Page 78 of Wings of Shadow
“What if this is the last time?” I whisper. “What if we’re discovered, or?—”
Kaisner silences me with a kiss, tender and sure. “Then we’ll make every moment count,” he vows, fierce and unshakable. “Whatever comes, Clarissa, know this—what I feel for you is real. It’s more real than anything I’ve ever known.”
And in the quiet that follows, I believe him.
When it’s time to board the jet for our return flight, I hold tight to the memories we’ve made—the warmth of his skin, the flavor of his kiss, the whispered promises shared beneath the falling sun.
No matter what tomorrow brings, Amalfi will always be ours.
33
KAISNER
Power always comes with a price—the question is whether you pay it in blood or souls. The silver light from my laptop carves shadows across my office like a blade. Outside, Paris hums with life—streetlights flickering like stars, distant traffic threading through the night. But here, in my study, it’s quiet. Still. Only the antique clock on the mantel dares to disturb the silence, its ticking a constant reminder of passing time. Of decisions, yet to be made.
I scan the encrypted message on my screen, fingers steepled beneath my chin. The deal is almost complete—a shipment of state-of-the-art weaponry, officially bound for a private security firm in Dubai but destined for less savory hands. The kind of transaction that would make headlines if it ever came to light. The sort of deal that cements the Drachenstein clan’s position in the shadows of the supernatural world.
A sharp ping from my secure line breaks my concentration.
“Yes?” I answer. My tone is clipped, cold. Professional.
“Mr. Drachenstein,” comes my contact’s voice on the other end, brittle with tension. “We have a complication with the Dubai shipment.”
My jaw tightens. “Explain.”
As he outlines the problem—a nosy customs official, a bribe that wasn’t quite enough—I listen, but my mind drifts. Not to contingencies or threats, but to softer things. Warmer things. Clarissa’s laugh, light and golden. The way her eyes shine when she speaks of art, of magic. The feel of her skin beneath my fingers, satin-smooth and burning with need.
I shake my head, forcing myself to focus. “Double the bribe,” I instruct quietly. “If that doesn’t work, remove the obstacle. Permanently.”
“Understood, sir.”
The line clicks dead.
I lean back, exhaling slowly, the leather chair creaking beneath me. Once, this life had thrilled me. The power, the danger, the constant dance of shadows—it was intoxicating. Now, all I feel is the burden of it pressing down on me.
My gaze drifts to the photograph on my desk. Amalfi. A shot of the seashore at sunset, silver-framed, nothing that would draw attention. To anyone else, it’s a simple vacation memento. But I know the truth that lies behind that captured moment—Clarissa’s laughter as we sailed along the coast, the warmth of her skin against mine as we lounged on the yacht’s deck, the taste of her lips flavored with limoncello and desire.
The photograph was taken just moments before I pulled her into my arms, unable to resist the sight of her bathed in the golden light of the setting sun. Her hair had been tousled by the sea breeze, her cheeks flushed with excitement and maybe a touch too much wine. She had never looked more beautiful, more alive.
I remember the way she had melted into me, her body fitting perfectly against mine. The soft gasp she let out as I trailed kisses down her neck, the way her fingers had tangled in my hair, pulling me closer.
That evening in Amalfi had been a stolen moment of perfection, a brief escape from the complexities of our lives and the secrets we are forced to keep. For a few precious hours, we weren’t Kaisner Drachenstein and Clarissa Draken, heirs to rival supernatural dynasties. We were just a man and a woman, hopelessly, recklessly in love.
The memory of it all—her scent, her touch, the sound of her whispered “I love you” against my skin—is so vivid, so all-consuming, that for a second I forget where I am. I forget the deals waiting to be made, the power waiting to be claimed. I forget everything but her.
A ripple of movement catches my eye. I turn, my gaze landing on the mirror that hangs on the far wall. At first, it’s only my reflection. The polished veneer of power—a tailored suit, a keen stare, the mask I wear for the world.
But then the image distorts. And it is no longer me who stares back.
Azrakan grins, its face a twisted shadow of my own. Dark eyes glowing, sharp teeth bared in mockery.
“Ah, the great Kaisner Drachenstein,” it sneers. “Mooning over a woman like a lovesick fool. How the mighty have fallen.”
Anger flares hot in my chest, but I keep my voice cold, hard. “I don’t recall summoning you.”
The daemon laughs, and the grating sound makes my skin crawl. “You didn’t need to. I’m always here, warlock. Always watching. And what I see... disappoints me.”
I stand, fists clenched at my sides. “What I do with my time is none of your concern, daemon.”
