Page 52 of Wings of Shadow
Her anger is justified. But how can I explain? How do I tell her every moment of silence was torture, that I stayed away to protect her from the shadows that cling to me?
“Clarissa, I—” I start, but she cuts me off, hurt pouring out of her.
I can’t bear it. Swept in despair, I grab her arm, pulling her toward a quieter corner. But she isn’t having it. She twists in my grip, her free hand coming up to push against my chest.
“Let go of me,” she hisses, her eyes flashing with anger and something deeper, untamed.
I loosen my grip but don’t release her entirely. “Clarissa, let me explain!”
“No!” She struggles, her movements fierce. In our tussle, her nails rake across my chest, catching on the fabric of my shirt. There’s a ripping sound, and suddenly, cool air hits my skin as the garment partly tears open.
Clarissa freezes, her eyes widening as they fall on the markings visible on my flesh. She catches only a glimpse of the vast dragon tattoo stretching across my chest, back, and shoulders. But it’s the section beneath the scales, the daemonic script scrawled in angry red, that truly catches her attention. The symbols burn brightly against my tanned skin, as if they’re alive, marking me with something darker than mere ink.
I watch as shock, then concern, and finally fear cross her face. Her hand, still pressed to my sternum, trembles slightly.
“Kaisner,” she breathes, anger giving way to worry. “What happened to you?”
The warmth of her palm against my skin sends a jolt through me, soothing the constant burn of the daemonic markings. I fight the urge to lean into her touch, to seek more of that relief.
Instead, I take a deep breath, bracing myself to explain. The truth about the dark magic I’ve wielded, the price I’ve paid, and the dangers still lurking in the shadows.
As I meet her gaze, I see not just the woman I’ve come to care for, but a potential ally in the battles ahead. If only I can find the right words.
My jaw clenches as I remember the ritual—the dark magic I used to eliminate the threat to my clan… and to her. The daemonic language is more than forbidden lexicon; it’s a conduit for power beyond comprehension. Each scripture on my chest represents a life taken, a curse laid, a bargain struck with forces demanding payment in blood and pain.
The backlash of dark magic is brutal and unforgiving. The red lines crisscrossing my skin will soon turn black, yet they’ll remain, cruel reminders of the lengths I’ve gone to protect her.
“These are—” I begin, my voice low and rough, gesturing at the markings.
“Daemonic scriptures,” Clarissa interrupts, barely a whisper. Her eyes trace the patterns with fear and fascination. “I know what they are. But… why?”
The shock of her recognition hits me like a physical blow. I hadn’t expected her to understand. For a moment, I’m speechless, torn between explaining and hiding this dark part of myself.
“It wasn’t just me they were after,” I say, voice low and ragged. “They wanted everything I care about. That means you.” The words taste like ash. “You think I could stand there and watch them circle you like wolves? I’ve faced monsters since that night at the opera—bargained with devils, bled in shadows. All to stop them from touching you.”
I pause, jaw clenched, breath shallow.
“You don’t know what I’ve done, Clarissa. And gods help me, I’d do worse. Just to keep you safe.”
Clarissa reaches out, her fingers brushing the script on my chest with hesitant reverence. Her touch burns. “You did this... for me?” she asks, her voice trembling.
I catch her hand in mine, holding it close to my heart. “For you,” I confirm, my speech rough. “For us. For the future I see with you.”
Understanding dawns in her eyes, and it nearly breaks me. How can she look at me with care when my hands are stained with blood, when my soul is scarred by darkness?
“Oh, Kaisner,” she breathes, her voice full of emotion—fear, yes, but also acceptance. Compassion. And beneath it all, a profound connection that makes my heart race and my breath catch.
This moment is a turning point. Clarissa has seen the darkness in me, and yet, she hasn’t turned away.
I nod, unable to trust my voice. Yes, I was protecting her. But in doing so, I hurt her in ways I never intended.
“I was waiting for the right time,” I explain. “When I could see you without exposing you to more gossip. I never meant to hurt you.”
Her anger fades, replaced by a flood of emotion that disarms me. The caress nearly undoes me. “I only care that you’re alive and well.”
My gaze rakes over her—this woman who means more to me than blood, power, or breath itself. Heat coils low in my gut, hunger, and something bordering on awe darkening my voice. “My sweet baby girl,” I murmur, the endearment rasping out like a secret I hadn’t planned to confess. “I never thought I’d see you here tonight… and yet, here you are. Like a reckoning.”
She swallows hard, her reaction painting a mirror of my own—this charged air between us, this ache that never dulled. “I never thought I’d be here,” she whispers. “But now I am...” The words dissolve, but the meaning remains—raw, undeniable.
