9. Clarissa
CLARISSA
T he morning sun gilds the Champs-élysées, painting the Arc de Triomphe in hues of amber and gold. I should be captivated by its beauty, but my mind whirls with the phantom touch of a stranger’s hands, the echo of a voice that haunts my waking hours.
I weave through the bustling crowd, my body on autopilot as my thoughts spiral.
The man from Deveraux Manor. Nightmares and visions might plague my restless nights, but his face haunts my every waking moment.
Those piercing dark eyes and that enigmatic smile linger on my thoughts like a persistent ghost.
I can still feel the thrill of his touch, the electric current that flowed between us when our skin met. It’s a sensation I’ve never experienced before, a connection that both thrills and terrifies me in equal measure—I’ve yet to decide what to make of it.
Lost in this maelstrom of emotion, I don’t notice the tall figure stepping out of a nearby café until it’s too late. I collide with a solid wall of muscle; the impact steals my breath. Strong hands grasp my arms, steadying me before I can stumble backward, and I look up?—
Time stops.
It’s him. Here, now, real beneath my fingertips. My heart thunders, and I struggle to form words. “We meet again,” he murmurs, his voice a velvet caress that sends shivers down my spine.
His touch lingers on my arms, the warmth of his skin seeping through the thin fabric of my blouse, and the same jolt of electricity shoots through my limbs, that same inexplicable pull draws me to him like a raven to a moonlit grave.
I search his face, desperately, my gift straining for any glimpse of his past, his future. But as before, there’s nothing—a void where visions should be. It unnerves me, this blankness. Who is he, that he can resist my Sight? What power does he hold?
“Do you believe in fate, baby girl?” he asks, dark eyes boring into mine. “Or is this merely yet another chance encounter?”
The world fades around us, leaving only this moment, this connection.
“A chance encounter can change the course of a lifetime,” I hear myself say, the words rising unbidden from some deep, hidden part of me.
A gleam of satisfaction dances in his eyes, the corners of his mouth curling into a smile that is both dangerous and alluring. “Allow me to introduce myself. Kaisner Drachenstein.”
The name strikes a chord, stirring half-forgotten memories of whispered legends. “Drachenstein...” Another dragon clan, as ancient and powerful as my own. It explains his presence at the manor, the aura of authority that clings to him like a second skin.
Suddenly, I’m achingly aware of his hand still holding mine, our fingers intertwined. Heat blooms in my cheeks, embarrassment laced with... something else. Something primal that makes my pulse quicken.
“And you are Clarissa Draken,” he continues, his words a silken net drawing me closer. “The enchanting young witch who has captured the attention of more than one powerful family.”
I drop my gaze, gently withdrawing my hand.
“I don’t know about that,” I breathe. “I’m just trying to find my way in this world, like everyone else.
” The words taste hollow, even as I say them.
Part of me preens under his attention, while another part screams caution.
What does he want from me? And why, despite my better judgment, do I sense this inexorable pull toward him?
His finger tilts my chin up, and I shiver at the contact. “Don’t sell yourself short, Liebling,” he murmurs, his breath warm against my skin. “You are a rare and precious thing, a true daughter of the Craft. And I have a feeling that our meeting here, in this moment, is no accident.”
My mouth goes dry. “What do you mean?” I manage to whisper, barely hearing my voice over the pounding of my heart.
His smile is slow, promising secrets beyond imagining. “I think you know, deep down, that there is a connection between us. Something that draws us together, even in the midst of this bustling city.”
His words wrap around me like a spell, and I realize with a start that I’m hopelessly in his thrall. Any thought of escape seems futile, maybe even undesirable.
A flicker of regret crosses his face as he glances at his watch. “But… I’m afraid I must let you go, for now. I wouldn’t want to make you late for work.”
Reality crashes back. Work. Responsibilities. The mundane world I inhabit. “Oh, yes. Of course,” I stammer, heat rushing to my cheeks. “I should be going.”
Before I can step away, he leans close, his breath tickling my ear. “Let me give you a ride. It’s the least I can do after keeping you from your duties.”
My heart leaps. The thought of being alone with him, confined in a car, sends a thrill of excitement and fear coursing through me. Even as my rational mind screams warnings, I find myself nodding. “Thank you,” I manage, slightly breathless. “That would be lovely.”
His smile flashes, quicksilver and dangerous. Kaisner offers his arm, and I take it, feeling the firm muscles beneath expensive fabric. A tingle runs through me at the contact as he leads me to a sleek Aston Martin, its obsidian curves gleaming in the morning light.
The ride to the gallery is a blur of stolen glances and charged silence, the air between us heavy with unspoken words and possibilities.
I try to focus on the passing scenery, on the familiar streets and landmarks that have become my anchor in this city, but I find my thoughts constantly drawn back to the man beside me, to the heat of his body and the deliciously intoxicating scent of his cologne.
All too soon, we arrive. Kaisner steps out, moving with predatory grace, and opens my door. As he helps me onto the sidewalk, disappointment washes over me. I don’t want this to end.
“Until next time, Clarissa,” he says, his voice a promise that shoots a thrill through my core. “I look forward to our next chance encounter.”
With a final, lingering glance, he slips back into the car and drives away, leaving me standing there on the curb, my heart racing and my mind reeling.