Page 104 of Wings of Shadow
“That means more than you know,” I reply, the words catching in my throat.
He nods once, eyes never leaving the road.
His hands tighten on the steering wheel. “The night his father was murdered,” he continues, “we were ambushed at Schloss Drachenstein, the family’s castle in Bavaria. Arrived for what we thought was a routine meeting. Fifteen men, maybe more, waiting for us."
Janik’s jaw tightens. “I took a blade to the leg, went down hard. Couldn’t stand, couldn’t crawl. Young Master Drachenstein was eighteen. He could have run—everyone was screaming at him to escape. Instead, he picked up a knife and threw himself between me and my executioner. Took the man’s throat out with a single cut.”
He glances at me briefly. “Then he grabbed a gun from the ground and shot the remaining three. An eighteen-year-old boy chose to stay and bleed with his father’s enforcer rather than save his own skin.”
My breath catches. I try to imagine Kaisner back then—barely older than I am now—walking into that trap and reacting so fiercely.
Janik’s voice carries absolute conviction as he adds, “That’s when I knew I wasn’t just serving the Drachenstein heir anymore. I was serving a true king.”
That’s who he’s always been, I realize, my chest tightening with sudden understanding. Not the cold king others see, but the boy who would rather die than leave someone behind. The man who still makes that same choice, again and again.
The silence stretches between us, broken only by the hum of the engine and the whisper of tires on pavement.
A quiet breath escapes me as I gaze out the passenger window, watching the Parisian cityscape blur past in a hush of gray stone and gold morning light. The knowledge that Kaisner went ahead, alone, settles over me like a balm—unexpected and strangely tender. He didn’t wait for me to shield him. He went ahead to shield me.
Not from my brother’s anger—Kaisner isn’t afraid of that. But from the strain of divided loyalties. From the first explosive impact of Nik’s disapproval. From the sting of old wounds being torn open in my presence.
He’s granting me time. Space. Grace.
Whatever else today brings, I’ll remember this: that on this day, Kaisner Drachenstein, the man feared across Europe, chose diplomacy over dominance—for me.
For us.
We turn onto a familiar avenue lined with towering trees, their branches forming a canopy overhead. The sight elicits a sense of nostalgia, memories of my childhood at Draken Manor flooding back.
Suddenly, tires screech nearby. Janik hits the breaks. A black SUV swerves in front of us, blocking our path. He curses under his breath.
“Stay here,” he commands, then exits the vehicle.
I stare through the windshield as Janik approaches the SUV, shoulders squared, his gait taut with restrained aggression. Before I can make sense of it, the vehicle’s doors explode open—metal groaning, boots hitting pavement. A swarm of black-clad men spills out in coordinated formation, tactical gear gleaming under the morning light. They fan out like predators, cutting off Janik’s escape in a matter of seconds.
Terror grips me. I lunge for my phone, fingers scrabbling across the screen, but they won’t obey—shaking too violently to type the passcode. A shout yanks my gaze upward just in time to see one of the men drive his fist into Janik’s jaw. He staggers, then drops like a felled tree.
“No!” I scream, throwing open my door.
Before I can react, two men surge toward me like wolves breaking from the pack. I lash out, my heel slamming into one of their knees. He snarls, staggering with a grunt—but doesn’t go down. The second lunges in, grabbing my arm and wrenching it behind my back. Pain sparks up my shoulder.
“Let me go!” I cry, twisting violently in his grip, heart pounding like war drums in my chest.
“Easy, Miss Draken,” one of them says with a sneer. “We wouldn’t want to damage the merchandise.”
Rage flares through me. I whip my head around and sink my teeth into his hand—hard. Blood floods my mouth, metallic and warm. He howls and recoils, and in that heartbeat, I tear free. I bolt.
But I don’t make it two steps. A third man slides into my path like he’s been waiting. He doesn’t speak—just lifts a cloth, already soaked with something acrid.
“Sweet dreams, beautiful,” he murmurs, closing the distance in a single, fluid motion.
His arm snakes around my waist, yanking me tight against his chest as he presses the cloth to my face. I buck and thrash in his hold, clawing at his forearm, kicking wildly, but it’s like fighting quicksand.
No. No no no?—
My muscles betray me. Everything slows. The pavement rushes up as my knees buckle, the world tilting like a sinking ship.
Janik’s body comes into view—crumpled, unmoving. Too still.
