Page 64 of Wings of Shadow
But I need time—time to think, to understand my feelings. With Herculean effort, I step back, breaking the spell.
“Thank you,” I breathe, pouring my confused emotions into those two simple words. “For everything.”
Kaisner nods, understanding passing between us silently. As I turn to leave, I sense his stare like a brand against my spine, following me as I walk away.
Still, I cannot deny it. Kaisner Drachenstein, with all his complexity and darkness, has become my anchor in this storm. And somehow, that thought is my sole comfort.
29
CLARISSA
Three weeks since I watched a man die, and I’m expected to smile at a board meeting.
The past few days have blurred into silence and uncertainty. After Éclipse, I locked myself away, the world fading from color to gray. The nightmare of Alexei’s transformation haunted me—his glowing eyes, bared fangs, and the memory of his death weighed on me. Each moment seemed like I was drowning in gunshots, blood, and fear.
I compelled myself through the routine—showering, dressing, eating—but all was amiss. The world moved on without me, indifferent to my grief. I couldn’t face Samara or anyone, not yet. Two missed calls from Kaisner sat on my phone like accusations I wasn’t ready to answer.
No word of Alexis’ death has reached the Ursa or Morozov families. The story circulating is that he went into hiding after a fall-out with the Regalis clan, a convenient lie that keeps everyone in the dark. The result of Kaisner’s careful machinations. I’ve done my best to distance myself from him ever since that night, but the memories linger, unwelcome and unresolved.
Even so, here I am, back at work, trying to move forward. The fear still clings, but I can’t stay locked away forever.
The familiar scent of oil paint and polished wood wraps around me as I step into the Lumière Art Gallery. It’s been too long since I last set foot here. I told everyone I’d been under the weather—a story that concealed the sleepless nights, the lingering fear that clawed at my thoughts.
As I move toward my office, warm smiles and murmurs of relief greet me. “Welcome back, Miss Draken,” my colleagues say, their voices carrying both concern and excitement. “We have good news to share.”
Their enthusiasm is infectious, stirring a sensation inside me—a flicker of the person I used to be. Maybe this is exactly what I need. To immerse myself in art and creation, to build something meaningful amidst the wreckage of my personal life. With a smile that feels only slightly forced, I follow them into the meeting room, bracing myself for whatever developments have unfolded in my absence.
As I settle at the head of the long, polished table, my gaze sweeps over the familiar faces before me. A swell of pride rises in my chest. We’ve poured everything into the upcoming exhibition—securing funding, curating the perfect collection, designing an experience worthy of the Lumière name. And now, with the final details falling into place, I allow myself a rare moment of satisfaction.
I sink into my chair, but my thoughts drift elsewhere. To Nik.
He’s been gone for over a month. His last message mentioned his tour through Western Europe and the Mediterranean, securing support where he could. But Germany and Eastern Europe—especially with Kaisner at their helm—remains a question mark. Those clans have the power to make or break Nik’s bid for Dragon King.
I’m proud of him, of course, but worry gnaws at me. The supernatural world is treacherous, its politics a tangled web of power and deception. And Nik stands at the center of it.
The meeting progresses, and I notice a shift in the room. The standard business professionalism is laced with something else—excitement, barely contained. Amélie keeps sneaking glances at Luc, her eyes bright with a secret. Sophie fidgets with her pen, a knowing smile pulling at her lips. Even Jean-Pierre, always the picture of restraint, drums his fingers on the mahogany table, his usual stoicism fading.
I lean back in my chair, arching an eyebrow at their behavior. “All right,” I say, amusement slipping into my voice. “What are you all hiding?”
Luc clears his throat, adjusting the lapels of his impeccably tailored suit. With deliberate precision, he moves to the front of the room. A large screen dominates the wall. With a click of a remote, it flickers to life.
“Miss Draken,” he begins, his voice laced with anticipation, “while you were away, we had a... development. One that’s going to change everything for our upcoming gala.”
The screen floods with images—priceless artworks, rare sculptures, masterpieces I’ve only ever glimpsed in the most exclusive catalogs. My breath catches. It’s the private collection we’ve been chasing for months. The one we thought was out of reach.
Amélie springs from her seat, her hands clapping together in excitement. “We did it, Clarissa! The reclusive collector finally agreed!”
I lean forward, fingers curling around the edge of the table. “How?” My voice is steady, but my mind races. “How did you manage that?”
Luc’s grin widens as he clicks to the next slide, revealing a series of email exchanges. “That’s the most incredible part. We were ready to walk away, admit defeat. But then...” He lets the suspense linger, his gaze sweeping the room. “He reached out to us. Personally.”
A collective gasp ripples through the team. Sophie leans in, her voice hushed. “It’s like he knew exactly what we needed. He set his terms, made his offer. It’s... unprecedented.”
A rush of conflicting emotions floods me—exhilaration, suspicion, something undefinable. “This is remarkable,” I manage, schooling my voice into excitement. “And unexpected.” I hesitate, then ask the only question that matters. “And who is this mysterious benefactor? Do we finally have a name?”
The room stills. Luc clicks to the final slide. A name flashes across the screen, bold and unmistakable. My stomach clenches.
“Freiherr Kaisner Drachenstein,” Luc announces, his voice ringing through the silence.
