17. Kaisner
KAISNER
T he Parisian skyline sprawls before me, a glittering expanse of opportunity and power. From my office overlooking Place Vend?me, the city unfolds like a chessboard—and I’m the king who moves the pieces.
The drone of voices fills the room as my board members debate quarterly projections and market strategies.
Their words wash over me like white noise as I take a slow sip of century-old scotch, savoring the burn.
Drachenstein Industries might be the face I show the world—all gleaming steel and corporate bullshit—but it’s just a mask for the real empire.
The one that operates in shadows, that makes kings rise and fall, that keeps the supernatural game in check.
“Mr. Drachenstein? Your thoughts on the merger?”
I barely glance up from my ebony desk, where my attention lies fixed on the surveillance photo before me, its glossy surface reflecting the warm glow of my desk lamp.
My fingers trace the outline of her face, lingering on the gentle curve of her cheek, the soft line of her jaw.
Clarissa—radiant even in this grainy, candid shot—exits the Lumière Gallery, unaware of the camera capturing her every move.
“Proceed as discussed,” I murmur, knowing they’ll interpret my disinterest as executive authority rather than the distraction it truly is.
I’ve memorized her routines by now. The way she stops for coffee at precisely 8:47 each morning.
How she tucks her hair behind her ear when deep in thought during meetings.
The slight hesitation in her step when she passes the Shakespeare and Company bookstore, as if fighting the urge to venture inside.
My collection of photos grows daily. Some might call it obsession. I prefer to think of it as... thorough. Each image reveals something new—a different angle, a fresh expression, another facet of the woman who has consumed my thoughts. My prey. My… mate?
Taking another sip of scotch, I shuffle through more photos from yesterday’s surveillance, barely registering the continued discussion around me.
The liquid burns pleasantly as I study each one with fierce intensity.
My eyes narrow at an image of a young gallery patron standing too close to her, his hand reaching to touch her arm.
Without thinking, I crumple the photo in my fist, a low growl rumbling in my chest.
She is mine. Even if she doesn’t know it yet.
The shrill ring of my phone pierces through the air, an unwelcome intruder in the midst of the meeting. I glance at the screen, brow furrowing as I recognize the number. It’s one of my spies, and for him to breach protocol and contact me now, the information must be of the utmost importance.
With a raised hand, I silence the meeting, my authority tangible in the sudden stillness. “Excuse me, gentlemen. I need to take this.” I don’t wait for their acknowledgment, already rising and striding from the room, the phone pressed to my ear.
“Speak,” I command, my voice low and authoritative.
The spy’s report is hurried, his words tripping over each other in his haste to relay the critical intelligence. “Boss, it’s the Draken girl. She’s being followed.”
In an instant, my blood turns to ice, cold fury settling in the pit of my stomach. Clarissa. My Clarissa, being hunted. The thought alone sends a red haze descending over my vision.
“Where?” I demand, my tone sharp enough to cut glass.
The details spill forth. “She’s heading to the art gallery for work. The tail is skilled, but I’ve been watching him for the past block.”
“I’m on my way,” I say through clenched teeth. “Keep her in sight, but do not engage. Verstanden? ” My instructions are clipped, brooking no argument.
“Jawohl, Mein Konig.” The spy’s acknowledgment is a distant thing, my focus already consumed by the need to reach Clarissa, to ensure her safety.
I end the call with a decisive click, my mind racing ahead, calculating routes and contingencies. I reenter the meeting room, my expression a carefully crafted mask of control, betraying none of the turmoil that rages beneath the surface.
“Gentlemen, I’m afraid an urgent matter has come up that requires my immediate attention.
We’ll have to continue this at a later date.
” My words are met with murmurs of surprise and concern, but I pay them no heed.
They are trivial things, meaningless when measured against the threat to what is mine.
I gather my belongings with swift efficiency, my movements precise and purposeful. Every second counts.
The drive to the art gallery passes in a blur of traffic and tension, my fingers drumming an impatient staccato against the steering wheel.
In the rearview mirror, I catch a glimpse of the familiar black sedan that trails in my wake—my ever-present security detail, a necessary precaution in a world fraught with danger.
As I pull up to the café across from the gallery, my eyes are already scanning the surroundings, searching for any sign of Clarissa or her pursuer.
My security team maintains a discreet distance.
They know better than to draw attention to themselves, but their sole existence is a ceaseless reminder of the dangerous game we play.
And then I spot him, a shadow lurking in the alleyway, a predator lying in wait.
Even from a distance, I recognize the telltale signs of a Mahindra Enforcer.
The Indian tiger shifters have been thorns in my side for decades, their cunning and mastery of the mystic arts, matched only by their ruthless ambition.
The Mahindra spy is a lean, sinewy man with bronze skin and a shock of dark hair that falls in waves to his shoulders.
His eyes, a striking amber hue, are lined with kohl, giving him an almost feline appearance.
He moves with the fluid grace of a dancer, his every step imbued with the coiled power of a hunting cat.
But it’s the tattoo on his neck that confirms his allegiance—a tiger’s head inked in dark gold, its eyes gleaming with ruby-red ink. The sigil of the Mahindra warlocks, a symbol of their ancient power and unyielding pride.
The realization sends a growl rumbling through my chest. The Mahindras have been testing the boundaries of our fragile truce for years now, pushing into territories that are not theirs to claim. But to target Clarissa directly? It’s a bold move, even for them.
I slip from the car, my movements silent and predatory as I approach him. He doesn’t hear me coming, not until I’m right behind him, my hand clamping down on his shoulder like an iron vise.
He startles, whirling around with a snarl, but the sound dies in his throat as he takes in my face. Recognition dawns, followed quickly by fear. He knows who I am, knows the power I wield. Good. Let him tremble. Let him quake in the face of my wrath.
“I have a message for your master, Vikram Mahindra,” I say, my voice a silken purr that belies the steel beneath. “Kaisner Drachenstein sends his regards. It’s in your clan’s highest interests to stop tracking the Draken heiress. Immediately.”
The spy’s eyes widen, his face paling beneath the rich hue of his skin.
He knows the reputation of the Drachensteins, the power we wield both in the mortal world and the realm of shadows.
He nods frantically, his hands coming up in a gesture of supplication.
“Y-yes, of course. I will convey your message to him at once.”
I release him with a shove, watching with grim satisfaction as he scurries away like the vermin he is. But even as he vanishes into the city’s depths, I know this is far from over. The Mahindras are an ancient and proud clan, not easily cowed by threats, even from one as powerful as myself.
I make my way to the café terrace, choosing a seat that affords me a clear view of the gallery. And there she is—Clarissa. She moves through her day, from meeting to meeting, with a poise and grace that takes my breath away, unaware of the danger that lurks in the shadows.
But as I watch her, a troubling thought takes root in my mind.
She is unguarded, vulnerable in a way that makes my blood run cold.
“Why are you not protected?” I muse with a frown.
It makes no sense that her brother, ’the great’ Nikolaas Draken, would leave his own flesh and blood so exposed like this.
Restless, I tap my fingers on the tabletop, the rhythmic sound a counterpoint to the churning of my thoughts. Verdammt , it doesn’t sit well with me, this apparent oversight on Nikolaas’ part. A low growl of frustration escapes my lips, thick with the urgency of my concern for Clarissa’s safety.
I pull out my phone, my fingers already dialing the number of my most trusted enforcer. “Janik? Hier ist Kaisner . I need a stealth team assembled immediately. Twenty-four seven surveillance on Clarissa Draken. Any concerning activity is to be reported directly to me. Verstanden ?”
As the call ends, I lean back in my chair, my gaze never wavering from Clarissa’s form. She doesn’t realize it, but from this moment on, she is under my protection.
And gods help any soul foolish enough to threaten what is mine. They will learn, as so many have before them, the true meaning of fear. The true price of crossing Kaisner Drachenstein.
I will burn the world to ash before I let any harm come to her.