Page 83 of Wings of Shadow
Alone with Ivan Lockhart.
His gaze is sharp as glass, his smirk lethal in its precision.
I take a deep breath. “I didn’t think invitations were your style—you seem to favor slipping in unannounced,” I say, voice low but firm.
Ivan raises an eyebrow, feigning confusion. “I beg your pardon?”
“The conservatory at Draken Manor,” I clarify, meeting his gaze steadily. “You broke into my home?”
For a moment, something flashes in his eyes—surprise? Amusement? But it’s gone so quickly, I can’t be sure.
“My dearest Miss Draken,” he says, voice smooth as silk, “I assure you, I have no idea what you’re talking about.” The vampire pauses, sharp stare raking my face, analyzing my expression. “I’ve no reason to call upon anyone in Draken Manor. May I remind you, my quarrel with your family goes back centuries. And one never lets go of such... beef, as they say these days. Not when it’s the kind from which legends are born.”
He smiles, a flash of fang. “You see, my vanity—not my pride—would never allow it. One must live up to one’s infamy, after all.”
I open my mouth to argue, but I’m swept away by another group eager to congratulate me. Ivan watches, dark amusement lighting his green eyes.
As I move through the crowd, I can’t shake the unease his words leave behind. I’m sure it was him in the conservatory—I saw him with my own eyes. But if indeed it was not the vampire Lockhart who spoke to me in the garden… then who did?
The evening passes in a blur of champagne, delicate hors d’oeuvres, and endless small talk. The din of conversation, clinking glassware, and whispered gossip fill the air. Beneath it all, the electric apprehension of the night’s climax thrums.
At precisely 11 PM, I make my way to the center of the room. My heart hammers with excitement and nerves.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” I announce, voice cutting through the hum. “The silent auction for the Kandinsky sketch is now closed.”
A ripple moves through the crowd, murmurs of excitement swelling. Our event coordinator presents the sealed bid box. I open it, drawing out the winning bid, the silence thickening.
“I’m thrilled to announce the Kandinsky sketch has been sold for an astounding €2.5 million.” Gasps ripple through the audience, followed by applause. “The winning bidder is Monsieur Jean-Pierre Beaumont. Monsieur Beaumont, your generosity will make an incredible impact on our ’Art for All’ initiative. Merci beaucoup.”
The room erupts into an outstanding ovation as Jean-Pierre steps forward, beaming. Triumph surges through me as I shake his hand and pose for photographs. The gala is a success.
With the main event concluded, guests begin to filter out, their conversations bubbling with excitement. The air is lighter now, filled with laughter and satisfaction. I make my rounds, thanking everyone for their attendance, my cheeks aching from the constant smile.
By the time the last guest drifts out and the cleaning crew begins their quiet sweep of the room, I finally allow myself to exhale.
I step onto the balcony, the cool night air brushing against my flushed skin. The Eiffel Tower glitters in the distance, its iron frame glowing like a constellation brought down to earth. I press my hands to the railing, breathing deeply, allowing the stillness to seep into me.
And then a voice, low and husky, shatters the quiet.
“Quite an event, Miss Draken.”
I whirl around, heart stuttering. Kaisner stands in the doorway, tall and shadowed, framed by the soft amber light spilling from the hall. His eyes catch the faint glow of the city, dark and hungry. The kind of gaze that doesn’t just see—it devours.
“Mr. Drachenstein,” I manage, firm despite the thundering of my heart. “I hope you enjoyed the evening.”
His lips curl into a slow, predatory smile that sends heat pooling low in my belly. “Oh, I enjoyed it… immensely,” he purrs. “Though I must say, the company left something to be desired.”
I raise an eyebrow, masking the tremor in my chest. “Oh? I was under the impression you were quite popular tonight. You were surrounded by admirers at all times.”
He steps closer, the night wrapping around him like silk. The glow of the Eiffel Tower frames him in gold, turning him into something otherworldly. Dangerous. Untouchable.
“Admirers of art, perhaps,” he says, his voice a dark caress. “But there was only one person whose company I truly desired.”
His hand lifts, fingers brushing the line of my cheek. His thumb traces my lower lip, the touch so light it feels like fire. I gasp, the sound soft, helpless.
“Kaisner,” I breathe, eyes fluttering shut, “we can’t. Not here.”
“I know,” he whispers, the words hot against the shell of my ear. “But soon, my love. Soon, we won’t have to hide.”
