Page 5 of The Alien's Vicious Starflash Manor

His words snap me out of my fog of lust. That was Roland, demanding payment—for Izzy, I presume.

Oh, God. What the absolute hell am I doing returning the kiss of the man who just agreed to buy my sister the same way he bought me not quite a year before?

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, the sound so soft that I’m not entirely certain I heard it correctly.

But before I can ask what he means, he unwinds his arms from around my body and takes a step away from me. Glancing upward at my wrists still pinned against the wood, he makes a come-hither gesture with one forefinger.

My crossed wrists lift about an inch away from the wall, and I grit my teeth as I try to fight against the force that’s holding me there.

It does no good. Once again, Ivrael steps in so close that there’s barely an inch between us.

But this time, he doesn’t kiss me.

Instead, he takes the two ribbons he cut away from the display moments ago and draws them taut between his hands as he whispers in that magical language of his.

Ivrael loops the ribbons around my wrists, his hands moving as I stare at his face. I almost expect the fabric to draw tight, to be painful. But that’s not Ivrael’s style.

He leans in closer until his lips brush against my ear, sending a shiver through my entire body. My nipples tighten at the sensation, and it’s all I can do to keep from closing my eyes as he whispers to me. “As long as you don’t attempt to run, your bindings will be loose. But apparently, you need a physical reminder of your position with me.”

Ivrael’s ice-blue eyes glitter with those unsettling gold and silver sparks, his aristocratic features set in lines of rigid control.

He releases his grip abruptly, and I sag, my hands dropping down to my sides. My wrists tingle where his cold fingers touched them. I glance down, confused by his words and the strange sensation.

He has tied a ribbon around each wrist when I had expected him to use them to tie my hands together. Two perfect, Cinderella-blue satin ribbons, each tied in a bow, wrap my wrists like bracelets.

The color matches his household’s uniforms. A mockery of the fairy tale I’ve been forced into. And now the ribbons mark me as belonging to him every bit as much as the housemaid’s dress I’d worn the night of the ball.

I don’t even feel the ribbons. No pressure, no constraint, just a whisper of satin against my skin. But there’s something else—a hum of magic that makes my teeth ache.

Still, I claw at the ribbons, trying to untie the pretty bows that hold them to my wrists. My fingers fumble with the loops, but they might as well be trying to grasp mist..

The more I pull at the right bow, the more it seems to dance away from my grip, always just beyond proper contact. I switch to the left one, my movements becoming increasingly frantic. The silk should be soft, manageable, but it’s like trying to manipulate frost—there, but impossible to hold, melting away every time I gather it into my hand.

I try to slide a finger under the ribbon, thinking I can at least loosen it, but nothing works. They can’t be untied.

The perfectly formed bows mock my efforts, remaining pristine despite my desperate clawing. Whenever I pull on a ribbon, it tightens around my wrist like a snake constricting its prey, the pressure increasing until I’m forced to stop. The moment I cease struggling, it relaxes back to its deceptively delicate appearance.

Each failed attempt leaves faint red marks on my skin where I’ve scratched myself in my frenzy to remove them. The ribbons themselves remain unmarred, their Cinderella-blue surface gleaming with a subtle magical sheen that seems to ripple in the light.

A beautiful prison, as elegant and implacable as its creator.

When I finally give up, Ivrael is waiting patiently, standing with an unnatural stillness that only emphasizes his cold perfection. His aristocratic features are arranged in the practiced mask of indifference that makes my skin crawl, though something haunted lurks behind his ice-blue eyes.

“Go ahead,” he says, his voice making even these simple words sound like a royal decree. The words hang in the chill air between us. “Walk away from me.”

“Just like that?” I can’t keep the bitter skepticism from my voice. “After everything you’ve done to keep me here?”

His lips curve in a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Consider it an educational experience.”

I don’t like where this is going, but I try anyway. If he’s going to tell me to leave, then I will.

I step toward Izzy, who stands rigidly beside Khrint, no doubt cataloging every detail of this encounter. Her fingers twist nervously in the fabric of her t-shirt—so out of place in the Trasqo Market, like we both are.

I plan to grab her from the valet and run—but almost the instant the intention forms in my mind, the satin ribbons tighten around my wrists like handcuffs made of ice. I stop and glance back at Ivrael, catching a fleeting expression that might be regret before his features smooth back to aristocratic coldness.

“Keep going,” he says, gesturing toward Izzy with an elegant wave of his hand.

I swallow hard, not ready for whatever is coming next.

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