Page 102 of Wings of Shadow
The decision crystallizes with brutal clarity. Rising silently from our bed, I dress methodically—selecting a slate-gray suit that feels like armor against what’s to come. Each button, each fold, each adjustment serves as ritual preparation for battle.
When I step into the hallway, Janik materializes from the shadows like a specter, his expression unreadable in the half-light. He stands at parade rest, hands clasped behind his back, awaiting instruction.
“Congratulations are due, mein König,” he says, his voice pitched low.
I pause, momentarily thrown. “I’ve not proposed yet.” Then, suspicion flickers. “Janik, how did you?—”
My enforcer harrumphs. “I meant your dragon’s awakening,” he clarifies. “Though the news of a queen is equally welcome.”
A soft laugh escapes me, tension briefly broken. “More than welcome,” I admit, with an unfamiliar warmth spreading through my chest. “I owe her everything.”
“You are fortunate indeed,” he remarks, but something in his tone shifts, hardening. His posture stiffens imperceptibly.
“What is it?” I ask, instantly alert to the change.
His voice clips each word with military precision. “The Last Dragon Shifter has returned to Paris.”
I straighten my jacket, a predatory gleam in my eyes. “He can say goodbye to that title,” I murmur. “I’m on my way to see him.”
I stop mid-step. “Janik.”
“Yes, sir?”
“When Miss Draken wakes, escort her to Draken Manor.” I don’t ask, I command. “I’ll wait for you there.”
He inclines his head. “Understood, mein König.”
Before I descend, I glance at the bedroom door—the threshold where everything I never knew I needed sleeps peacefully.
I’ll face Nikolaas alone. She need not witness the clash of dragons that’s coming.
42
CLARISSA
Morning light spills through the curtains, gilding the edges of the room in warm gold. It paints lazy strokes across the duvet, the velvet chaise, the edge of the clawfoot tub in the corner. Everything feels unreal, like I’ve woken in a dream spun from silk and smoke.
And maybe I have.
I blink against the glow, slowly coming into awareness. The scent of him clings to the sheets—amber, spice, something darker that I now know belongs to no cologne. It’s his essence. Kaisner. My dragon.
A quiet ache pulses low in my hips, a tender reminder of everything we shared last night. I stretch beneath the blankets, languid, sated, and yet already missing the weight of his body next to mine. My hand reaches for the space where he was, finding only residual warmth. I sigh.
It was real. All of it.
The bond. The shift. The kiss that felt like worship. The flight that tasted like freedom.
And now, the quiet after the storm.
A knock draws me from the haze. Gentle. Discreet.
“Miss Draken?” a soft voice calls from the entrance.
I sit up quickly, the sheets falling from my bare shoulders. The door opens a fraction, revealing a familiar face—one of the household staff, a young woman with dark hair pinned in a neat twist and warm brown eyes.
She steps inside, balancing a silver tray with the kind of effortless grace that comes only from years of service. “Good morning, Miss Draken,” she says, offering a polite smile. “Mr. Drachenstein requested that you be served breakfast here.”
“Oh,” I manage, caught between surprise and gratitude. “Thank you.”
