Page 85 of The Alien's Vicious Starflash Manor

Even if I remember the gallery, how completely I gave myself over to him—Twice now, a voice inside my head reminds me—I also know that no matter what I feel, no matter how my body responds to his touch or my heart aches for something more, I can’t trust him.

I can’t let myself forget what he is, what he’s done.

“Remember,” Ivrael murmurs as the carriages approach, the word seeming for a moment like an echo of my own thoughts, “everything depends on the next few days. Whatever you feelabout me, whatever happened between us—none of it matters compared to what’s coming.”

I want to argue, to demand answers, to make him explain everything he’s not saying. Instead, I straighten my spine and lift my chin, donning my own mask of courtly indifference.

“Don’t worry, Your Lordship,” I say. “I know exactly how little any of it matters to you.”

He goes motionless beside me, but before he can respond, the carriages pull up to the manor. As the first firelord steps out, golden scales glinting in the morning light, I steel myself for whatever comes next.

I can do this. I can play my part, learn their games, survive their schemes. I can stand beside Ivrael and pretend my heart doesn’t race every time he looks at me.

I can pretend last night meant nothing.

I have to.

CHAPTER 22

LARA

Irecognize the firelord who steps out of the carriage as the older of the two I overheard plotting with Ivrael the night of his party. I’m staring at the firelord so hard that at first I don’t even notice the two women behind him—probably around my age.

But then I hear Izzy breathe out, “Oh, my holy hell.”

I glance sideways at my sister, recognizing that particular gleam in her eyes. Oh.

Oh.

I’ve seen the look before, usually directed at the captain of her high school basketball team or that girl who worked at the coffee shop near our house. But never quite this intense.

I don’t know which twin is which, but I assume these are the twins—and the ones Ivrael was talking about when he asked Vazor, “What do your girls know of the plan?”

“She’s gorgeous.” Izzy sighs, and I can practically see cartoon hearts dancing in her eyes.

I can’t blame her for being smitten. Both the women are beautiful—but I can’t tell yet which one Izzy is looking at.

One of the twins has dark skin and long black hair that falls in a straight sheet down past the middle of her back. Her features are delicate, her lips curving in a perfect bow. And her eyes are huge and dark, though I can’t tell from here if they’re brown or black. She’s more curvy than slender, and muscular in the way gymnasts and cheerleaders often are.

The other daughter is equally beautiful, but fierce-looking. Her hair has been cut short and styled into spiky points atop her head. She gazes around the room with a glare, as if daring anyone in the Ice Court to get in her way.

She looks so tough that it takes me a long moment to realize that she and her sister are not just twins—they’re identical twins. But whereas the one with the long hair is soft and curvy, even with all her muscles, the other twin is all hard determination that might have been carved out of stone.

And where their father’s scale patterning is all gold, his daughters have both gold and red scales, the metallic pattern running up the sides of their necks and onto their faces, glinting, catching the light and reflecting it back out in glittery sparks.

On the first sister, the pattern looks like jewelry.

On the second, it looks like a weapon.

“May I present Lord Vazor,” Khrint announces formally, gesturing at each firelord as he gives us their names, “and his daughters, Lady Rhaela and Miss Harai.”

The twins execute perfect court curtsies, their movements so graceful they make me acutely aware of my own awkwardness.

Rhaela’s short hair catches the light as she rises, and I hear Izzy’s small intake of breath beside me.

“Ladies Evans,” Vazor says, his voice carrying that strange resonance all firelords seem to have, like distant thunder trapped in crystal. “I understand you’re to be presented at court soon.”

I dip into what I hope is an acceptable curtsy, trying to remember everything Madame Evangeny drilled into us this morning. “Yes, my lord.”

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