Page 66 of Wings of Shadow
Recognition jolts through me. I saw him last night, a shadow at the edges of my world. And now, here he is again. Watching. Waiting.
A chill coils around my spine.
The line clicks, and a crisp voice cuts through my thoughts. “Lumière Foundation, German branch. How may I assist you?”
I take a steadying breath. “This is Clarissa Draken,” I say, determined. “I need you to pull up everything you can on Kaisner Drachenstein. Business dealings, personal history—everything. Leave no stone unturned.”
A pause. Then, the voice returns, tinged with something unreadable. “Understood, Miss Draken. We’ll begin immediately. Expect a report by the end of the day.”
I murmur my thanks and hang up.
The hours slip by in a blur of meetings and phone calls, juggling contracts, logistics, and endless emails. Yet, no matter how much I try to focus, my thoughts keep circling back to Kaisner—the elusive art collector whose sudden generosity has upended my carefully structured world.
Just as I’m about to call it a day, my phone buzzes. A notification flashes across the screen, making my breath hitch.
Dossier: Freiherr Kaisner Drachenstein
My fingers tremble as I open the file, scanning the pages of information the German team has compiled. Business dealings. Holdings. Philanthropic efforts. And beneath the surface—whispers of something darker. His rumored connections to the shadowy underworld of art and antiquities. Traces of power plays that never made the headlines. And...
I blink, snapping my gaze away from the screen.
Everything there is to know about this man is right here.
Everything.
A slow, unsteady breath leaves my lips as I recline in my chair, eyes drifting toward the window. Outside, the city hums with life, a familiar rhythm of dusk settling over Paris. But beyond the blur of pedestrians and evening lights, a figure stands motionless on the opposite sidewalk.
A jolt of recognition courses through me.
He’s still there.
The same man I spotted last night—half-hidden in the shadows, watching. Now, under the golden haze of the setting sun, his presence is clearer, yet no less unnerving. His posture is casual, almost nonchalant, but there’s a sharpness to him. A readiness.
A silent shadow, always a step behind me.
With a slow inhale, I power down my computer, the screen going dark. My reflection stares back at me—composed, unreadable. But inside, something restless stirs.
“I don’t know who you are,” I murmur under my breath, slipping my phone into my bag. “But I’m going to find out.”
Jaw set, I gather my belongings, straighten my shoulders, and prepare to step into the night—into whatever awaits me beyond these doors.
30
KAISNER
The room is silent, the air thick with unspoken tension as I sit at the head of the long table, fingers steepled before me. My most trusted advisors surround me, their expressions grim, mirroring the weight pressing against my chest. This meeting is not about business. Not about alliances, territories, or wealth.
It is about betrayal.
A betrayal so deep it threatens the very foundation of our clan.
As I scan the faces around me, a more personal burden settles in my gut—Clarissa’s absence. It has been weeks since I last heard from her, weeks of forced restraint as I honored the space she asked for, even as the ache of her silence gnawed at me. My informants keep me updated—she’s withdrawn, avoiding the world, but safe.
Safe. The word should bring me solace, but instead, it taunts me. Because safety is a fragile thing.
That night at Éclipse… it was too much. Too savage. Too raw.
I can still see the fear in her eyes, the way her hands trembled in mine after gunfire rang out and blood tainted the air. She stepped too far into my world that night, straight into the darkness of shifter brutality and clan violence. And I let it happen.
