23. Clarissa
CLARISSA
D awn bleeds through the curtains like a wound, painting my bedroom in shades of amber and regret.
Another sleepless night. Another eight hours spent haunted by the ghost of his touch, the echo of promises whispered against my skin.
The city wakes below my window, just another Saturday morning, but I remain trapped in the liminal space between dreams and nightmares.
I drag myself to the mirror, wincing at the shadows under my eyes.
Sophie noticed them yesterday, her voice laced with concern as she blamed the upcoming gala.
If only she knew. The meetings, the deadlines, the meticulous seating charts—they’ve been my escape.
Structure and schedules are easier to face than the thoughts that keep me awake.
The woman in the mirror looks distant. Pale. Eyes too bright, too tired. My fingers drift to the diamond pendant resting in the hollow of my throat—Kaisner’s gift. Its cool weight against my skin sends a shiver through me. A silent echo of that night at the opera.
Three weeks. Three long, tormenting weeks of silence. Of questioning whether that night was real. Whether I meant anything at all. Was I just another conquest, another notch in Kaisner Drachenstein’s belt?
A sudden buzz shatters the stillness—my phone.
My body tenses on instinct.
For a single, breathless moment, I think it’s him. But no—Nik’s name flashes across the screen. Relief and disappointment collide, leaving a hollow ache in their wake.
“Hey,” I answer, forcing a brightness I don’t feel.
“Clarissa.” His voice is tight. Controlled. “Why am I hearing about you attending a gala in our family’s name—alone? And leaving the opera early?”
There it is.
My stomach drops. Of course, the rumor mill would churn this out. Truthfully, I’m surprised the call didn’t come sooner.
I close my eyes, already picturing his expression.
The furrowed brow, the clenched jaw, the impatient pacing in whatever hotel room he’s holed up in this time.
“It’s not what you think,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady.
“I wasn’t feeling well. And I wasn’t alone. Some of our people were there.”
“Not what I think?” Nik’s voice rises. “Clarissa, do you have any idea what this looks like? The whispers it’s started?”
Anger flares through my veins, hot and sudden. “Our reputation is fine, Nik. I represented us well. The rest is idle gossip, and you know it.”
The silence that follows is heavy. I can almost see Nik pinching the bridge of his nose, a habit of his I’ve only recently learned.
“I’m just worried about you,” he whispers. “With everything that’s going on... Rissy, this isn’t like you.”
Guilt lances through me. Here I am, keeping secrets from the one person who’s always had my back. But how do I explain Kaisner? How do I say I’ve been unraveling by degrees since the night we kissed—and since he vanished without a trace?
“I’m okay,” I say instead. “The gallery’s doing well. I’ve got everything under control. Please, focus on the tour.”
We speak for a few more minutes, exchanging the kind of everyday details that mask everything left unsaid. When I hang up, I feel both lighter and heavier. Lighter for having calmed his fears. Heavier because I’m still keeping him in the dark.
I set the phone down and stare at my reflection. Pale skin. Eyes rimmed with exhaustion and grief. Hollow cheeks. A ghost of who I was.
Enough.
I strip off my nightgown and sink into the bathtub, the jasmine-scented water wrapping around me with soothing warmth. I let myself slide beneath the surface, eyes closed, wishing I could wash away the ache, the questions, the hurt of not knowing where I stand with him.
When I emerge, tears mingle with the droplets running down my face. I hate him. Hate him for what he’s made me feel, for disappearing without a word. But no amount of fury can cauterize the wound he left behind.
“Damn you, Kaisner,” I whisper. My voice echoes off the marble tiles, mocking me with their futility. Because even as I curse his name, my heart aches with longing.
I scrub at my skin almost violently, as if I could somehow erase the memory of his touch, the ghost of his kisses that haunts my dreams. But it’s useless. He’s carved himself into my very being, marked me as his in ways that go deeper than any claiming bite.
Eventually, the water begins to cool. I step out, wrapping myself in a plush towel, and face my reflection in the fog-streaked mirror. My eyes are red-rimmed, but clearer somehow. Stronger.
I dig through my closet and choose a pale blue sweater dress and cream-colored wool coat.
The familiar routine of dressing, of making myself presentable, seems like armor being assembled piece by piece.
Each button fastened, each strand of hair smoothed into place, is an act of defiance against the weakness he’s conjured in me.
I may love him with every fiber of my being, but I am still Clarissa Draken. And it’s time I remembered that.
A swipe of mascara, a touch of color on my lips. Small acts of rebellion against the melancholy that’s held me captive. I twist my hair into a neat chignon, refusing to wince at how prominent my cheekbones have become.
My phone buzzes again. This time, it’s a text from Samara, asking me to come to Alexeev Manor. The Alexeevs aren’t exactly known for their love of Drakens. But if Sam’s calling for me, it must be important.
The bustle of Paris greets me as I step outside. The cold air bites at my cheeks, bringing color to my pale skin. It hurts, but it’s a good hurt—a reminder that I’m still here, still breathing, still moving forward despite everything.
I may not be okay, not yet. But I’m trying. And for now, that has to be enough.
The taxi ride to l’?le de la Cité resembles a passage between worlds. Outside the window, the city’s modern bustle fades, replaced by the quiet elegance of increasingly affluent neighborhoods.
In my lap, my phone vibrates, its cheerful chime unnervingly out of place. I glance down, and my heart clenches.
Time for your daily German lesson!
I stare at the screen, remembering my excitement when I first downloaded the app—how eager I’d been to learn. Now, those once-harmless German phrases cut deep, each one a fresh reminder of him. Of his voice, deep and rich, whispering meine Liebe against my skin.
With trembling fingers, I swipe the notification away. I can’t bear it—not today. Not when every German word feels like another splinter in my fractured heart.
The phone slips into my purse, face down. One more defeat in a morning already heavy with them.
The manor’s iron gates loom before me, intricate and imposing. Before the driver can reach for the intercom, the doors swing open in eerie silence. Ice skitters down my nape.
The driveway stretches endlessly ahead, flanked by perfectly sculpted topiaries and riotous flower beds. The manor itself is a behemoth of stone and glass—stunning in its grandeur, suffocating in its implications. This is the seat of Ursa power in Paris, and I’m walking straight into its maw.
As I approach, the front door opens on its own, revealing a butler who looks as though he stepped out of a period drama. His face remains unreadable as he inclines his head in greeting.
“Miss Draken. This way, please.”
I follow him into a foyer vast enough to swallow my entire London flat. The air is thick with history, the weight of generations pressing down on me. Stern-faced Alexeevs stare from gilded portraits lining the walls, their eyes tracking my every move.
A shiver threatens to crawl up my spine. Guest or not, I can’t shake the feeling that I don’t belong here. That I’m an intruder.
Lost in thought, I don’t notice the mountain of a man rounding the corner—until I crash straight into him. It’s like colliding with a wall of solid muscle. The impact jolts me backward, but before I can fall, strong hands close around my arms, steadying me with effortless strength.
I look up… and up… and up.
The man before me towers well over six feet, his shoulders broad enough to fill a doorway. His face, framed by a thick, dark beard, is all hard angles and sharp planes—formidable, unreadable, carved from stone.
But it’s his eyes that seize me. Maroon orbs, burning with an inner fire. Uncannily familiar. Eerily reminiscent of another pair I can’t seem to forget.
“Gavriil Alexeev,” he rumbles, his voice so deep it seems to resonate in my very bones. “You must be Clarissa Draken.”
I swallow hard, resisting the instinct to step back. “Yes,” I manage, willing myself to remain composed. “It’s a pleasure to be here, Mr. Alexeev.”
To my surprise, his stern expression eases—just slightly.
“Gavriil,” he corrects. “Any friend of Samara is welcome… even if they are a Draken.” The last part is more of a mutter, accompanied by the faintest curve of his lips—wry, amused, but not unkind.
The unexpected warmth in his otherwise gruff demeanor catches me off guard. I’ve heard plenty about Gavriil Alexeev, and none of it suggested friendliness—especially not toward a Draken.
“I appreciate your hospitality,” I say, offering a brief but genuine smile.
Gavriil nods, then gestures down the hallway. “Samara’s in the parlor. I’ll take you to her.”
As we walk, I can’t help but steal glances at my imposing guide.
Despite his sheer size and the fearsome reputation that precedes him, there’s something almost..
. gentle about him. It’s nothing like the ruthless Ursa King I’ve heard murmured about in supernatural circles—an enigma I can’t quite figure out.
We reach a set of grand double doors. Gavriil pushes them open with ease, revealing a parlor that redefines opulence. Samara is there, engrossed in conversation with a man I recognize immediately.
Alexei Morozov.