14. Clarissa
CLARISSA
D ragons, I’m learning, have a talent for making the impossible feel inevitable.
My heart hammers as Kaisner’s car cuts through rain-slicked streets.
I still can’t believe I said yes—yes to dinner, yes to him.
The man who’s haunted my thoughts since the moment we met is taking me somewhere secret, somewhere private. Just the two of us.
A thrill surges through me. So does a flicker of doubt.
What the hell am I doing?
The rational part of me chants danger . Kaisner Drachenstein is power and shadows and whispered warnings. But the part that answers him—the part that wakes when he’s near—doesn’t care.
Outside, city lights blur past the windows, refracted through streaks of rain. I breathe deep, steadying myself. For better or worse, I’ve already stepped into his world. There’s no turning back now.
The car eases to a stop before a nondescript building. Mist drapes the Parisian evening in a ghostly veil, rain soft but steady. Kaisner’s out in a blink, umbrella in hand, opening my door before I even reach for it.
“Allow me,” he says, offering his hand.
I take it.
The chill of the night vanishes the second he pulls me close under the umbrella. His warmth wraps around me, grounding. Dangerous. Addictive.
We cross slick cobblestones toward a modest entrance. A discreet sign above the door reads L’étoile Cachée —The Hidden Star.
A gust of wind grabs the umbrella just as he opens the door, spraying us both with cold droplets. I laugh. I can’t help it.
Kaisner’s answering smile is rare and sharp.
Real. For just a moment, his carefully constructed mask slips, revealing something genuine beneath the polished exterior.
The unguarded expression transforms his face completely—softening the harsh angles, brightening his eyes, making him devastatingly handsome in a way that has nothing to do with his usual calculated charm.
He guides me through the doorway, his hand a whisper of warmth at the small of my back.
I steal a glance at Kaisner’s chiseled profile, the memory of Cassandra summoning him to Deveraux Manor flickering through my mind.
It steadies me, soothes the edges of my unease.
If she trusted him enough to call him into that sacred place, then maybe I can trust him for one evening of. .. what? Normalcy?
A wry smile tugs at my lips. As if anything involving Kaisner Drachenstein could ever be considered normal.
The door closes behind us, muffling the patter of rain.
Inside, the hush is immediate. No clinking glasses. No murmured conversation. Just golden light and silence.
My steps slow as I take it in—empty tables dressed in white linen and polished silver, crystal glassware untouched. A single rose at each center, soft petals blushing crimson.
“Is it always this quiet?” I murmur.
“I may have asked for privacy,” Kaisner says, tone smooth, amused.
My pulse skips.
Of course he did.
He leads me to a corner booth, the velvet seat catching on my dress as I slide in. The space feels intimate, almost secret. Candlelight flickers across wood-paneled walls and casts dancing shadows on the floor.
A grand piano stands in the corner, silent—until it’s not. Soft music blooms into the space, as if summoned by thought.
A waiter approaches with reverence, cradling two ancient-looking bottles of wine. “From your private collection, monsieur.”
Kaisner barely glances at the labels. “The Chateau Margaux 1787.”
The waiter nods with awe and vanishes.
I blink.
The 1787? My brother once called it liquid legend . Only a handful still exist, locked away in vaults or museums. I’d only ever heard of it. And Kaisner chooses it like he’s ordering a glass of tap water.
As the waiter tilts the bottle, the deep crimson elixir cascades into our glasses with the grace of liquid rubies. The rich, complex aroma wafts up, and I find myself inhaling deeply—blackcurrant, cedar, a faint note of truffle, and something darker, older.
“1787?” I glance at him over the rim of my glass. “Is this even drinkable?”
Kaisner’s smile is slow, edged with something ancient. “For most? No. But some things age differently… when guarded by the right blood.”
The way he says it—like he’s not just talking about wine—sends a ripple down my spine. He lifts his glass, watching me through the crimson veil. A toast without words.
I clink mine softly against his.
The first sip is velvet and shadow—unreal. As though time itself has been distilled into flavor. The legends don’t do it justice.
And neither, I realize, do the warnings about him.
“Quite the vintage,” I say, understatement clinging to my voice.
He tilts his glass in acknowledgment. “Some things are worth preserving. Like this moment.”
Our eyes meet. Something lingers in the space between us—heat, curiosity, maybe warning.
Hors d’oeuvres arrive—tiny, exquisite bites too beautiful to eat. Truffles. Smoked salmon. Aged cheeses that melt on the tongue.
Kaisner leans back, watching me more than the food.
There’s a quiet hunger in his gaze—not for the wine or the rare delicacies, but for my reactions, my laughter, the flicker of curiosity in my eyes.
It’s as if he’s memorizing me, moment by moment, the way a collector studies a one-of-a-kind artifact he never plans to part with.
As the evening unfolds, I find myself leaning in, drawn by more than just his presence.
His voice, low and deliberate, spins tales of far-off cities cloaked in snow, forgotten catacombs beneath Venetian streets, hidden halls guarded by blood oaths and ancient names.
Each story reveals another layer, another mask peeled away—until he no longer feels like a stranger seated across from me, but a man whose soul I’ve brushed before in a dream.
But it’s when he speaks of a recent acquisition—a secluded property on the shores of Lake Starnberg in Germany—that something in him shifts.
His voice softens, loses some of its usual sharp edge.
He describes the tranquil waters, the thick emerald canopy of the forest, the quiet charm of the nearby village with its old chapel bells and scent of woodsmoke.
There’s a reverence in his tone when he speaks of the place, like it’s more than land. Like it’s something close to sacred.
“I’ve been thinking about spending some time there,” he admits, a note of vulnerability in his tone that catches me off guard. “Perhaps... living a quieter life, at least for a while.”
The image of Kaisner—this powerful, enigmatic man—seeking solace in such a peaceful setting is both surprising and oddly fitting. It reveals a depth I hadn’t glimpsed before, a yearning for simplicity that contrasts sharply with the complexity of his usual world.
Almost without realizing it, I begin to share my own story.
The words come unbidden, and I speak of an English childhood tinged with loss, of the sense of displacement that drove me to lose myself in studies and art.
I talk about the inexplicable pull that drew me back to Paris, the sense of homecoming when I finally returned, and how the gallery has given me purpose.
A sense of place in a world that never quite fit.
Kaisner listens with that same sharp intensity, his gaze never straying from mine. Even when I fall silent, his attention remains fixed on me, as if reading the story written in the shadows of my expression.
For a moment, neither of us speaks. But the silence isn’t empty. It’s charged—alive with something unspoken yet deeply felt. A tether drawing us closer with every heartbeat.
The wine glass pauses halfway to his lips as Kaisner’s gaze suddenly shifts, sharpening with focus.
His eyes scan the room with predatory intensity, lingering momentarily on a figure near the entrance.
The movement is subtle, almost imperceptible, but I catch it—the slight tensing of his shoulders, the way his free hand moves instinctively toward his jacket.
Then, just as quickly, the moment passes. The mask of charming dinner companion slides back into place, but something has changed. There’s an edge to his smile now, a vigilance behind his eyes that wasn’t there before.
“Forgive me,” he says, noticing my curious expression. “Old habits.”
“What kind of habits require that level of awareness?” I ask, unable to contain my curiosity.
He studies me for a long moment, as if weighing how much to reveal. “There are things about me you don’t know, Clarissa.” His voice drops, pitched for my ears alone. “Things I hope I never have to burden you with.”
The cryptic response only fuels my curiosity. “Try me,” I challenge softly.
A shadow passes across his features, there and gone so quickly I almost miss it. “Not tonight,” he says, reaching across the table to brush his fingers against mine. “Tonight is about us.”
The touch sends electricity racing up my arm, and just like that, the spell is recast. Yet even as we return to our conversation, I notice how his gaze periodically sweeps the room, how he’s positioned himself to view both me and the entrance.
I wonder what kind of life creates such instincts—and what kind of enemies would follow a man like Kaisner Drachenstein.
“It is a rare occasion whenever two dragons cross paths,” he finally says, his voice low and rich with meaning. A sly smile plays at the corners of his mouth, hinting at hidden truths.
A shiver races through me, equal parts thrill and trepidation. I lean in, drawn deeper into the mystery that cloaks him. “Is that what we are?” I whisper, the words heavy on my tongue. “Two dragons circling each other in the midnight sky?”
The moment the metaphor leaves my lips, I feel its truth in my bones. We are more than human. More than what we appear to be. Powerful beings, ancient at our core, wary and watchful—yet drawn together by some force older than fate.