Page 48 of The Alien's Vicious Starflash Manor

The look she gives me makes it clear just how much of a waste she believes that decision is, and I remember for the first time in several hours that although she’s a seamstress, she’s also Ice Court.

Cruel. Dangerous.

I need to remember to never drop my guard around her—or any of the Icecaix.

“In the meantime, you need to practice your curtsies in these dresses. They are more restrictive than modern humangarments.” Disgust threads through Madame Evangeny’s voice. “I will work with you until His Lordship is ready to receive you.”

I groan aloud. Adefina attempted to teach me to curtsy months ago. The most I had ever managed correctly was a slight bob and a nod, and I forgot to do it about half the time I was apparently supposed to.

This lesson does not go any better than the ones with Adefina did.

“No, no, no!” Madame Evangeny sings out in frustration. “What kind of heathen land are you from?”

“Texas,” I say helpfully.

Izzy and I glance at each other and snicker, and Madame Evangeny’s mouth tightens.

“Again!” she commands.

We’re still practicing when Ivrael arrives. He walks into our room and casts a critical glance in our direction, surveying us with narrowed eyes for a long moment before he nods in appreciation.

“You’ve done excellent work,” he says, giving Madame Evangeny an abbreviated bow.

She curtsies even lower. “Your timing is impeccable, Your Lordship.”

And for a moment, I want to contradict her. Nothing about him isimpeccable.

He’s awful.

But Madame Evangeny doesn’t want to cross him, so she makes sure she points her annoyed expression at Izzy and me only when he’s not looking.

One side of Ivrael’s mouth curls up in a smile and he raises one eyebrow. “Your charges look beautiful.”

“Thank you, Your Lordship.” Madame Evangeny is practically simpering.

I glance at her, and then at Ivrael. He looks amazing, but I’m not about to tell him that. Like us, he’s dressed in blue, his suit a navy so dark it’s almost black. Crisp white shirt sleeves show from under the sleeves of the dark jacket, and bright silver detailing and shining buttons contrast against it. He wears a white cravat at his neckline, and incongruously, I find myself imagining taking it off from around his neck.

Wondering what the hell is wrong with me, I shake off the thought and glance away.

Only when I look back at him a moment later do I see that the vines embroidered along his cuffs and collar match the ones on my overskirt and bodice—minus the flowers. Vines, I realize, that look remarkably like the ones in Ivrael’s former ballroom.

The ballroom he conspired with the firelord to burn to the ground.

Ivrael has once again marked me—marked both of us—as belonging to him through our clothing just as surely as branding us with a tattoo in the middle of our foreheads would.

I don’t know if the rest of the wardrobe Madame Evangeny has promised will be similarly marked, but it won’t surprise me. There’s nothing I can do about it at this point, however.

While I’m contemplating our new clothing, Madame Evangeny gives an imperious gesture; her team scurries like ants, and they begin breaking down everything.

Ignoring the bustling of the servants around him, Ivrael says, “We should leave. I’ve arranged for an informal dinner before we begin the evening’s lessons.”

“God,” Izzy groans. “More lessons? I haven’t even figured out that curtsy thing yet.”

“You will. I’ll make sure of it.”

I’m not sure if Ivrael’s words are a threat or a promise.

Ifollow Ivrael into the small dining room that evening, my heart stuttering as memories flood back.

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