32. Clarissa
CLARISSA
F alling in love with a dangerous man is like learning to breathe underwater—exhilarating, until you realize you’re drowning.
The days pass in a haze of stolen glances and secret smiles.
Each clandestine meeting with Kaisner is a delicious risk that leaves me craving more.
It’s not all grand gestures—some moments are quieter, like the late-night coffees he sends when I’m working, or the texts that make me laugh out loud in bed.
In these simple, thoughtful acts, my affection grows stronger.
Our first real date is unexpectedly perfect.
I’m sketching at the Jardin des Plantes, lost in the quiet hum of spring, when his shadow falls across my sketchbook.
Kaisner stands there, a vision in light linen and tailored trousers, his playful gaze softening the sharpness of his presence.
“Fancy meeting you here, Miss Draken,” he murmurs, his voice low and intimate, stirring something dangerous beneath my skin.
We wander the gardens, our conversation rich with arcane knowledge only beings like us would understand.
“Beautiful,” Kaisner purrs as we stop by a patch of wolfsbane.
I glance at him, arching a brow. “But deadly.”
His gaze lingers on the plant before flicking back to me, the corner of his mouth lifting with a mischievous smile. “Like you.”
Heat flares low in my belly, and I hate how easily he affects me with just three syllables.
I hold his stare. “And like you.”
His slow, wolfish smile sets me alight. Danger, it seems, is a language we both speak fluently. The tension between us coils tighter with every glance, every brush of skin.
By the time we reach the labyrinth, it’s almost unbearable. Hidden by high hedges, he pulls me close, and when his lips find mine, it’s reckless, raw—inevitable.
From there, our secret rendezvous grow bolder.
Secluded corners of the Jardin des Tuileries become our sanctuaries—whispered conversations and stolen kisses behind sculpted bushes.
Late-night drives through Paris serve as our refuge, the glow of the city our silent witness as we explore each other with fevered touches in the shadowed back seat of his sleek car.
Days turn into weeks, and I find myself falling deeper.
It’s not just physical attraction—though that’s certainly part of it.
It’s the way Kaisner listens when I speak, his attention sharp and undivided.
How he challenges me with questions that force me to think harder, to see beyond the mundane.
It’s the vulnerability I glimpse in his eyes when he thinks I’m not looking, the tenderness in his touch that belies his tough exterior.
Yet, even as we revel in our private world, reality is never far away. Our responsibilities, the threat of discovery, always linger at the edges of our stolen moments. The upcoming gala looms—a reminder that our lives are public, political, dangerous—and any misstep could destroy everything.
And Kaisner? As the event draws near, he becomes a constant, exquisite torture. He’s at the gallery daily, dressed to perfection, flanked by his lawyers and efficient assistants, reviewing contracts, discussing logistics, negotiating every fine detail of the exhibition.
I sit across from him in meeting after meeting, knees brushing beneath the table. Every accidental touch is a shock to my system. His cologne haunts me, warm and dark, making it difficult to focus. Every glance he casts my way is heavy with unspoken desire. Every look, a silent promise of later .
It’s maddening, working so closely with him, pretending to be nothing more than cordial acquaintances.
My entire being wants to stand up and shout to the world that I love him, that he’s mine and I’m his.
But I can’t. We can’t. If Nik—or anyone—discovers our secret, it won’t just destroy us.
It will fracture alliances, destabilize power, unravel the delicate balance of our supernatural community.
So we play our parts. We maintain the facade. We speak through glances, coded words, the barest brush of fingertips as we pass documents. Subtle touches that say I love you , that promise soon , that remind us we are not alone.
At night, alone in my bed, I replay each interaction.
Every near-touch. Every almost-kiss. The anticipation builds, a steady crescendo of desire and frustration that threatens to overwhelm me.
I see the strain in Kaisner too—in the way his jaw clenches, his hands fisting at his sides when we’re forced to maintain our distance.
It’s a quiet, torturous longing that burns through every moment we have to pretend.
As the gala draws ever closer, the pressure intensifies. The success of this event is crucial for the gallery, for my family’s reputation, for the frail alliances in our world. And at the center of it all is Kaisner—our benefactor, our star attraction, my secret love.
I long for the night of the event, dread it too. It will be the ultimate test of our restraint. A night where we must perform our roles perfectly, flawlessly, while denying the fire smoldering between us.
But for now, we cling to what we can. Stolen glances. Brushed fingertips. A hidden world of subtle, defiant victories against the forces that would keep us apart.
The soft ping of an incoming email breaks the stillness of my office. I glance at my screen, expecting another dull update, but the subject line stills my breath:
Open when alone – K.
I close the door, heart thrumming. Fingers trembling, I open the message. A single image appears—a rose petal, red and lush, with elegant script overlaid:
Noon. The usual place. Bring only yourself.
A thrill shivers through me, sweet and sharp. Our clandestine meetings are growing more reckless, more dangerous. And I know, even as desire blooms hot in my chest, that I’ll go. I’ll always go. The risks be damned.
The hours crawl by. At 11:55, I make an excuse and slip from the gallery. A sleek black car waits at the curb. The driver steps out and opens the door.
“Where are we going?” I ask, sliding into the cool leather seat.
He smiles, polite but tight. “I’m sorry, mademoiselle. Mr. Drachenstein’s instructions were very clear.”
I don’t press. I already know better.
The drive takes us to the edge of the city, where we pull up beside a private airfield. My pulse quickens as I spot Kaisner’s jet gleaming on the tarmac, its engines humming low and expectant.
And there he is.
Kaisner stands at the base of the stairs, dressed in tailored linen trousers and a crisp white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to expose tanned, tattooed forearms. He holds a bouquet of deep red roses, and as his eyes meet mine, the world narrows to him. To this.
“You look ravishing, as always,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to my cheek. His lips linger longer than propriety allows. “But I thought you might prefer a change of attire.”
He gestures to a garment bag draped over his arm. “Shall we?”
Once aboard, I change into the dress he’s chosen—a wrap of pale pink and blue seafoam silk that ripples with every breath. When I emerge, Kaisner is waiting with a glass of champagne.
“To stolen moments,” he says, eyes never leaving mine as we clink glasses.
As the jet takes off, Kaisner pulls me close, his lips finding that sensitive spot just below my ear. “Do you have any idea how maddening it is,” he murmurs, “to see you every—single—day and not be able to touch you like this?”
I gasp as his teeth graze my skin. “Kaisner… we shouldn’t…”
But my body betrays me, arching into his touch, needing it. Needing him.
“Tell me to stop,” he says softly, voice low and dark.
I don’t. I can’t.
Instead, I pull him in, claiming his mouth with mine. We lose ourselves to the heat, to the desperate, dangerous need that burns between us. Hands roaming, lips searching. Reality vanishes beneath us.
All too soon, the pilot announces our descent. I glance out the window, and my breath catches.
Rugged cliffs plunge into sapphire water, the Amalfi Coast stretching beneath the sunlight like a secret paradise.
A sleek yacht waits for us at the marina, its white hull gleaming in the Mediterranean sun. As we set sail, the coastline unfolds—a dream of pastel villages, sun-dappled terraces, and lemon groves spilling down cliffs, hidden coves beckoning with crystal-clear waters.
Kaisner stands behind me, his arms a steel band gripping my waist.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” he murmurs. His voice curls around me like smoke. “But not half as beautiful as you.”
I turn in his embrace, overcome by the sheer romance of it all. “Kaisner, this is… It’s too much. We can’t keep doing this. The risk of?—”
He hushes me with a kiss, soft but insistent. His lips linger, pressing a vow into my skin before he pulls back enough to murmur, “Let tomorrow worry about itself. Today is ours, baby girl… Just ours.”
And in that moment, I want to believe him.
We dock in Positano, the town rising above us in a riot of color and charm. Kaisner leads me through winding cobbled streets and up endless stone stairs until we reach a restaurant perched high on the cliffs. The view steals my breath—a stretch of limitless blue sea, blurring into the horizon.
We dine beneath the glow of hanging lanterns, the sea breeze carrying the scent of salt and lemon.
Over plates of fresh seafood and crisp local wine, we talk and laugh, shedding the weight of politics and legacies.
Here, we are not leaders or heirs or enemies.
We are just two people savoring the moment.
Kaisner’s hand finds mine across the table, his thumb drawing slow, lazy circles over my palm. The simplest touch, yet it sparks something deep inside me.
“I wish we could stay here forever,” I sigh, my gaze tracing the gold-tipped waves beyond.