Page 36 of Wings of Shadow
I take a deep breath, willing my dragon’s wrath to calm. When I speak again, my voice is cool and controlled, belying the storm of emotions beneath. “Secure me a private box,” I order, my mind already racing with plans. “And make sure my presence isn’t widely known. I want the element of surprise.”
Janik nods, a glimmer of understanding in his eyes. “Of course, Mein König. Anything else?”
I pause, considering. The next move needs to be perfect, a delicate balance of intrigue and allure. “Have flowers sent to her box. White roses, with a note. Sign it with just an initial—K.”
My enforcer bows swiftly, but as he turns to leave, a new idea strikes me. “Wait,” I command, reaching for a card on my desk. Pen in hand, I hastily scribble further instructions. “This, also.”
Janik retrieves the card and exits silently, leaving me alone. I turn to the window, my thoughts consumed by Clarissa Draken. Her sapphire eyes, the soft curve of her smile, the way she tilts her head when she’s deep in thought—every detail is etched into my memory.
For too long, I’ve watched her from afar, biding my time, waiting for the perfect moment to make my move. And now, fate has handed me that chance on a silver platter.
“She has to be mine,” I murmur, my voice barely audible even in the silence of my study. My fingers clench into fists at my sides, the need to possess her, to claim her, overwhelming in its intensity. “And soon.”
The thought of her in my arms, of claiming her as my own, sends a surge of heat through my body. It’s not just desire—though there’s plenty of that—but something deeper, less primal. A need that goes beyond the physical, that touches my very soul…
I shake my head, trying to clear these dangerous thoughts. I can’t afford to be distracted by emotion. This is about power, about securing the Draken blood for my own purposes. Nothing more.
But even as I tell myself this, I know it’s a lie. Clarissa Draken has awakened something in me, something I thought long dead. And tomorrow night, at the opera, I intend to explore that feeling to its fullest.
As I turn to my desk, my phone buzzes insistently. A text message flashes on the screen from Scarlett—my occasional lover and one of my most skilled spies. Her message is direct, as usual:
Free tonight. Your place or mine?
A month ago, I would have responded immediately, eager for the distraction and release that Scarlett offers. Her skills extend far beyond espionage, and our encounters have always been mutually satisfying. But now...
I find myself hesitating, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. The thought of Scarlett’s touch, once so enticing, now leaves me cold. Instead, unbidden, an image of Clarissa Draken rises in my mind.
A surge of longing, so intense it’s almost painful, courses through me. I shut my eyes, trying to dislodge these unwelcome feelings. What the hell is happening to me? Since when did I become a man swayed by such sentimentality?
With a frustrated growl, I type out a quick response to Scarlett:
Not tonight. Busy.
I hit send before I can second-guess myself, then toss the phone aside.
The rejection of Scarlett’s offer only serves to underscore the depth of my fixation on Clarissa. Even the prospect of a night of passion with a woman I once found irresistible pales in comparison to the mere thought of her.
My mind is filled with images of the Draken heiress, of the look on her face when she sees me at the opera, of the way her body will feel pressed against mine… Tomorrow can’t come soon enough.
The trap is set. Now, all that remains is for my beautiful prey to walk into it.
And when she does, I’ll be waiting.
20
CLARISSA
The grand façade of the Palais Garnier rises before me—a temple of art and power etched against the Parisian night. Golden statues flank the entrance, their rapt expressions frozen in eternal devotion beneath the shimmer of crystal chandeliers. The bronze doors gleam with carvings of myth and melody, poised to admit me into a world where reality blurs with spectacle.
The doormen, clad in crimson and gold livery, bow as they open the gilded entryway. “The Lady Clarissa Draken, Heiress to the Ancient House of Draken and Director of the Galerie Lumière.”
The announcement rings out, echoing through the marble vestibule where mirrored walls multiply the grandeur.
I suppress a shiver. The title feels distant, ceremonial. We rarely use it—except at events like this, where the vestiges of human nobility mingle with supernatural power. Our family’s strength has never rested in names or honors, but in the legacy of dragon blood. Still, tonight, both carry weight.
As I step inside, the noise of the street fades behind me, replaced by the low hum of elegant conversation and the orchestra’s faint tuning. The foyer is a sea of silk and sparkle, jewels flashing like stars against the swell of brocade and lace. It could be overwhelming—if I let it.
But I am a Draken. The blood of dragons flows through my veins. I will not be cowed.
