Page 30 of Wings of Shadow
She meets my gaze for a beat too long, something wounded and fierce flickering behind her pupils. “Don’t look at me like that,” she says, her voice low.
She straightens, the Alexeev strength returning to her posture. “Nik is fine. We’re fine. He’s just... adjusting. His power is overwhelming. You felt it, didn’t you? That dinner on Yule. The shift in him.”
I nod slowly, unwilling to lie. But now I understand that shift differently. The dragon’s awakening was only the beginning. Whatever Willem Draken had written in that sealed grimoire, whatever dark knowledge it contains, Nik believes it’s the answer to controlling the beast within him.
She exhales through her nose, folding her arms across her chest. “The Draken Curse,” she mutters, almost like an afterthought.
The words hit like a knife to the chest, made all the more ominous by the locked grimoire’s oppressive presence.
“What?” I ask. “What curse?”
Her eyes widen for a fraction of a second—too late to hide the truth. “It’s nothing. An old tale. A family superstition, really.”
I step closer, the air growing thicker with each breath. From the sealed drawer, the grimoire’s whispers seem to grow louder, speaking of blood and madness, of dragons consumed by their own power. “You wouldn’t call it that unless you believed in it.”
Samara glances away, jaw tightening. She’s already said too much. “I have to go,” she says abruptly. “Gavriil’s waiting for me. He gets anxious when I’m late.”
She moves to pass me, but I gently touch her arm. “Sam,” I whisper, pulling my hand back. “If something’s wrong, you can tell me.”
Her body stills, the tension in her spine screaming louder than words. Then she smiles again—serene, unreadable.
“Everything’s fine, Clarissa. Really.” She squeezes my hand and walks away, her heels tapping lightly on the marble floor.
I stand there long after she’s gone, staring at the desk where Willem Draken’s cursed spellbook lies sealed away. My mind is buzzing with questions I don’t know how to answer. The bruises. The hesitations. Willem Draken’s grimoire. And now this—this talk of a curse.
The Draken Curse.
The phrase clings to me, heavy with implication. I can feel it winding through my mind like smoke—elusive, insidious, ancient. What if it’s real? What if whatever’s unraveling in Nik is only the beginning?
And if it’s happening to him…
I glance toward the window, where the rain has begun to fall harder, lashing against the panes like a warning.
What might it do to me?
17
KAISNER
The Parisian skyline sprawls before me, a glittering expanse of opportunity and power. From my office overlooking Place Vendôme, the city unfolds like a chessboard—and I’m the king who moves the pieces.
The drone of voices fills the room as my board members debate quarterly projections and market strategies. Their words wash over me like white noise as I take a slow sip of century-old scotch, savoring the burn. Drachenstein Industries might be the face I show the world—all gleaming steel and corporate bullshit—but it’s just a mask for the real empire. The one that operates in shadows, that makes kings rise and fall, that keeps the supernatural game in check.
“Mr. Drachenstein? Your thoughts on the merger?”
I barely glance up from my ebony desk, where my attention lies fixed on the surveillance photo before me, its glossy surface reflecting the warm glow of my desk lamp. My fingers trace the outline of her face, lingering on the gentle curve of her cheek, the soft line of her jaw. Clarissa—radiant even in this grainy, candid shot—exits the Lumière Gallery, unaware of the camera capturing her every move.
“Proceed as discussed,” I murmur, knowing they’ll interpret my disinterest as executive authority rather than the distraction it truly is.
I’ve memorized her routines by now. The way she stops for coffee at precisely 8:47 each morning. How she tucks her hair behind her ear when deep in thought during meetings. The slight hesitation in her step when she passes the Shakespeare and Company bookstore, as if fighting the urge to venture inside.
My collection of photos grows daily. Some might call it obsession. I prefer to think of it as... thorough. Each image reveals something new—a different angle, a fresh expression, another facet of the woman who has consumed my thoughts. My prey. My… mate?
Taking another sip of scotch, I shuffle through more photos from yesterday’s surveillance, barely registering the continued discussion around me. The liquid burns pleasantly as I study each one with fierce intensity. My eyes narrow at an image of a young gallery patron standing too close to her, his hand reaching to touch her arm. Without thinking, I crumple the photo in my fist, a low growl rumbling in my chest.
She is mine. Even if she doesn’t know it yet.
The shrill ring of my phone pierces through the air, an unwelcome intruder in the midst of the meeting. I glance at the screen, brow furrowing as I recognize the number. It’s one of my spies, and for him to breach protocol and contact me now, the information must be of the utmost importance.
