Page 22 of Wings of Shadow
With a deep breath, I compose my features into a mask of casual interest. Just another customer, drawn in by the allure of old books and quiet corners. Nothing more.
I slip through the dark green door of Shakespeare & Company, the scent of aging paper and oak immediately enveloping me. My eyes scan the cramped, book-lined rooms, but she’s not in the front alcove. Not on the ground floor.
The red stairs call to me, each step deliberate, predatory. I know exactly where she’ll be. The second level. That sanctuary of forgotten knowledge, of books that whisper secrets to those who know how to listen. My hand trails along the wooden banister, sensing the accumulated stories of countless visitors.
The upper floor opens before me, a labyrinth of precarious book towers and soft, filtered light. And there—amid the shelves, her silhouette both familiar and alluring—Clarissa stands, lost in the landscape of books.
For a moment, I allow myself to simply observe her. The graceful curve of her neck as she tilts her head to read titles, the way the subdued lighting catches the blonde highlights in her hair. But it’s more than her physical beauty that draws me. There’s an energy about her, a barely contained power that calls to a primal side within me.
I move through the crowded shop, weaving between oblivious patrons with supernatural grace. As I draw closer to Clarissa, I catch a whiff of her scent—jasmine and sunshine, undercut with something vibrant, almost ozone-like. My nostrils flare, drinking it in.
She’s different. Changed, somehow, since our last encounter. An electric tension radiates from her, charged with fresh understanding, and... is that a hint of fear?
My curiosity burns even brighter. What has she discovered in this innocuous-seeming bookshop? What secrets now dance behind those captivating eyes?
Only one way to find out.
“Fancy meeting you here, meine Kleine,” I purr, allowing my true nature to tinge my voice.
Clarissa startles at the sound, those luminous sapphire orbs going wide as they meet mine. Rosy color blooms in her cheeks—surprise, recognition, something more I can’t quite read. My heart thunders at the sight of her softly parted lips.
“You...” she breathes out, and the single whispered word caresses me like a tender touch. “What are you doing here?” A subtle curve of her mouth betrays her quiet delight.
A slow, calculated smile spreads across my features. “The same as you, it would seem. Getting delightfully lost within these literary landscapes.”
Her delicate brow furrows ever so slightly. “How did you know I’d be here?”
“A lucky happenstance, I assure you.” The lie slips easily from my tongue as I take one deliberate step closer, narrowing the distance between us. Close enough to inhale the soft, floral scent that is uniquely, intoxicatingly, her.
“Although...” I add, tilting near. “I suppose one could also say you seem to have a penchant for appearing wherever I happen to be.”
I let the suggestion linger, watching in delight as Clarissa’s eyes widen further and that enchanting blush deepens. She looks utterly captivating when flustered.
“I... I don’t know what you mean,” she stammers, clutching the book in her hands like a lifeline. “This is just my favorite place to browse old tomes.”
Her attempt at recovering her composure is as endearing as it is fruitless. I take another step, invading her personal space in a way that’s toeing the line of propriety. Near enough to catch the ragged edge of her breath, to witness the pulse fluttering wildly at the base of her elegant throat.
“It seems more than mere coincidence, don’t you think? Three times now our paths have... crossed,” I murmur, pitching my voice low, so she has no choice but to instinctively lean in.
I allow the implication to hang heavy in the charged air. But I know this is no accident, no twist of fate—rather a grand design of my own careful machinations.
“Perhaps,” I continue in that same rumbling tone, “you’re the one conspiring to cross my path, Liebste.” I’m quick to amend my boldness with, “And if so, I offer my complete and unreserved approval.”
Her lips part on a tremulous inhale, those expressive eyes searching mine. I glimpse the tumult of thoughts and feelings playing out across her features—confusion, intrigue, an unmistakable spark of interest she’s struggling to smother.
The thrill of rendering her so exquisitely unsettled causes my heart to pound. I’ve landed the bait; now to see if she has the courage to bite.
“Forgive me, chère Clarissa.” A low, rich laugh rumbles from my chest. “I don’t mean to fluster you so. Clearly, the secluded ambiance of this charming bookshop has me feeling... conspiratorial.”
I gesture lazily at our surroundings—the towering, vertiginous shelves laden with books, the low slanted ceilings with crisscrossing beams, the lingering smell of aged parchment and secrets.
“Though I must admit, there’s something delightfully clandestine about crossing paths with a beautiful woman in a place steeped in so much history and romantic intrigue, non?” I lift a brow, the gesture laden with unspoken meaning.
She regains her composure, straightening her shoulders as she tries to appear unaffected by my flirtatious insinuation. But the pretty stain still lingers becomingly in her countenance.
“While I appreciate your... flair for the dramatic, monsieur,” she speaks with delicate restraint, “I’m afraid there’s no grand conspiracy nor mystery here. Just two literature lovers finding themselves in the same place by chance.”
“Is that so?” I counter with silken smoothness, annihilating the remaining space between us. “If that is the case, then allow me to make the most of this spontaneous encounter, mademoiselle.”
