Page 46 of Wings of Shadow
Anger flares through my veins, hot and sudden. “Our reputation is fine, Nik. I represented us well. The rest is idle gossip, and you know it.”
The silence that follows is heavy. I can almost see Nik pinching the bridge of his nose, a habit of his I’ve only recently learned.
“I’m just worried about you,” he whispers. “With everything that’s going on... Rissy, this isn’t like you.”
Guilt lances through me. Here I am, keeping secrets from the one person who’s always had my back. But how do I explain Kaisner? How do I say I’ve been unraveling by degrees since the night we kissed—and since he vanished without a trace?
“I’m okay,” I say instead. “The gallery’s doing well. I’ve got everything under control. Please, focus on the tour.”
We speak for a few more minutes, exchanging the kind of everyday details that mask everything left unsaid. When I hang up, I feel both lighter and heavier. Lighter for having calmed his fears. Heavier because I’m still keeping him in the dark.
I set the phone down and stare at my reflection. Pale skin. Eyes rimmed with exhaustion and grief. Hollow cheeks. A ghost of who I was.
Enough.
I strip off my nightgown and sink into the bathtub, the jasmine-scented water wrapping around me with soothing warmth. I let myself slide beneath the surface, eyes closed, wishing I could wash away the ache, the questions, the hurt of not knowing where I stand with him.
When I emerge, tears mingle with the droplets running down my face. I hate him. Hate him for what he’s made me feel, for disappearing without a word. But no amount of fury can cauterize the wound he left behind.
“Damn you, Kaisner,” I whisper. My voice echoes off the marble tiles, mocking me with their futility. Because even as I curse his name, my heart aches with longing.
I scrub at my skin almost violently, as if I could somehow erase the memory of his touch, the ghost of his kisses that haunts my dreams. But it’s useless. He’s carved himself into my very being, marked me as his in ways that go deeper than any claiming bite.
Eventually, the water begins to cool. I step out, wrapping myself in a plush towel, and face my reflection in the fog-streaked mirror. My eyes are red-rimmed, but clearer somehow. Stronger.
I dig through my closet and choose a pale blue sweater dress and cream-colored wool coat. The familiar routine of dressing, of making myself presentable, seems like armor being assembled piece by piece. Each button fastened, each strand of hair smoothed into place, is an act of defiance against the weakness he’s conjured in me.
I may love him with every fiber of my being, but I am still Clarissa Draken. And it’s time I remembered that.
A swipe of mascara, a touch of color on my lips. Small acts of rebellion against the melancholy that’s held me captive. I twist my hair into a neat chignon, refusing to wince at how prominent my cheekbones have become.
My phone buzzes again. This time, it’s a text from Samara, asking me to come to Alexeev Manor. The Alexeevs aren’t exactly known for their love of Drakens. But if Sam’s calling for me, it must be important.
The bustle of Paris greets me as I step outside. The cold air bites at my cheeks, bringing color to my pale skin. It hurts, but it’s a good hurt—a reminder that I’m still here, still breathing, still moving forward despite everything.
I may not be okay, not yet. But I’m trying. And for now, that has to be enough.
The taxi ride to l’Île de la Cité resembles a passage between worlds. Outside the window, the city’s modern bustle fades, replaced by the quiet elegance of increasingly affluent neighborhoods.
In my lap, my phone vibrates, its cheerful chime unnervingly out of place. I glance down, and my heart clenches.
Time for your daily German lesson!
I stare at the screen, remembering my excitement when I first downloaded the app—how eager I’d been to learn. Now, those once-harmless German phrases cut deep, each one a fresh reminder of him. Of his voice, deep and rich, whispering meine Liebe against my skin.
With trembling fingers, I swipe the notification away. I can’t bear it—not today. Not when every German word feels like another splinter in my fractured heart.
The phone slips into my purse, face down. One more defeat in a morning already heavy with them.
The manor’s iron gates loom before me, intricate and imposing. Before the driver can reach for the intercom, the doors swing open in eerie silence. Ice skitters down my nape.
The driveway stretches endlessly ahead, flanked by perfectly sculpted topiaries and riotous flower beds. The manor itself is a behemoth of stone and glass—stunning in its grandeur, suffocating in its implications. This is the seat of Ursa power in Paris, and I’m walking straight into its maw.
As I approach, the front door opens on its own, revealing a butler who looks as though he stepped out of a period drama. His face remains unreadable as he inclines his head in greeting.
“Miss Draken. This way, please.”
I follow him into a foyer vast enough to swallow my entire London flat. The air is thick with history, the weight of generations pressing down on me. Stern-faced Alexeevs stare from gilded portraits lining the walls, their eyes tracking my every move.
