Page 26 of The Alien's Vicious Starflash Manor

Should’ve used his title, I think.

Not that my sister is any more likely to be deferential than I am—not by nature, anyway.

“My estate.” His clipped tone carries that familiar edge that makes my skin prickle with remembered heat and fury. “Starfrost Manor.”

I fight back a bitter laugh. Of course he doesn’t warn her about what’s coming. He didn’t warn me either—about the gate, about the manor, about any of it. Some twisted part of me wonders if he enjoys watching us discover each new horror unprepared.

We’re nearly at the gate when Izzy suddenly stops walking, her eyes going wide as her gaze traces the intricate patterns in the metalwork.

I’m not surprised. The whorls and spirals seem to move, to breathe, drawing you in until you could swear they’re dancing just for you.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” I say, trying to keep the bitterness from my voice. Because it is beautiful, in the same way everything in Ivrael’s world is beautiful—like frost on a window, like the glitter of stars on snow.

Like Ivrael himself.

He watches Izzy’s fascination with an expression I’ve grown to hate—that satisfied little smile that says everything is going according to his plans.

Golden sparks flash through his ice-blue eyes. I’ve seen those sparks too many times not to know what they mean: power, satisfaction, desire.

Whatever reaction he wanted from Izzy, he’s getting it. And even not knowing exactly what reaction that is, his satisfaction pisses me off. My one goal for the entire last year was to save Izzy. Having failed that, all I can do now is keep trying to interfere with his plans for her…just as soon as I figure out how.

“Izzy Evans.” His voice cuts through Izzy’s daze. She blinks rapidly, coming back to herself with a start. “We need to continue.”

I step closer to my sister as we approach the gate.

“Hold on to something,” I murmur, but there’s nothing to grab except empty air.

The magic hits like a wave of arctic wind, stealing the breath from my lungs. It’s different this time—not quite the bone-deep agony I felt on the return trip to Earth, but nowhere near as smooth as my first crossing.

My vision blurs and fragments, the world splitting into crystalline shards around us.

Through the kaleidoscope of magic, I catch glimpses of Ivrael’s face. His eyes are closed, lips moving in what might be an incantation. A few golden strands of hair have escaped his usual perfect control, whipping around his face in the magical wind.

Even now, even knowing what he is, what he plans, my traitorous heart skips at the sight of him.

The crossing feels endless, though it probably only lasts seconds. When reality snaps back into place, we’re standing in the clearing on the other side.

It’s still daylight here, though the sun is setting.

“Different time zones, apparently,” I mutter to Izzy.

My sister sways on her feet, and I reach for her, but Khrint steadies her before I can move. The look she gives the footman is equal parts grateful and terrified, and it makes me want to scream. I remember that feeling—the awful uncertainty of not knowing which of these beautiful, terrible creatures might help you and which might destroy you.

Ivrael steps forward, spreading his arms wide. The temperature drops further, and my breath clouds in the air as hispower builds. Frost spirals out from his feet, creating elaborate patterns in the snow.

The first time I saw him do this, it took my breath away. Now I just watch through narrowed eyes, wondering what other powers he’s hiding.

Four shapes begin to form in the swirling ribbons of ice and snow—heads, necks, powerful shoulders materializing as if shaped by invisible hands. The ice horses stamp translucent hooves against the ground, tossing their manes.

“Oh my God,” Izzy whispers beside me. I glance at her and see tears freezing on her cheeks.

I understand her reaction. These horses are especially stunning, their bodies rippling with internal light like aurora borealis caught in glass.

“Show-off,” I mutter, loud enough for Ivrael to hear. His lips curve slightly, and for a moment I glimpse the man who sometimes looks at me like I’m more than just a means to an end.

The one who touches me like he can’t help himself.

But then his expression smooths back into that aristocratic mask, and I remember that’s all I’m certain I’ve ever seen—a mask, a lie, a way to keep me compliant until he can use me and my sister to take his prince’s throne and save his dying world.

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