Page 50 of Wings of Shadow
He stands at the railing of one of the VIP balconies, a silhouette against the warm glow spilling from within. Even from here, his presence is a gravity all its own—an unspoken command that shifts the very air around him. His sharp, cold eyes are fixed on me, burning through the crowd as though I’m the only thing that matters.
Dressed in black, his tailored suit accentuates the broad cut of his shoulders, the power that hums beneath the fabric. The club’s golden light casts shadows across his features, sharpening the line of his jaw, the hollow of his cheek.
But it’s his eyes that snare me. Even through the dim haze, I sense them. Fiery embers locked onto mine, unwavering.
A sharp pang of emotion crashes over me—excitement, longing, but beneath it all, anger.
Weeks of silence. Weeks of replaying that night at the opera, of questioning what was real and what was illusion. The passion we shared. The abrupt way he left.
And now, here he is. Watching me.
I tear my gaze away, my heart hammering.
As if on cue, a stranger steps into my space. Tall, lean, his amber eyes glowing in the dark—shifter.
“May I have this dance?” he asks, his voice smooth, barely audible over the pounding music.
I glance back at Kaisner, who hasn’t moved. Still watching.
A reckless idea takes root. What better way to show Kaisner that I won’t be taken for granted than to enjoy myself with someone else?
I turn back to the shifter, letting a slow smile curve my lips. “I’d love to.”
He takes my hand, guiding me into the rhythm of the crowd. The music swallows us whole. His hands settle on my hips, my arms loop around his neck. The dance is slow, deliberate—a silent performance meant for an audience of one.
I don’t glance up. I don’t have to. I can feel Kaisner’s gaze—a smoldering heat searing into my back.
The beat shifts, deep and sensual. The shifter leans in, his breath warm against my ear. I tilt my head slightly, hair spilling down my back, playing into the moment. It’s exhilarating, this sense of power that comes from knowing I’m being watched, from knowing that every sway of my hips, every brush of my body against my dance partner’s, is a deliberate provocation.
Then—a hand clamps around my arm. Firm. Unyielding.
I turn sharply, meeting Janik’s cool, mysterious gaze. His expression is stoic, but there’s a glimmer of something—amusement, perhaps—in his eyes.
“Miss Draken,” he says, his voice cutting through the music like steel. “Your presence is requested in the VIP area.”
The words aren’t a suggestion.
I glance up at the balcony where Kaisner stands, his posture tense, his jaw clenched. Even from this distance, I can see the storm brewing in his features, the barely contained rage and possessiveness.
A thrill of satisfaction runs through me. Good. Let him stew in his own jealousy for a bit. Let him suffer a fraction of the frustration and confusion I’ve been grappling with these past weeks.
My dance partner stiffens beside me. “Hey, man,” he snaps, his grip on my waist tightening. “We’re in the middle of something.”
Janik doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. The tension in the air sharpens, coiling tight. A silent conversation passes between them—one that ends with the shifter releasing me, jaw clenched.
“Fine,” he mutters. “She’s not worth the trouble, anyway.”
Janik ignores him, turning back to me with the same professional detachment.
I exhale slowly, forcing my pulse to steady. Then, with a wry smile, I murmur, “Lead the way.”
From above, Kaisner remains still. The world sways around us: music, laughter, movement. But none of it reaches us. Not in this moment.
His gaze on me never wavers. And in it, I see everything. The spark of gentle fury. His wounded pride. The challenge.
I lift my chin and follow Janik through the crowd. Each step bringing me closer to the fire.
Janik leads me through the throng, the heat of a hundred bodies brushing against mine as we carve a path toward the VIP stairs. The music still pulses around us, but it appears distant now, muffled by the anticipation coiling in my chest.
