Page 105 of Wings of Shadow
The man holding me whispers something else, but his voice distorts, swallowed by the roaring hush that fills my ears.
Then everything disappears into darkness.
And I am gone.
43
KAISNER
Morning mist clings to the cobblestones like breath from the underworld, curling around my boots as I ascend the drive toward Draken Manor. Paris is only beginning to stir behind me, the city unaware of the storm gathering at its heart. Above, the sky is a wash of pewter, neither night nor day—just the hush before something breaks.
Draken Manor rises ahead as a mausoleum of power—stoic, ancestral, and unwelcome.
I slow as I reach the massive doors, my hand hovering over the dragon-shaped knocker. The cold brass bites into my palm when I finally rap against it, a deliberate echo sounding through the house like a warning shot. My breath fogs faintly in the frosty air, but I barely feel it. I think only of her.
Clarissa. Safe. Warm. Still asleep, if the gods are kind. If awake, she already knows I’ve come here. She knows why.
After what feels like an eternity, the door creaks open, revealing a stern-faced butler. His gaze widens slightly as he recognizes me, but he quickly schools his features into a mask of polite indifference.
“Mr. Drachenstein,” he says, his voice clipped and formal. “I’m afraid Mr. Draken is not expecting any visitors, sir. You’ll need to make an appointment.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Bureaucracy, even in a place like this. “I’m not the type to make appointments,” I murmur, brushing past him and into the grand foyer.
The butler sputters indignantly behind me, but I pay him no mind. My senses are on high alert, scanning for any sign of Nikolaas. A low hum of voices draws my attention to a door at the far end of the hall. Without hesitation, I stride toward it, my footsteps echoing in the cavernous space.
As I approach, the sounds become clearer—Nikolaas’ deep timbre, tinged with frustration, and the Ursa princess’ softer tone, attempting to soothe him. My hand closes around the doorknob, and for a split second, I consider turning back. But the image of Clarissa, vulnerable and alone, steels my nerves.
I twist the handle and push the door open.
The study radiates the grandeur and elegance of old-world opulence. Rich mahogany bookshelves line the walls, filled with ancient tomes and priceless artifacts. A massive desk dominates the center of the room, behind which stands Nikolaas Draken, his posture rigid with tension. His mate Samara is perched on the edge of a nearby armchair, her expression a clash of concern and surprise as she sees me enter.
For a moment, silence reigns. Then, Nikolaas’ gaze stumbles upon me in the doorway. Recognition ignites like a spark to gunpowder.
“Where is she, you power-hungry bastard?” Nikolaas roars, eyes flashing with barely contained fury. He jabs an accusing finger at me. “You crossed a line, Drachenstein. There’s no going back from this.”
A confident smirk pulls at my lips. “Bold words for someone who just lost his crown.”
He storms around the desk, fists clenched at his sides, ready to strike. “You brand her, and now you want to play king? I’ll see you dead first, Kaisner!”
I stand my ground, my voice cutting with silk-wrapped steel. “Say my name again, Draken, and I’ll give you a reason to fear it.”
“Both of you, please!” Samara jumps to her feet, positioning herself between us. Her gaze darts between Nikolaas and me, pleading for calm. “This is not the way.”
I breathe deeply, forcing my tone to remain controlled. “Listen to your mate. Let’s do this the civilized way—for Clarissa’s sake.”
But my words only fuel Nikolaas further. His face contorts with rage, a vein pulsing at his temple.
“If you truly cared about her, you’d walk away now. Leave her the hell out of your twisted games.” His fist slams down on the desk, crystal rattling in its tray.
His remarks slice through my pride, anger flaring in my chest. “You mistake my restraint for weakness, Nikolaas,” I say, my tone cold. “The only reason you’re still breathing is because she loves you.” I want to lash out, but for once in my life, I swallow the fury. This isn’t about my ego. It’s about Clarissa.
“She should be home—where she’s safe,” Nikolaas murmurs.
“Your sister is safe,” I bite back. My voice turns to ice, but only just. “Safer than she ever was under your watch.”
That hits its mark. Nikolaas reels back as if I’ve physically struck him. “Excuse me?” he scoffs, but there’s a tremor in it—disbelief already giving way to outrage.
“You heard me.” The leash on my temper snaps. “You were too busy chasing glory—vanishing from Paris without so much as a backward glance, while Clarissa stayed behind, exposed. Unguarded.” I step closer, voice rising. “She faced threats you never saw coming, and you weren’t there. I was.”
