Page 47 of Wings of Shadow
A shiver threatens to crawl up my spine. Guest or not, I can’t shake the feeling that I don’t belong here. That I’m an intruder.
Lost in thought, I don’t notice the mountain of a man rounding the corner—until I crash straight into him. It’s like colliding with a wall of solid muscle. The impact jolts me backward, but before I can fall, strong hands close around my arms, steadying me with effortless strength.
I look up… and up… and up.
The man before me towers well over six feet, his shoulders broad enough to fill a doorway. His face, framed by a thick, dark beard, is all hard angles and sharp planes—formidable, unreadable, carved from stone.
But it’s his eyes that seize me. Maroon orbs, burning with an inner fire. Uncannily familiar. Eerily reminiscent of another pair I can’t seem to forget.
“Gavriil Alexeev,” he rumbles, his voice so deep it seems to resonate in my very bones. “You must be Clarissa Draken.”
I swallow hard, resisting the instinct to step back. “Yes,” I manage, willing myself to remain composed. “It’s a pleasure to be here, Mr. Alexeev.”
To my surprise, his stern expression eases—just slightly.
“Gavriil,” he corrects. “Any friend of Samara is welcome… even if they are a Draken.” The last part is more of a mutter, accompanied by the faintest curve of his lips—wry, amused, but not unkind.
The unexpected warmth in his otherwise gruff demeanor catches me off guard. I’ve heard plenty about Gavriil Alexeev, and none of it suggested friendliness—especially not toward a Draken.
“I appreciate your hospitality,” I say, offering a brief but genuine smile.
Gavriil nods, then gestures down the hallway. “Samara’s in the parlor. I’ll take you to her.”
As we walk, I can’t help but steal glances at my imposing guide. Despite his sheer size and the fearsome reputation that precedes him, there’s something almost... gentle about him. It’s nothing like the ruthless Ursa King I’ve heard murmured about in supernatural circles—an enigma I can’t quite figure out.
We reach a set of grand double doors. Gavriil pushes them open with ease, revealing a parlor that redefines opulence. Samara is there, engrossed in conversation with a man I recognize immediately.
Alexei Morozov.
Sam looks up as we enter, her face breaking into a wide smile. “Clarissa!” she exclaims, rising to her feet with a warmth that instantly calms me. “I hope my brother didn’t scare you,” she adds, shooting Gavriil a playful yet reproachful glance. “I’m so glad you could make it.”
As I step forward to embrace my friend, an unsettling sensation settles in my chest. I’ve walked into something more than a casual social call. The air in the room hums with an energy I can’t quite place, and the presence of both Gavriil and Alexei only deepens my sense that a much bigger story is unfolding before me.
Whatever reason Samara has for bringing me here, I have a feeling that it’s about to shift the ground beneath me. And as I think of Kaisner, of the secrets I’m keeping, and the questions burning inside me, I wonder if I’m ready for any more changes at all.
“Make yourself at home,” Gavriil says, a rare warmth lingering under his usual gruffness. Without another word, he turns and leaves the parlor.
Alexei Morozov rises from his seat, his movements fluid and predatory, carrying an air of danger that sends a chill through me. He approaches with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, extending a hand in greeting.
“Lady Clarissa,” he says, his voice a rich baritone that fills the room like smoke. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”
Before I can respond, he takes my hand with a grip that is firm and lingering. In one smooth motion, he draws me closer, leaning in for the customary air kiss on both cheeks. His cologne, a heady blend of sandalwood and something darker, surrounds me. His beard scratches my skin, and a shiver skitters down my spine. Whether it’s discomfort or something else, I can’t quite tell.
“Alexei is a dear friend of the family,” Sam interjects warmly as he releases me. “Our alliance with the Morozovs goes way back—to the dawn of the Imperial era.” She speaks the words playfully, but they’re fully intended.
I step back slightly, gathering my composure. Alexei’s gaze is cool, calculating, and I can’t help but think he’s sizing me up, his eyes sharp with determination.
“The pleasure is mine, Mr. Morozov,” I manage, my voice betraying the dryness in my throat. I smooth my sweater nervously, a habit I can’t seem to shake.
“Call me Alexei,” he insists, his tone detached. “May I call you Clarissa?”
“Please do,” I reply, offering a warm but cautious smile, still keeping my guard up.
“We were just discussing our shared passion for the arts and the upcoming gala at the Galerie Lumière,” he continues. “Samara mentioned her friend runs the place. Imagine my delight when I learned that such a friend was… you.” He flashes me a charming smile. “Perhaps you might be able to help us secure invitations?”
A surge of pride swells inside me at the mention of the gallery, but I force myself to remain composed. “Oh, I wouldn’t say I run the place,” I demur, smiling modestly. “But I’d be happy to arrange invitations for you both.”
Alexei’s smile widens, a calculated glint in his eyes. “That’s very kind of you.” He glances at his wristwatch with a barely concealed air of impatience. “My dear ladies, I’m afraid I’ve got to run—I’m expected at the Greniers’.”
