Page 52 of The Alien's Vicious Starflash Manor

Of all the things I can never allow myself to feel for her.

“You don’t have a ballroom any longer. Where do you plan to teach me Caix dances?”

“The west wing ballroom is gone,” I concede, moving closer to her. “But we still have the gallery.”

Her gaze snaps to mine. “The gallery?”

She shivers, and I’m certain it has nothing to do with cold.

Good. She remembers our last encounter there as vividly as I do. The memory burns through my blood—her body arching into my touch, the taste of her sex under my lips, the way she moaned my name...

The way she shattered against me.

No. Focus.

“The gallery is long enough for basic steps.” I gesture for her to precede me. The ribbons at her wrists pulse as she moves, and my magic hums in response. “And private enough for practice.”

Too private.

But there’s nowhere else suitable, and time grows short.

My cock throbs in time to the ribbons I bound her with.

We walk in tense silence, our footsteps echoing off marble floors.

Even now, she moves with unconscious grace—a queen clothed in servant’s memories. The new court dress emphasizes every elegant line of her body, the silk whispering against the floor.

The gallery stretches before us, long and shadowed. Portraits of my ancestors watch from the walls—almost entirely pale faces and ice-blue eyes judging my every move.

Judging my weakness for this woman.

Except my father.

“Here.” I stop in the center of the space, turning to face her. I hold out my hand in the formal gesture that begins every court dance, ignore how my pulse quickens when she steps closer. “Shall we begin?”

She eyes my offered hand like it might bite. Smart girl.

Her fingers slide into mine, warm against my perpetual cold, and for a moment I forget about duty and destiny and the fate of my world.

For a moment, there is only this.

Only her.

Her skin burns against mine. Frost patterns bloom where our palms meet, spreading up my arm like frozen lightning. When my other hand settles at her waist, she inhales sharply.

“The Icecaix Aevai,” I manage, though my voice sounds as if it’s being dragged across broken rocks, “is a dance made of more than mere simple steps. It’s a display of power. Of control.”

“Like everything else in your world,” she mutters.

“Our world,” I correct, unable to stop myself from tightening the ribbons around her wrists. “You’re part of it now.”

The ribbons draw her incrementally closer, until I can feel every curve of her body pressed against mine. Until there’s nothing between us but silk and duty and all the lies I tell myself about how I can use her.

How I could save her.

The contact sends electricity arcing through my body, and I have to bite back a groan at how perfectly she fits against me.

I begin to lead her in the steps of the dance, show her how the power and control shift from partner to partner from moment to moment.

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