Page 38 of Wings of Shadow
Relief comes with the first intermission.
I resist the impulse to sag into my seat or press a hand to my heart. Instead, I rise with quiet control, posture poised. I long to stretch, to breathe away from the stifling scrutiny of the crowd. Though I don’t dare look, I am aware of them—eyes on me, whispers behind fans, speculation humming like static against my skin.
Perhaps I’ll linger just out of sight, concealed by the velvet drape of the private box.
I take a breath, willing stillness into my limbs—when a hush falls.
It starts in the neighboring boxes and ripples outward, as if something unseen has shifted the air.
I turn, just slightly, and see him.
A man has risen from the private box adjacent to mine, now stepping through the low velvet partition that separates our spaces. He moves with the smooth, deliberate grace of a predator, each step unhurried, precise. Even in a room filled with supernatural elite, he draws attention like gravity.
His tuxedo fits as if it were sewn onto his frame—black silk over a lean, muscular build. A crimson pocket square blooms against the fabric like a flame in midnight.
He approaches the edge of my box, and the scent that follows him is unmistakable—cedarwood, musk, and something colder, wilder. Not dangerous, exactly. But ancient. Alive.
In his hand, he carries an enchanted rose. The petals shimmer with glamour, subtly shifting hue—deep scarlet, soft blush, golden flame. A silent performance of wealth, magic, and taste.
Then his gaze finds mine—amber eyes threaded with gold, piercing yet unreadable. Like honey struck by lightning.
“Miss Draken,” he says, a low growl that resonates in my chest and sends shivers down my spine—though whether from attraction or unease, I’m not entirely sure. “Allow me to introduce myself. Andrei Morozov, Alpha of the Siberian pack.”
The Morozovs. One of the most formidable wolf shifter families in the supernatural world. I straighten imperceptibly, mindful of the importance of this interaction.
He inclines his head, voice smooth as dark velvet. “I couldn’t help but notice how deeply the music moved you. Perhaps you’d care to explore the… primal undertones over a private supper?”
I accept the rose with a measured smile, careful to let neither warmth nor offense slip through. “Thank you, Mr. Morozov. The performance is indeed stirring,” I reply evenly. “But I must decline. My responsibilities to the Draken family require my full attention tonight. I’m sure you understand.”
A flicker of disappointment passes across his face, quickly replaced by a knowing smirk. “Of course,” he murmurs, the words threaded with amusement and promise. “Another time, perhaps.”
He steps back with quiet confidence, retreating to his box like a man who rarely hears no and never minds waiting.
I exhale slowly, turning toward the balustrade in search of a moment’s reprieve. My fingers brush the velvet rail, grounding myself in its cool texture.
Then, movement catches my eye.
Perched on the ledge is a small lion—folded from metallic gold paper, delicate and masterfully crafted. At first, I assume it’s a charming trinket left behind by an earlier guest.
But then it stirs.
The origami lion arches its back in an elegant stretch, its golden flanks catching the soft glow of the chandelier. It leaps into motion with feline agility, bounding and twirling in a dance so fluid, so eerily lifelike, I forget to breathe.
With one final pirouette, it stills.
And begins to unravel.
The folds flatten, slow and precise, until only a square of gilded parchment remains. In looping script, a message appears:
Mlle Draken,
Your grace reminds me of a lioness guarding her pride. Might I tempt you to a private rendezvous at midnight?
With anticipation,
León Regalis.
The Regalis family—lion shifters of impeccable bloodline, stewards of influence beyond the art world. Their interest is never idle. This is not just a flirtation—it’s a statement.
