16. Clarissa
CLARISSA
A low buzz cuts through the stillness, coming from somewhere beyond the conservatory. I cross the space softly, drawn by the sound, and ease open the door to Nik’s office.
Samara stands by the mahogany desk, her back to me, one hand holding her phone to her ear while the other carefully places an ancient grimoire into the top drawer.
Its leather binding is so dark it seems to swallow light.
Even from this distance, the tome radiates malevolent energy—old, twisted, powerful.
Mysterious whispers seem to emanate from its pages as she slides it into place, speaking of blood and betrayal, of ancient oaths sworn in shadow.
“Yes, I found it,” she says quietly into the phone, her voice strained as she turns a small key in the drawer’s lock.
“It was exactly where you said it would be... in Juliette’s private study.
” She pockets the key with trembling fingers.
“I’ve locked it away, as you asked. But Nik, this thing—it feels wrong. The moment I touched it...”
A hush falls as she listens to whatever he’s saying. Even with the grimoire now sealed away, I can still feel its presence, heavy and suffocating, pressing against my consciousness, its wicked aura seeping through the wood.
“I know it belonged to Willem Draken,” Samara continues, her voice barely above a whisper. “But why do you need it? What’s so important about a three-hundred-year-old spell book that you’d ask me to steal from Juliette?”
The name hits me like a physical blow. Willem Draken—Juliette’s husband from centuries past, before her first death and reincarnation.
The man whose love story with the Grand Witch had become legend among our kin.
But if Nik is seeking out Willem’s grimoire, it means he’s delving into magic far darker than anything he’s ever attempted before.
I remain frozen in place, my seer’s gift recoiling from the drawer’s contents. Whatever spells Willem had penned in those pages, they were born of desperation and shadow—the kind of sorcery that exacts a terrible price.
“I understand, my love. But it’s dangerous,” Samara says, her voice tight with worry as she moves away from the desk. “Nik, you’re scaring me. Ever since your awakening, you’ve been different. More volatile. More...” She searches for the word. “Hungry.”
She falls silent, listening, and I watch as her free hand drifts unconsciously to her opposite wrist, brushing against the edge of her sleeve. The soft fabric of her cashmere sweater slips back just slightly, revealing faint bruises, like the delicate smudging of twilight across her skin.
My breath stutters. The grimoire’s presence suddenly makes terrible sense. If Nik is losing control of his dragon, if the power is corrupting him from within, he might believe that Willem’s ancient magic holds the key to mastering it.
“No, I don’t want us to fight,” Samara says finally, resignation heavy in her voice. “Just promise me—promise me you’ll be careful with whatever’s in there. Some knowledge is meant to stay buried.”
The chill that climbs my spine is undeniable. I realize, with the conviction of my gift, that this grimoire represents a turning point. A choice that will either save my brother—or damn him.
“Nik, please,” she whispers, her voice barely audible over the rain tapping against the glass. “You need to rest. You need to come home. I know you think you’re fine, but?—”
She falls silent again, listening. Her shoulders sag under an invisible weight, and I can see the toll this conversation—this entire situation—is taking on her.
“Soon?” she says finally, her voice gentler now but edged with an exhaustion that speaks of sleepless nights and constant worry. “Yes... of course I miss you. More than anything.” A beat of silence. “I love you.”
The call ends with a soft tap. Samara stands motionless for a moment longer, staring at the locked drawer with barely concealed revulsion.
When she turns and sees me, her reaction is immediate—shoulders snapping back, face arranging itself into a practiced, bright expression that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
“Clarissa,” she says with a lightness I don’t believe for a second. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“I was in the conservatory,” I answer, stepping into the room. My eyes dart to the desk drawer, the air around it still thrumming with dark energy. “Sorry to startle you.”
She waves a hand as if brushing the air itself away. “No, no—it’s fine.” But she takes a deliberate step away from the desk, clearly eager to distance herself from what she’s just locked away.
“Everything okay?” I ask, though I already assume the answer.
“Just... Nik being Nik. You know how he gets when he’s worried.” Her laugh is tight, sharp at the edges.
I hesitate, gaze dropping briefly to the edge of her sweater where those damning bruises peek out.
She notices. Follows my gaze.
I move closer, unable to keep my sight from drifting to her wrist. “Sam, are those?—”
“Oh, these?” she says, tugging the sleeve down in a swift, practiced motion. “Nothing. Just... alpha dragon things.” Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “Sometimes, Nik forgets his strength.”
The way she says it—so light, so casual—sends a sharp warning through me. “Sam...” Her name leaves my mouth like a question I’m not brave enough to finish.
She meets my gaze for a beat too long, something wounded and fierce flickering behind her pupils. “Don’t look at me like that,” she says, her voice low.
She straightens, the Alexeev strength returning to her posture. “Nik is fine. We’re fine. He’s just... adjusting. His power is overwhelming. You felt it, didn’t you? That dinner on Yule. The shift in him.”
I nod slowly, unwilling to lie. But now I understand that shift differently. The dragon’s awakening was only the beginning. Whatever Willem Draken had written in that sealed grimoire, whatever dark knowledge it contains, Nik believes it’s the answer to controlling the beast within him.
She exhales through her nose, folding her arms across her chest. “The Draken Curse,” she mutters, almost like an afterthought.
The words hit like a knife to the chest, made all the more ominous by the locked grimoire’s oppressive presence.
“What?” I ask. “What curse?”
Her eyes widen for a fraction of a second—too late to hide the truth. “It’s nothing. An old tale. A family superstition, really.”
I step closer, the air growing thicker with each breath. From the sealed drawer, the grimoire’s whispers seem to grow louder, speaking of blood and madness, of dragons consumed by their own power. “You wouldn’t call it that unless you believed in it.”
Samara glances away, jaw tightening. She’s already said too much. “I have to go,” she says abruptly. “Gavriil’s waiting for me. He gets anxious when I’m late.”
She moves to pass me, but I gently touch her arm. “Sam,” I whisper, pulling my hand back. “If something’s wrong, you can tell me.”
Her body stills, the tension in her spine screaming louder than words. Then she smiles again—serene, unreadable.
“Everything’s fine, Clarissa. Really.” She squeezes my hand and walks away, her heels tapping lightly on the marble floor.
I stand there long after she’s gone, staring at the desk where Willem Draken’s cursed spellbook lies sealed away. My mind is buzzing with questions I don’t know how to answer. The bruises. The hesitations. Willem Draken’s grimoire. And now this—this talk of a curse.
The Draken Curse.
The phrase clings to me, heavy with implication. I can feel it winding through my mind like smoke—elusive, insidious, ancient. What if it’s real? What if whatever’s unraveling in Nik is only the beginning?
And if it’s happening to him…
I glance toward the window, where the rain has begun to fall harder, lashing against the panes like a warning.
What might it do to me ?