8. Nik

Acool misting rain trickles down as I make my way back to Draken Manor, the quiet night enveloping me, soothing away the restlessness that has plagued my soul for as long as I can remember.

Today has been a journey of rediscovery as I meandered the vibrant streets of Paris on foot for the first time in over a decade. I indulged in a leisurely meal on the bustling Champs-élysées, watching well-dressed Parisians rush by. Later on, at the Louvre, I marveled at artifacts of my lineage’s storied past—ancient texts referencing other dragon shifter clans, including the enigmatic Drachenstein clan, medieval tapestries depicting fierce warriors with our family crests, paintings of my ancestors, including the formidable Lord Willem van Draken. In one wing, our family’s more recent history unfolded through displays about my grandfather’s business empire and philanthropy.

I lingered in that modern wing, gazing up at photos of my parents cutting ribbons at various grand openings and charity balls, forever immortalized in their youth and idealism before tragedy struck. Bittersweet nostalgia overwhelmed me, there in that quiet gallery housing remnants of the dynasty I was born into but which still feels alien, like glancing at strangers wearing familiar faces.

As I stroll along the serene banks of the Seine, streetlights casting wavering reflections on the inky water, I can’t help but reflect on that history. Our clan first came to the City of Lights centuries ago upon the marriage of Dutch dragon shifter Willem Draken to the renowned French enchantress, Juliette Deveraux.

In the greatest time of turmoil for our kind, their union brought together two powerful magical bloodlines and sealed our family’s ties to Paris. Though our noble ancestry now feels distant to me, this city has been Draken home ever since. I was but a boy when I last laid eyes on its aesthetic streets and ancient buildings wearing the marks of time with dignity.

Much has changed in the intervening years, for both the Drakens and me. Yet in the evening’s soft hush, I feel the strands of the past whispering to me, reminding me that I still belong, if only I dare to reach out and grasp them. This place holds the missing fragments of myself, if I can find the will to seek them out and make myself whole once more.

And yet, the artifacts of my ancestors’ towering legacies only sharpen my sense of inadequacy, the enormity of their shadows in which I languish. I am the scion of a revered lineage, yet I have built nothing that could be placed in a museum wing carrying my name.

Alpha or not, the burden of a legacy rests upon the shoulders of its heirs. As I ponder this heavy responsibility, my thoughts turn unbidden to passionate maroon eyes—framed by long, dark lashes fluttering in blissful rapture. Is it possible that one day I will find a woman who ignites my soul as fiercely? A love that could rival the enduring legacies of my ancestors? For now, she remains a tantalizing phantom, teasing my imagination with promises of a future beyond measure.

The more I think about the alluring stranger from last night, the more it haunts me that I may never see her again. Fuck. The thought leaves an ache in my chest. In a sprawling city like Paris, the odds of us crossing paths again feel vanishingly small.

I should have acted before we parted ways, taken some leap into the unknown. But what was I supposed to say—“Thanks for the mind-blowing experience, let’s do it again soon?” No, I couldn’t be so crass with her. I curse myself as a fool, afraid to grasp what I desired in the moment. And she didn’t offer her number either, so I’m not alone in my hesitation…

Sam. That’s what her friend called her when she cut short our tryst. An incomplete fragment. But now that name is emblazoned in my mind, seared into my very soul. I turn it over and over, savoring the way it feels on my tongue, the way it echoes in my heart.

Sam. Short and sweet, a name that suits her perfectly. But what could it be short for? Samantha, perhaps? Or maybe something more unique, like Samira or Sammia?

I lift my gaze and take in the daunting silhouette of Draken Manor against the clear moonlit sky. A clash of emotions stirs within me at the sight. The house stands cold and lifeless now, yet hints of the warmth it used to hold still remain.

I’ve been away long enough that the old traditions feel distant, like childhood toys packed safely in the attic. But I cling to a few cherished memories—the spiced aroma of burning Yule logs, dancing wildly around Beltane bonfires, feeling unfettered joy and belonging.

I climb the manor steps, hands buried in my pockets against the damp chill. Wisps of white mist sail from my lips as I exhale. The night air bites sharply—Samhain is here. The wind howls with unseen spirits. Not the most promising omen.

Inside, I find the foyer crowded with at least a dozen strangers whose voices echo loudly off the marble floors. Who the hell are these people? Before I can inquire, the studio doors violently burst open.

A tall figure stalks out in a fine navy suit, his shirt collar undone and face flushed. Though he stands over six feet, I still have an inch or two on him. “I will not stand for this!” he declares hotly to the tense gathering, his bloodshot eyes ablaze with reckless fury.

Holy fuck, is that…?

“Bram?” I barely utter as recognition hits me full force. I haven’t seen him in over ten years.

What will he do at the sight of the younger brother he sent away long ago? Will seeing me rekindle some fragment of lost warmth? I brace myself, half expecting his embrace.

His fierce gaze collides with mine. “Nikolaas,” he states flatly as he strides towards me. My heart races with hope—this could be the moment when my brother and I come together and set aflame the bitter days of our past, their cruel ashes finally scattered.

Bram brushes past as if I’m not there. My frail dream crumbles. Surely, he’s forgotten I was even coming back. I hang my head in disappointment when he grabs my arm and pulls. “Walk with me,” he commands. I have no choice but to follow as he marches on.

“You’re here now,” he growls, “so you might as well know what’s truly happening.”

“Where are we going?” I ask with a frown.

We stop at the doorway and Bram pauses to face me. Under the exterior lights, I finally notice the details of his disheveled appearance—red-rimmed eyes with dilated pupils, cracked lips, a flush spreading across his cheeks despite the night’s chill. A wayward lock of golden hair falls across his eyes as he sways slightly, one hand braced against the doorframe.

Several emotions flit across his face before he speaks—uncertainty, annoyance, vague recognition. “We’re going to pay avisit to an old enemy of ours, Niky.” He speaks slowly, dredging up the words. His breath leaves no doubt—it reeks of liquor.

Niky. He hasn’t used that childhood nickname since we were boys, when things were simpler between us. Hearing it now in his drunken slur feels jarringly out of place.

“An old enemy?” I echo, perplexed.

“The Alexeevs,” he growls, his stance suddenly rigid. “The Bear King has defied me for the last fucking time.”

The Ursa clan—longtime rivals of our Dragon kindred. Bram seems convinced they have somehow wronged him, but his reasons remain obscured by inebriated fury.

My brother grabs onto my jacket’s lapel and pulls me in close, his voice dropping to a menacing whisper. “Our treacherous uncle wronged this family in almost every conceivable way. But fear not, Niky. As the new leader of our clan, I’m going to fix that—that, and so much more.” He inches closer. “And that wretched Ursa King? He will learn his place once and for all.”

He turns to the group of men surrounding us, their necks bearing the unmistakable Draken sigil—an ornate dragon rendered in stark black ink. The mythical beast’s wings flare out menacingly, razor claws extended as if to slash some unseen enemy. With a commanding gesture from Bram, they surge forward and I am swept outside along with them, unsure of what dark plans my brother has in store.

“Bram, we can’t do this,” I say in a hushed tone, my words laced with caution.

My brother scrunches his nose in irritation. “What are you rambling on about now?” he mutters, clearly annoyed.

Making sure no one from the clan is watching, I grasp my brother’s shoulder and pull him aside urgently. “Are you drunk?” I demand. “You can’t be making decisions like this when your mind is clouded. Can’t you see the potential consequences of barging into enemy territory?” My voice is barely above a hiss now.

“Oh... Shut up, Niky!” Bram retorts, jerking away from my grip and straightening his suit jacket. “You weren’t at the Deveraux’s tonight for the Samhain séance. Not only did Gavriil Alexeev insult me—he publicly humiliated me!” He pauses and then adds bitterly, “And to top it off, Clarissa had the audacity to befriend our vampire enemies!”

“Clarissa?” The name comes out in a rush, tinged with desperate hope. “Is she here?” Can I finally see my baby sister after all these years of being apart? My heart races at the thought of being reunited with her, torn away from us so cruelly upon our parents’ loss. We should have stuck together during those dark days, but Bram thought it better to raise us heirs apart. More strategic, he claimed—like hell it was.

“She’s on the jet right now, flying to London.” My brother’s response comes quick and cold. “I’ll be damned if I let those bloodsuckers get their hands on her!” The venom in his voice betrays his deep-seated hatred for our eternal foes.

The blood of dragons runs hot through our veins, granting us an inferno of rage and power. Yet as I study my brother’s bleary eyes and disheveled appearance, I can’t help but wonder whether he’s hammered or hungover after last night’s festivities. Maybe it’s both. Either way, he’s not fit to face the Ursa King.

“Let me handle this,” I interject, determined to protect my family from any potential downfall. “I’ll speak with Gavriil.”

Bram’s laughter rings in the courtyard, dripping with contempt and vanity. “And what will you say, Nikolaas?” he sneers, pausing for a moment before continuing. “Last time I checked, you were neither a warlock nor a dragon shifter.”

The words sting like daggers. Especially since I stopped studying the craft at Bram’s command... I know my brother is not himself right now. So I swallow the pain and respond calmly, “Our family has not seen a dragon shifter in over three hundred years.”

But my brother only smirks. “Yet here I am,” he taunts, raising an eyebrow. “As the fucking head of this family. Never forget that.”

I stare at him in absolute dismay. Bram’s been head of the family for two fucking minutes and it’s already gone to his head. Oh, but it’s more than that—if I’m not careful, my brother might lead our clan to its untimely ruin.