Page 89 of Wings of Shadow
Her voice, laced with confusion and a flicker of trepidation, slices through the haze of my thoughts. She stiffens in my arms, her breath catching—shallow, uncertain. I can feel the shift in her pulse, scent the sudden spike of adrenaline coursing through her veins.
I tighten my hold, my hand gliding down the smooth expanse of her back, a slow, deliberate caress meant to soothe. “Shh, meine Kleine,” I murmur, pressing my lips to her temple. “It’s all right. I would never hurt you. You know that.” The words are a vow, a sacred promise infused with the depth of my devotion.
“Don’t be afraid, Clarissa,” I say, my voice low, urgent. “I need your help. It’s the only way.”
She swallows hard, her delicate throat working, her wide eyes flickering between apprehension and something else—curiosity, perhaps. A deep, instinctive understanding that what I’m about to ask will change everything.
“What do you mean?” she breathes. “What way?”
The tension in her body softens, just barely, and she melts back into my embrace. Her warmth, her trust, is a balm against the chaos within me. “I trust you, Kaisner. With everything that I am.” Her words carve into my soul like a blade, but even as she says them, I glimpse the questions forming in her gaze.
I steel myself. There’s no turning back now.
Reluctantly, I disentangle from her warmth, the cool air of the room rushing between us as I stand. I reach for my discarded boxer briefs, sliding them on swiftly. “We should get dressed,” I murmur, offering my hand.
She takes it, graceful even now, the moonlight catching in her golden strands as she rises. The sight nearly makes me reconsider the need for clothes at all.
I frown at her rain-damp gown, shaking my head. “You can’t put this back on.” Without waiting for protest, I stride to my wardrobe and pull a soft black cashmere sweater from its hanger, along with a pair of tailored trousers.
When I return, I help her dress, my fingers brushing over her skin in lazy, reverent strokes. I guide the sweater over her head, smoothing the fabric down her arms. It drapes over her beautifully, swallowing her in warmth—swallowing her in me. A quiet, possessive satisfaction hums through me at the sight.
Next, the trousers. I kneel before her, holding them open. She steps in without hesitation. My hands glide up her legs as I pull them into place, fingers grazing her hips. Before fastening them, I press a gentle kiss to her bare skin, inhaling deeply, memorizing her scent.
She shivers. Not from the cold.
Standing, I adjust the sweater, my hands lingering at her waist. “Perfect,” I murmur, pressing a kiss to her forehead.
Only then do I turn to dress myself, buttoning my shirt with measured precision. In the mirror, I catch her watching me, eyes filled with unspoken questions.
I shrug on my jacket, the leather settling around my shoulders like armor. Preparing me.
“We need to talk,” I say softly, my hands finding hers. She twines our fingers together without hesitation. A perfect fit.
A perfect offering.
“Come,” I say. “Let’s walk in the gardens.”
The night air is thick with the scent of impending rain, the sky above churning, restless. The starlit path winds before us like a ribbon of silver, leading us deeper into the shadows of my estate.
As we near the marble folly, the first drops begin to fall, cool and sharp against our skin. The heavens open as we step beneath the shelter of the domed roof, rain hammering against stone, a relentless, rhythmic pulse.
Clarissa shivers beside me, wrapping her arms around herself. I fight the urge to pull her closer, to keep her warm, to keep her safe.
I lean against the balustrade, staring out at the darkened landscape. Now or never.
“Clarissa.” My voice is low and rough, heavy with reluctant truth. “The only way we can truly be together is if your brother respects me.”
She turns, confusion knitting her brows. “But he already respects you, Kaisner.”
A mirthless chuckle escapes me. “No, baby girl. Nikolaas fears me.” I exhale, shaking my head. “I don’t want his fear. I want him to see me as his equal.” The admission is bitter on my tongue, a truth I’ve spent weeks denying. “But as long as he remains the Last Dragon Shifter, that will never happen.”
Her fingers lace through mine, an instinctive offer of comfort. “Then what can we do?”
I turn to face her fully, searching her expression. “You know my reputation. What I do. What I work with.”
She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t recoil. “You work with daemons.” A simple statement. No judgment. Just fact.
Pride stirs in my chest.
