Chapter 2
CHAPTER 2
LARA
N othing happens, and after a moment, I open first one eye, and then the other.
Ivrael's hand—the one holding the knife—is stretched far to one side. He has stepped in closer to me and is reaching around the edge of the stall he has me pinned against. I twist my head sideways and turn my eyes up to see what he’s doing.
He slices a length of ribbon away from a display, then cuts it in half. The Caix maid running the booth, a young female who’s short and round with gray-green skin, watches with wide, bright-green cat eyes. As soon as he has the ribbon in hand, Ivrael sheathes the knife and turns his face back toward me.
When his gaze meets mine, I freeze like a prey animal hoping the predator doesn’t see it. But Ivrael definitely sees me. He stares into my eyes for a long moment, and everything around us goes silent. Or at least, I don’t hear it any longer.
Slowly, he tilts his face toward mine, finally ducking his head down and capturing my lips with his. My eyes close automatically, and my body fits itself against his. His free arm slips around my waist, pressing against my back to pull me even closer.
His mouth is cool against mine—not like the ice I always somehow expect, but tingling, like the feeling of mint. His tongue flicks along the seam of my mouth, leaving that cool sensation behind. Almost as soon as I feel it, though, it disappears, turning hot like cinnamon oil, burning my lips.
I almost moan at the sensation, opening my mouth almost involuntarily. Ivrael takes the opportunity without hesitation, slipping in to plunder my mouth with his tongue, invading all my senses. The cool heat of his touch sends tingles shooting down my body as if my mouth connects directly to every other erogenous zone I possess.
He takes my bottom lip between his teeth, sucking it into his mouth and running his tongue over it, then releasing it and licking back into my mouth.
Everywhere he touches, my body turns liquid, pooling into a damp heat at my core. I half expect to see actual steam rise between us.
My entire body strains toward him, and it’s as if his touch burns me, brands me, binds me to him. Marks me as his. As if every time he’s touched me before has forged a path between us, blazing a trail that only Ivrael knows.
Fumes from the kiss float up into my head, leaving it reeling and my body aching with desire.
As if he can read exactly how I feel, he steps closer until every part of him touches every part of me, pressing my back into the wall behind me. His cock strains between us, and I fight myself not to grind against him, begging for more.
He taps the inside of my wrists once, murmuring some foreign word as he trails the fingers of one hand down my arms, his fingertips on my left arm and his thumb on my right, until his hand can no longer span the distance between them.
I try to drop my hands to wrap them around his neck, but I can’t move them. I’m as much bound by him as I am bound to him.
His hand moves to the right side of my body, sliding all the way down that arm and then farther, his fingers grazing my ribs, his thumb brushing lightly across my breast, pausing just long enough to flick at my hardened nipple. This time I do moan, and then I begin returning his kiss with enthusiasm, my tongue tangling with his.
Ivrael goes completely still, and when he groans, sheer power rushes through me. His hand moves, and this time fumbles at my wrists. He drags his mouth away from me and rests his forehead against mine, breathing heavily.
Dimly, as if from a distance, I hear voices breaking through the haze that drugs my senses.
“I expect payment.”
“And you’ll get it,” Ivrael says over his shoulder.
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.
“I want you to understand the full extent of what you’ve gained for yourself today.” His tone carries that dangerous edge I’ve learned means he’s about to demonstrate something terrible, the same one he used before having a young servant hanged in his courtyard.
“Gained?” I spit the word like poison. “You mean what you’ve forced on me.”
“Semantics,” he replies coolly. “Continue walking.”
The farther I move from him, the tighter the ribbons become, their Cinderella-blue surface now gleaming with an otherworldly light that reminds me of the transport gate.
Two more steps, and they start to hurt, the magic burning cold against my skin like frostbite. Four more, and my wrists slam together as if the ribbons are attached to one another by invisible bonds, the impact hard enough to make me gasp.
I try to stop then, but Ivrael shakes his head, his golden hair catching the light. “Not yet.”
“My lord,” Khrint intervenes quietly, “perhaps?—”
“Silence,” Ivrael commands, never taking his eyes off me.
Izzy watches wordlessly, but I can see her taking in every interaction between Ivrael and me.
Another two steps, and my hands rise above my head, their movement totally outside my control. The magic pulses through the ribbons like a living thing, as cold as Ivrael’s touch but somehow darker, more malevolent. No matter how much I try to lower my arms, how hard I will it, my muscles trembling and aching with the strain, I have no control over them.
“Interesting,” Ivrael murmurs, studying my reaction with clinical detachment. “The ribbons respond to both physical distance and intent.”
“I’m not your experiment.” I glare back at him.
“No,” he agrees softly. “You’re something far more valuable.”
Izzy’s hand drifts up to cover her mouth, but I catch the slight tremor in her fingers. Despite her usual composure, she’s frightened—not for herself, but for me. I see her other hand curl into a fist at her side, the same way it did when Roland would go into one of his rages.
“Take one more step,” Ivrael says, his voice as hard and cold as the icicles hanging from his manor. Yet once again, something flickers in those strange eyes of his—something that looks almost like pain. For a moment, the formal mask slips, revealing something raw underneath before he reconstructs his perfect composure.
“It hurts,” I manage to grit out between my teeth. The magic burns like frostbite now, spreading from the ribbons up my arms in tendrils of ice-white pain. “Is that what you want to hear?”
“What I want,” he says with deadly precision, “is for you to understand exactly what defiance will cost you.”
Izzy might not completely understand what she’s seeing, but when she realizes it’s truly hurting me, her protective instincts override her usual careful analysis. “Stop. You’ve made your point.”
“Oh, I don’t think I have,” Ivrael replies, then flicks his fingers toward me in a gesture I’ve seen him use to direct his ice constructs. Magic ripples through the air like heat waves, but cold instead of hot. “Another step.”
“You’re hurting her,” Izzy protests, leaning forward before Khrint’s hand on her arm stops her from moving. “This isn’t necessary.”
“On the contrary,” Ivrael responds, never looking away from me. “This is entirely necessary. Another step, Lara.”
I’m already in pain, the magic pulsing through me like liquid nitrogen, but I follow his instructions, taking one more step. It’s as if my hands are attached to the point in space where they rose above my head, anchored there by supernatural forces I don’t understand. I can’t bring them with me, and if I take one more step, I’m afraid I might dislocate my shoulders. The tendons strain audibly with the effort, and tears of pain blur my vision.
“Please,” I whisper, hating myself for begging but unable to stop the word.
Something shifts in Ivrael’s expression—a crack in his perfect mask. “That’s enough,” he finally says, and for a moment, I think I hear genuine relief in his voice. “Come back to me.”
Tears in my eyes—tears of pain, of frustration, of sheer, impotent fury—I follow his instructions, certain my glare is as frigid as his voice.
As I move back toward him, I catch Izzy’s expression. She’s watching Ivrael now, and I recognize that look. It’s the same one she wore when calculating complex equations in school—like she’s solving a puzzle. Her eyes dart between his face and mine, noting every micro-expression, every subtle tell.
Whatever she’s figured out about him, I hope it helps us survive what’s coming.
“A reminder,” Ivrael says softly as I reach him, his breath ghosting cold against my ear, “that some cages don’t require bars to be effective.”
“I hate you,” I whisper back, the words carrying all the heat his voice lacks.
His lips curve in that empty smile again. “That’s probably wise.”
I cannot believe I allowed a single kiss from my captor to distract me, to keep me from realizing what he was really doing as he imprisoned me even more thoroughly than before.
He’s right. These magical satin shackles are what I bought for myself. But not like he means it, not by trying to run away.
No, I bought them through my inability to remember for even a full day exactly what kind of beast I’m dealing with. I allowed a single kiss to distract me not only from what he was doing, but from what he is.
For just a moment, I let myself forget he’s a monster.
A bitter laugh bubbles up in my throat because there’s something else I forgot.
A fairy tale kiss is never just a kiss. And a kiss from a real fairy tale prince—or even just a duke—is as likely to lead to death as it is to happily ever after.
Never again, I promise myself.
Never. The fuck. Again.