Page 18 of Wings of Shadow
I curse myself silently, knowing I’ve spoken out of turn. “I shouldn’t have said anything,” I admit, panic rising. “Nik will be furious. He’s a planner. I’m sure he had a strategy in place to break the news to you slowly—dammit!”
Samara shakes her head, gripping my hand. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell,” she assures me, her voice steady despite the shock in her eyes. “Nobody must know about this until the time is right—especially not my brothers. Things are crazy complicated as it is.”
Relief washes over me. “Yes, of course!” I breathe, pulling her into a tight hug.
As we embrace, Samara whispers, “This world we live in can be so cruel at times. We need to stick together, you and I. No secrets between us.”
I silently agree, my heart swelling with love and determination. A fierce protectiveness surges through my veins—for Sam, for Nik, for the future we’re building. “Always,” I whisper, and I mean it with every fiber of my being.
We part briefly. I’m about to say more when a sharp knock echoes through the office. Both of us freeze, the moment shattered as our eyes snap toward the door.
11
CLARISSA
Our eyes fix on the door, and my breath catches. The traitorous part of my mind conjures an image of Kaisner on the other side—those dark eyes, that predatory grace, the dark pull of him that I can’t seem to shake, no matter how many warnings Sam gives me.
“Come in,” I call, forcing my voice steady. I exchange a brief glance with Sam, silently agreeing to keep our conversation under wraps.
The door swings open, revealing Marie, my personal assistant. Her usually impeccable appearance is slightly disheveled, a few strands of hair escaping her tight bun. “I’m sorry to interrupt, Miss Draken. Your eleven o’clock is here. I forgot to remind you earlier, what with all the chaos from the gala preparations and?—”
I hold up a hand. “It’s all right, Marie. Thank you.” I try to recall the appointment but come up blank, my mind still racing with thoughts of Kaisner, Nikolaas’ grand plans, and the looming gala—my first solo event since taking over the gallery board.
Sam rises, smoothing her skirt. “I should go,” she murmurs, her eyes meeting mine with understanding. “We’ll catch up soon, yeah? Grab dinner this week?”
“Absolutely,” I reply, grateful for her discretion.
As Samara makes her way to the door, she pauses, turning back to face me. With a final wink, she’s gone, leaving me to tackle this mysterious appointment alone.
I take a deep breath. “Send them in, please,” I say, straightening my posture and schooling my features into a mask of calm confidence.
The figure who enters is not what I expected. She is tall and otherworldly, with porcelain skin that seems to shimmer, as if lit from within. Her hair cascades like liquid moonlight—long, straight, and so pale it verges on silver, flowing effortlessly to her waist. But it’s her eyes—swirling pools of blue and green, like the northern lights—that captivate me, pulling me into their depths.
Not human.
Her presence bends the air itself, shimmering, as if reality itself bends to accommodate her presence. “Clarissa Draken,” she whispers, her voice caressing my soul. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”
I stand, extending my hand. “I don’t recall scheduling this meeting. Miss…?”
“Niamh Mordain,” she says, taking my hand. Her touch is cool, electric. “We have no formal appointment. Some meetings are written in the stars before they appear on calendars.” She tilts her head, throwing me a knowing look, as if I’m meant to understand the meaning of those words.
Well, I don’t.
I blink, momentarily stunned. “Please, take a seat. How can I help you, Miss Mordain?”
Niamh glides into the chair Samara just vacated, her movements impossibly fluid. “Oh, my dear. I’m not here for help,” she says, her kaleidoscope eyes twinkling. “I’m here to offer it.”
I narrow my eyes, confused. “I’m afraid I do not follow.”
She leans forward, her gaze intense. “Clarissa, you stand at a crossroads. The choices before you will ripple through the supernatural world for generations. A guide’s counsel might ease the way.”
My heart races. “Who are you?”
Niamh laughs, a sound like crystal bells. “I am many things. A keeper of secrets, a weaver of fates, a guardian of forgotten knowledge.”
Her fingers sweep a strand of silken hair behind her ear. The movement is casual, almost absentminded, but it reveals a subtle point. It’s not pronounced enough to be noticed at first glance, but now that I’ve seen it, I can’t unsee it.
“Some call us fae,” she continues. “Others, the sidhe. But labels matter little in the grand tapestry of existence.”
