Page 81 of Wings of Shadow
Vlad is a storm waiting to break. His bespoke black suit cannot tame the wildness in him, the alpha simmering beneath his skin. Fierce silver eyes scan the horde with cool calculation, every inch of him on edge, as though expecting the night to turn from elegance to battle in the blink of an eye.
I watch them all and feel the world tighten around me. The elite of the supernatural realm, gathered under one roof. All their secrets, their alliances, their rivalries, dressed up in luxury and precious gems. And I am here among them, the sole bearer of the Draken legacy, a name heavy with history and darker with expectation.
The burden of it falls over my shoulders like a mantle, a quiet pressure that straightens my spine and sharpens my gaze. I wonder if they see me, the woman beneath the silk and diamonds. Or if they only see the bloodline. The future. A pawn or a queen.
The crowd stirs again, a ripple of excitement sharp enough to cut through the air. I feel it before I see him, a prickle along my skin, a tightening of breath. My pulse quickens, traitorous and eager. I lean further over the balcony, my eyes searching desperately among the faces below.
And then, Kaisner Drachenstein steps out of the car, and the world falls away.
The reaction is immediate. Those with preternatural knowing stiffen, recognition passing through the hidden supernatural elite. They know him—not just for his lineage, but for the shadowed power that coils beneath his skin, the whispered rumors of darkness and blood magic that follow him like a second shadow.
Scattered throughout are humans, blissfully unaware of the darker truth. To them, Kaisner is the hottest it-boy of the moment—the recently revealed millionaire art collector, enigmatic and generous, who single-handedly funded this grand event. A European aristocrat turned international benefactor. The kind of man whose name fills tabloids and dreams alike.
Women gasp. Men stir, some with admiration, others with envy. Phones rise, capturing his image as though to preserve a relic of the evening. Whispers ripple along the crowd’s edge, their voices tinged with fascination and longing.
He steps onto the red carpet, devastating in black. A tuxedo that speaks of precision and power, its lines sharp as a blade, emphasizing the breadth of his shoulders and the lean strength of his body. His dark hair is combed back but subtly tousled, hinting at something untamed beneath the polish. Danger in a beautifully tailored suit.
Even from this distance, I sense the magnetism of his presence. The crowd parts before him, drawn to his aura of power and danger. His eyes, those deep pools of midnight that have haunted my dreams, scan the horde with casual indifference.
Until they glance up and lock with mine.
For a moment, time stills. There is only Kaisner and me, caught in a silent exchange that speaks volumes. I glimpse the heat in his gaze, the barely restrained desire that mirrors my own. My body responds instinctively, a flush creeping up my neck as I remember the touch of his hands on my skin, the taste of his lips against mine.
Then, as quickly as it began, the clock unfreezes. Kaisner turns away, his attention caught by a reporter calling his name. I step back from the balcony, my heart pounding in my chest.
The evening stretches before us, filled with potential and danger in equal measure. As I turn to make my way downstairs, to take my place among the glittering throng beneath the Grand Palais’ soaring glass roof, a single thought echoes in my mind:
This is going to be one hell of a night.
35
CLARISSA
The most dangerous predators wear designer gowns and offer polite conversation. The building hums with anticipation, a living entity of barely contained energy. I stand just offstage, veiled behind heavy velvet curtains, heart thrumming in my chest. Each pulse is a reminder of my lineage, my responsibility, my danger.
I inhale deeply, the air thick with the scent of gardenias and roses, mingling with the cloying sweetness of expensive perfumes and something more primal. The kind of aroma that lingers when too many immortals occupy the same room.
“Mademoiselle Draken?” A soft voice, hesitant, pulls me from my thoughts. I turn to find an event coordinator, clipboard pressed to her chest. She’s young, human, blissfully unaware of the politics swirling beneath the glamour of this night. “It’s time.”
I nod, smoothing my gown. The silver beadwork glimmers like stars. The high slit along my thigh teases with every step. I touch the dragon necklace at my throat—a silent tether to the truth that lies beneath the veneer of this soirée. Him. Kaisner.
I square my shoulders, lifting my chin. I am Clarissa Draken, heir to a legacy older than this city’s stones. A woman with fire in her blood and shadows at her heels. I will not falter.
The moment I step onto the stage, the world sharpens. Light floods my vision, momentarily blinding me, but I focus as the crowd materializes. Faces gleam beneath chandeliers, laughter hanging in the air, glasses poised to toast. Supernaturals woven among mortals, masks in place. Vampires shimmer under the lights, their beauty unnatural. Shifters lounge with casual elegance, danger cloaked in tailored suits and velvet gowns. Witches wear power like silk, radiating energy beyond their charms.
And there, at the back of the room, he waits. Kaisner.
Even at a distance, his presence is undeniable. Our eyes meet for a brief moment, and a jolt of electricity courses through me. His gaze is intense, a heat that makes my cheeks flush. I force myself to look away, focusing on the task at hand.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” I begin, voice steady, though my pulse hammers hard. “Welcome to ’Lumière’s d’Espoir’—the inaugural Galerie Lumière’s Annual Gala and Charity Auction.”
The room hushes, high expectations pressing down on me, but I stand firm.
“We gather not just to celebrate art’s beauty, but its ability to change lives. Every brushstroke, every sculpture, carries meaning. Tonight, we add a new chapter to those stories.”
The words come easier this time, practiced, poised. I sweep my gaze across the crowd, careful not to linger on Kaisner. I will not be distracted.
“We’re honored by the generosity of Mr. Kaisner Drachenstein.” I pause. Applause erupts, reverberating through the hall. “Not only has he lent us his private collection for this exhibition, but he’s also donated a rare Kandinsky sketch for tonight’s auction. All proceeds will benefit the Lumière Foundation’s outreach programs.”
