20. Clarissa #2
A man has risen from the private box adjacent to mine, now stepping through the low velvet partition that separates our spaces. He moves with the smooth, deliberate grace of a predator, each step unhurried, precise. Even in a room filled with supernatural elite, he draws attention like gravity.
His tuxedo fits as if it were sewn onto his frame—black silk over a lean, muscular build. A crimson pocket square blooms against the fabric like a flame in midnight.
He approaches the edge of my box, and the scent that follows him is unmistakable—cedarwood, musk, and something colder, wilder. Not dangerous, exactly. But ancient. Alive.
In his hand, he carries an enchanted rose. The petals shimmer with glamour, subtly shifting hue—deep scarlet, soft blush, golden flame. A silent performance of wealth, magic, and taste.
Then his gaze finds mine—amber eyes threaded with gold, piercing yet unreadable. Like honey struck by lightning.
“Miss Draken,” he says, a low growl that resonates in my chest and sends shivers down my spine—though whether from attraction or unease, I’m not entirely sure. “Allow me to introduce myself. Andrei Morozov, Alpha of the Siberian pack.”
The Morozovs. One of the most formidable wolf shifter families in the supernatural world. I straighten imperceptibly, mindful of the importance of this interaction.
He inclines his head, voice smooth as dark velvet. “I couldn’t help but notice how deeply the music moved you. Perhaps you’d care to explore the… primal undertones over a private supper?”
I accept the rose with a measured smile, careful to let neither warmth nor offense slip through. “Thank you, Mr. Morozov. The performance is indeed stirring,” I reply evenly. “But I must decline. My responsibilities to the Draken family require my full attention tonight. I’m sure you understand.”
A flicker of disappointment passes across his face, quickly replaced by a knowing smirk. “Of course,” he murmurs, the words threaded with amusement and promise. “Another time, perhaps.”
He steps back with quiet confidence, retreating to his box like a man who rarely hears no and never minds waiting.
I exhale slowly, turning toward the balustrade in search of a moment’s reprieve. My fingers brush the velvet rail, grounding myself in its cool texture.
Then, movement catches my eye.
Perched on the ledge is a small lion—folded from metallic gold paper, delicate and masterfully crafted. At first, I assume it’s a charming trinket left behind by an earlier guest.
But then it stirs.
The origami lion arches its back in an elegant stretch, its golden flanks catching the soft glow of the chandelier. It leaps into motion with feline agility, bounding and twirling in a dance so fluid, so eerily lifelike, I forget to breathe.
With one final pirouette, it stills.
And begins to unravel.
The folds flatten, slow and precise, until only a square of gilded parchment remains. In looping script, a message appears:
Mlle Draken,
Your grace reminds me of a lioness guarding her pride. Might I tempt you to a private rendezvous at midnight?
With anticipation,
León Regalis.
The Regalis family—lion shifters of impeccable bloodline, stewards of influence beyond the art world. Their interest is never idle. This is not just a flirtation—it’s a statement.
I tuck the message away, my mind whirling with the implications of these offerings.
Each gift, each carefully worded summons, is more than it appears.
They’re calculated moves in a grand chess game—bids for power, attempts at forging alliances, subtle grasps at the dragon’s legacy that flows within me.
The orchestra stirs, drawing me back to the present as the lights dim and the curtain rises once more.
I sit, spine straight, the rose resting lightly in my lap. And for a while, I let the music carry me away—into Giulia’s tragedy, into her defiance, into the storm I can feel building just beyond the stage.
By the time the final, haunting notes of “Tu che invoco con orrore” fade into silence, I’m undone. My heart pounds with a tangle of emotions I can scarcely name. Tears gather behind my lashes, and I blink them back, struggling to steady my breath.
Giulia’s torment—her wrenching pull between love and sacred duty—has found a mirror in me. Her voice, filled with agony and devotion, lingers like a bruise on the air.
“You whom I invoke with horror,
Terrible goddess!
Listen to me at last;
May this miserable heart of mine breathe…”
The words echo through me, a chilling reflection of my own turmoil.
Like her, I teeter on a precipice—torn between fear and longing.
I whisper Kaisner’s name in the privacy of my thoughts, even as I recoil from the raw power he holds over me.
The affanno —that aching, breathless anguish—gathers in my chest whenever he is near.
A torment so exquisite it’s almost holy.
Somewhere deep within, I find myself pleading. Not to a goddess, but to him . To the warlock whose presence both steadies and unravels me. I want him to see me. To hear me. To quiet the storm he’s awakened.
And yet… the thought terrifies me.
How did I get here?
What frightens me most is not the intensity of my emotions, but the quiet truth that I don’t want to relinquish them.
Thunderous applause erupts around me, but I remain still—adrift in the storm of my thoughts. La Vestale has pierced deeper than I ever anticipated, laying bare the conflict I’ve tried so hard to silence.
Almost without meaning to, my gaze sweeps the opera house, searching for the one face that has come to mean so much to me.
And there he is, in his private box, dark eyes already fixed upon me.
Kaisner.
Our gazes meet, and in that instant, the world falls away. The gold leaf decorations blur into a hazy glow. The plush red velvet of the seats fades to a distant smudge of color. Even the swelling crescendo of the orchestra diminishes to a faint, far-off hum.
All that remains in sharp focus is Kaisner.
His maroon eyes hold mine, and the contact hits me like a live current. My skin prickles. A shiver climbs my spine, sharp and sudden.
I can’t look away. I don’t want to look away.
Every detail of him imprints itself in my mind: the chiseled line of his jaw, his closely trimmed beard, the flicker of hazel hidden in the deep brown of his gaze.
The faint crease between his brows betrays the depth of his focus.
I see the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath a tailored suit that fits like a second skin—power wrapped in restraint.
He doesn’t move. He doesn’t need to.
The space between us is nothing. Whether he’s across the opera house or standing beside me, I feel him— in me. As if my body is attuned to his in some ancient, unspoken way.
Warmth spreads through my chest, down to my fingertips. Not just heat, but something deeper. A recognition. Completion. As if a piece inside me has shifted into place, quiet and irreversible.
The air is charged—alive. An understanding passes between us, silent but unmistakable.
Then, Kaisner rises. He steps back into the shadows of his private suite, moving toward what must be the door.
I don’t think. I simply rise from my seat with practiced grace and slip away from our family’s box, leaving Giulia’s tormented voice echoing behind me.
My heels click softly on the marble floor. Every step seems both reckless and inevitable. What am I doing? The clans will talk. Someone is surely watching. But their eyes are distant, irrelevant—ghosts in the periphery.
The only thing I feel is the pulse of magic, thick in the air.
And the fire that draws me to him.
A tremor runs through me as I move through the opera house’s gilded corridors, each step bringing me closer to him. The plush carpet hushes my footsteps, but the blood pounding in my ears is deafening. My hands tremble. I curl them into fists, willing my composure to hold.
Rounding the final corner, I spot Kaisner’s men, stationed like statues outside a private balcony. Sharp-eyed. Expressionless. Watchful.
For a breathless second, I brace for resistance. But then, with the smallest nod, they step aside. The gesture is subtle, but the anticipation it sparks inside me is not.
One of them catches my eye. Marcus—tall, with dark eyes and a scar along his jaw. I’ve seen him before, always near Kaisner. Always silent. Always armed.
“Enjoy your evening, Miss Draken,” he says, his voice cold and precise—smooth on the surface but chilling beneath.
I give a polite nod, but his words linger in my mind. Something in his gaze holds too long, like he’s committing details to memory that he shouldn’t need to remember.
The ghost of Marcus’ stare lingers, sending a shiver down my spine as I approach the tall doors. I stop at the threshold, my breath catching. Beyond waits Kaisner, and with him, a precipice. Power, danger, seduction.
The unknown.
The doors swing open without a sound.
A breeze rushes past, cool and fragrant, carrying the scent of damp stone, night flowers, and something unmistakably him. Aria’s voice drifts through the night air, fainter now but still hauntingly beautiful.
I step outside.
Tall marble columns frame the balcony, lit in gold by the city’s glow. Below, Paris shimmers—rooftops and bridges spun in light, the Seine a ribbon of dark silk threading it all together. But I hardly notice the view.
Because he’s here.
Kaisner stands at the edge of the balcony, facing the night. His silhouette is carved from shadow and starlight, broad shoulders squared, jacket cut to fit him like it was born on his skin.
I stop, breath shallow. Just watching him is like standing too close to a flame.
He speaks into his phone, his voice low, deadly. “Hast du wirklich geglaubt, du konntest mich hintergehen und damit davonkommen?”
The German rolls off his tongue like velvet hiding a blade. I don’t need a translation. The threat is unmistakable.
He ends the call. Slips the device into his pocket. Then—slowly—he turns.
That single movement stops time.
His eyes meet mine. And everything inside me goes quiet.
Maroon, rimmed with shadow, his gaze cuts straight through me. There’s hunger there. And something rawer, darker—grief? Yearning? I don’t know. But I feel it. Like it’s mine too.
“Clarissa,” he says.
My name in his voice is a sin. A vow. A warning.
It ripples through me, turning my spine to ice and my blood to fire. I try to speak, but the words vanish before reaching my lips.
We stand suspended in that charged silence—between choices, between danger and desire, between everything we were and everything we’re about to become.
And then I step forward.
One step closer to the fire.
One step deeper into him.
Whatever lies ahead, I know this much: I won’t walk away.
Not now. Not from this.