49. Clarissa
CLARISSA
T he initial shock of Luciana’s appearance begins to fade, and the room slowly comes back to life.
Whispers ripple through the air, hushed conversations filled with awe, confusion, and a lingering suspicion.
I catch snippets here and there—questions about how this is possible, what it means for the balance of power among the clans.
I spot Sam near the fireplace, her posture stiff, arms crossed tightly as though holding herself together by sheer will. Her gaze is locked on the shadows in the room.
For a moment, she looks impossibly frail—Samara, usually all biting wit and fire. Tonight, she burns quieter. Sadder.
I approach her slowly. She doesn’t look at me as I draw near, simply says, “I never found her body.”
Her voice is soft, yet heavy with pain, as if the words have been trapped inside her for so long they’ve become inescapable truth.
“Gavriil blamed me for not trying hard enough, with my scrying.” Tears shimmer in her eyes. “Hell—I blamed myself.” The confession escapes her throat, strangled.
I stand beside her, watching the flames flicker in the window’s dark glass. “He was grieving his lost mate,” I assure her gently. “You all were.”
“She was more than that,” Samara murmurs. “She was his soul. I used to listen to the way he spoke about her—quietly, like a prayer he didn’t want the world to hear. Luciana was everything to him, Clarissa. Before life taught him to bury his heart deep.”
She sniffs, blinking fast. “I just wonder if it’s too late... if my brother can come back to life, just as she did.”
I glance at her, but she’s staring at the door, her throat working.
“I’m happy she’s alive,” she adds, her voice trembling. “I’m so happy. But it breaks me, too, in ways I didn’t expect.”
“Because of Cassandra?” I whisper.
Sam’s gaze cuts to mine, sharp and lethal. In that instant, I catch a glimpse of the predator beneath her polished exterior—the Ursa princess who could tear out a throat without remorse.
“Careful,” she warns, voice dropping to a dangerous edge. “Whatever you’re thinking, whatever you’re about to say—be very careful, Clarissa.”
I meet her stare, unwilling to back down. “I’m simply acknowledging what we’re both thinking. Gavriil’s true mate has returned, but he’s publicly bound to another. A witch carrying a vampire’s child.”
Sam glances toward the doorway, then grabs my arm with unexpected force, guiding me deeper into the shadows. Her touch—both controlled and strong—sends a chill down my spine.
“Listen to me,” she says, each word precise and measured. “That child is under the protection of the Alexeev clan. All of us.”
The emphasis in her tone carries weight. I search her face, finding no hesitation, only fierce conviction.
“I know what you’re doing,” she continues. “What you’ve always done, Clarissa. Looking for cracks in the foundation, places where loyalties might split.” Her eyes narrow. “There are none to be found here.”
For a second, I flinch in disbelief. “It’s not like that at all… Surely, you realize every supernatural faction will be watching,” I point out. “Waiting to see how your brother handles this... complication.”
Sam’s smirk is sharp as broken glass. “Let them watch. The fools who mistake this for weakness don’t understand what’s truly at stake.
” She releases my arm, her expression softening fractionally.
“What happened at your brother’s dinner was just the beginning.
The child Cassandra carries will change everything—the old rules, the boundaries between our kinds. ”
“And Luciana?” I ask, keeping my voice neutral. “Where does she fit in this new world order?”
A flicker of something crosses Sam’s face—grief, uncertainty, determination—before settling into fierce resolve.
“Luciana is family,” she says simply. “As is Cassandra. As is the child. My brother...” She pauses, glancing toward Gavriil, his posture rigid as he watches Luciana speak with Vladimir. “My brother will find a way forward that honors all he has promised. The Ursa King does not break his word.”
I follow her gaze, studying the tableau before us: Luciana, returned from death’s embrace; Cassandra, power and secrets growing within her; Gavriil, caught between past love and present duty.
“And if he can’t?” I ask quietly.
Sam turns back to me, and there’s something ancient in her stare—a knowledge that makes her seem suddenly older than her years.
“Then we will all bear the cost,” she whispers. “But the child remains protected. That is non-negotiable.” She straightens, the momentary vulnerability vanishing beneath her usual poise. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I believe my mate is looking for me.”
As she turns to leave, I catch her wrist. It’s a bold move—perhaps foolish, given her lineage. But I do it anyway.
“Sam,” I say softly, ensuring no one else can hear. “Are you all right?”
Her composure falters, just for a heartbeat. Something raw flashes across her face before she rebuilds her walls.
“Of course,” she replies, but her pulse jumps beneath my fingers—a tell no witch would miss.
“Nikolaas seems...” I search for the right word, “ intense tonight.”
Her eyes dart to where her dragon mate stands, his knuckles white around his glass, ocean eyes tracking her every movement with predatory focus. Even from here, I sense the barely contained storm within him, threatening to spill beyond his control.
“He’s under considerable strain,” she says carefully. “Learning your sister is mated to Kaisner Drachenstein would unsettle anyone.”
The name hangs in the air like a blade. Kaisner—the man who shattered centuries of dragon hierarchy with a single transformation.
“This isn’t just about Kaisner,” I risk saying. “This is about Nikolaas. About what’s happening to him.”
Sam’s expression freezes, fear and protectiveness warring across her features. “ Nothing is happening to him,” she states, but the tremor in her voice betrays her.
“Sam,” I whisper, letting genuine concern color my words. “Whatever it is—whatever’s wrong—you don’t have to face it alone.”
For a moment, I think she might confide in me. Her shoulders drop slightly, the burden of secrets clearly taking their toll. But then, Nikolaas appears beside us, materializing with dragon swiftness that makes us both start.
“There you are,” he says to Samara, his tone deceptively light, but his eyes burning with something primal and possessive. His hand settles on her waist, fingers splayed wide—not just a lover’s touch, but a claim.
“Nikolaas,” I greet him, keeping my voice neutral despite the tension crackling in the air. “We were just discussing the unexpected nature of tonight’s reunion.”
“Were you?” His gaze shifts between us, suspicion darkening his features. The temperature around us drops several degrees as his control slips. Frost patterns form at his feet, spreading outward in jagged lines.
“I was checking on Clarissa,” Samara says quickly, offering me a look that’s both apology and warning. “The evening has been overwhelming for everyone.”
“Of course,” Nikolaas agrees, but his arm remains firmly around her waist. “Though I’m certain Clarissa is perfectly capable of managing her... complicated loyalties.”
The barb hits its mark. My connection to Kaisner—unwanted though it may have been—has transformed me from trusted ally to potential threat in his eyes.
“We all have complicated loyalties these days,” I reply evenly. “The wise among us know better than to judge what we don’t fully understand.”
His eyes narrow, dragon fire flickering in their depths. For a terrible moment, I fear his control might snap entirely.
Sam places her hand on his chest, drawing his attention. “Nik,” she murmurs, her voice carrying that particular inflection I recognize from my own experiences with Kaisner—the tone that soothes the dragon, that reminds the beast of its humanity.
Something shifts in Nikolaas’ expression—a momentary softening, a flicker of shame—before he nods tersely. “We should rejoin the others,” he says, already guiding Samara away.
She glances back at me over her shoulder, and in that unguarded moment, I see everything she hasn’t said: fear, love, determination, and something that might be a plea for understanding.
I watch them move through the crowd, noting how she subtly positions herself between Nikolaas and other guests, how she whispers to him when his eyes begin to glow too brightly, how her hand never leaves his as if she’s physically anchoring him to this world.
The Draken Curse. I’ve known its effects now in two dragons—Willem’s madness in family lore, and now, my brother. But Nik’s manifestation seems somehow worse, as if the power of the Last Draken Shifter amplifies the curse’s grip.
My gaze drifts to Samara, trapped in an impossible situation, protecting everyone from the truth of what her mate is becoming.
Then, my attention shifts to Gavriil and Luciana.
They’ve risen to their feet, but remain locked in each other’s embrace, as if afraid the other might disappear if they let go.
Luciana is engulfed by Gavriil’s massive frame—a man suspended between past and present, love and duty.
I look at Cassandra, taking on the monumental effort of concealing the chaos reigning inside her.
So many secrets in this room. So many fault lines waiting to fracture.
The sound of a throat clearing interrupts my thoughts.
I turn to see Nikolaas, his expression a complicated mix of emotions.
“As touching as this reunion is,” he says, voice carefully controlled, “I think we all deserve some answers. Cassandra, how is this possible? Gavriil’s mate was dead. And suddenly, she’s back? Why now?”
All eyes turn to Cassandra, who stands at the room’s entrance, her posture regal and composed. She meets each of our gazes in turn, her eyes filled with wisdom.