirring exactly three times counterclockwise.

Adefina picks up a bread knife and shears three slices of bread from a loaf with seven deft cuts. Then she murmurs words in a language I don’t understand—even though Ivrael supposedly implanted some kind of translator in me—and she waves her hands over it all, ensuring nothing will grow cold before Ivrael gets to it.

She loads the food and drink onto a tray and is waiting with it by the time Ramira swings through the kitchen door, followed closely by Oriana, the two maids wearing matching pale blue dresses with white aprons.

Ramira catches sight of me, and almost instantly an expression of distaste flickers across her lovely face.

She may be merely a housemaid, but she is Ice Court through and through. The heat of the fire causes sweat to pop out all over her face, turning her blue-white skin anunflattering shade of red.

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