Page 10 of Devil’s Night (The Shadows of Darkness Universe #3)

Chapter nine

The Best Sokolov Is A Dead One

Echo

“ H ow many more children?” The words leave like venom as another pitcher of water crashes over his face.

His body thrashes under the deluge, the soaked cloth muffling any attempt at a scream. Strapped tight to the chair, his muscles flex and spasm, wrists rubbed raw from struggling against the restraints.

Yanking the cloth away, the gasps that follow are desperate, almost comical. Wide, bloodshot eyes blink up at me, as if surprised I haven’t already ended him.

“I already told you,” he pants, choking out the words between coughs.

“She and I, fuck, we didn’t know anything about the kids.

That was Issac’s shit, all of it. Dimitri…

my parents… they never pulled Katya or me into that side.

It was just the usual, drugs, hits, status.

That was it. All I had to worry about was looking good, killing when needed, and where to score my next bump.

Hell, a week ago, the only thing on my mind was marrying her. Maybe even throwing a baby in her-”

His sentence cuts off in a scream as I snap one of his fingers back without warning. The crack is sharp. The sound of his pain? Bliss.

“That’s not what I asked,” comes the cold reply, watching him weep like the spoiled little son of a tyrant. “You think I dragged you both down here just to confirm what I already know? Issac, for all his failures, at least gave me something useful before he bled out.”

Breathing hard, his gaze darts around the basement. “And I’m supposed to believe this is Catalyst?” His voice trembles with disbelief, but not nearly enough fear.

My hands slide casually into my pockets. “Let’s just call it a… passion project .”

He laughs, or tries to. It comes out cracked and bitter. “You fucked with the wrong families, man. That girl upstairs, the one you’ve been torturing for sport? If she ever gets loose… forget Dimitri. She will be the one to kill you.”

A smirk pulls across my lips, slow and sure. “I’m counting on it.”

Silence stretches between us, thick and suffocating. Blood drips from his broken hand. His breath comes in ragged pulls.

“But in the end,” I murmur, stepping closer, letting him see the gleam in my eye, “you all end up in the same place.”

Lowering my voice to a whisper, I let the words settle like final rites.

“In the hands of God.”

Fingers trail slowly across the worn metal tray, brushing past bone saws and pliers until they settle lovingly on the scalpel. The blade gleams under the basement’s flickering light, thin and precise, hungry for skin.

“What exactly do you think she and I have done?” Nikolai snaps, his voice strained from pain, but laced with disbelief.

“You misunderstand,” the response is calm, measured.

“It’s not about what you’ve done. It’s about who you are.

I know what your families have built. The Romanovs.

The Sokolovs. Fifteen years of trafficking children, laundering their names and blood through foundations, false adoptions, and pharmaceutical fronts.

You were born into it. Raised by it. Whether you watched or participated doesn’t change the truth, you are their legacy. ”

Nikolai jerks against the restraints, his eyes locked on the scalpel now glinting just inches from his feet. “Killing us won’t stop anything,” he growls. “You think you’re some kind of savior? You’re not. You’re just another monster-”

“No,” the word cuts through the air like the blade itself. “Issac’s death was a warning. You, Nikolai? You’re a message.”

A slow smile spreads as the scalpel is raised, not yet striking, just teasing the space between threat and promise.

“And Katya…” The name rolls from the tongue like something forbidden, savored. “She’s my leverage.”

Pacing begins, slow and deliberate, the scalpel gliding through the air with each step. The space between them grows heavier, charged with anticipation.

“So,” my voice lowers to a whisper, silk-wrapped steel. “Which toe would you like to lose first?”

Dragging Nikolai back into the cell, I ignore his groans as his legs give out beneath him.

His fingers are wrapped crudely, and blood seeps through the gauze.

Across his arm, the word TRAITOR is freshly carved, raw and angry, a punishment and a reminder all in one.

I chain him up against the far wall, watching his chest rise and fall as he pants, too weak to curse me, though the hatred still simmers in his eyes.

I toss him a bottle of water. He fumbles it at first, then devours it like an animal, drinking too fast, too desperate. For a moment, he looks like he might cry again, but he doesn’t. He swallows it all down; water, pride, and whatever pain still has claws in him.

Katya’s curled on the floor, small and still, her chest barely moving.

The few mouthfuls she got earlier were enough to knock her out.

She's quieter like this, softer. The hard lines of her jaw have relaxed, the crease between her brows smoothed.

For the first time, I see the parts of her she tries to hide, the exhaustion, the fragility.

Even in sleep, her body is tense. One hand clutches her hoodie near the hem, as if protecting herself even now. My eyes trace the length of her, bruises on her ankles where the pointe shoes dig in and dried blood crusting around the seams.

"Who the hell still wears ballet shoes after they’ve bled through them?" I mutter under my breath, more to myself than Nikolai, but he hears me anyway.

“You want to know why?” he rasps, tossing the empty water bottle toward me with a glare. “It’ll cost you another.”

I ignore the bait.

Instead, I crouch beside her, staring at the contrast between her pale skin and the black hoodie bunched around her waist. My fingers hover above her before finally pressing into the fabric.

I push it up carefully, revealing her abdomen inch by inch.

Her stomach is flat, toned, unmarred by scars or bruises, so unlike the rest of her.

My fingertips drift along her hip bones, brushing the edge of her ribs, trailing lower until the curve of her waist deepens into something intimate.

“Touch her again, and I swear to God-” Nikolai’s voice cuts through the quiet.

“I’m not raping her,” I growl, teeth clenched as I shoot him a look over my shoulder. “So shut the fuck up.”

Reaching into my belt, I find the scalpel, its edge gleaming under the overhead light.

My hand doesn't shake. It never does. With calculated precision, I press the blade to the skin just below her navel and carve the letters slowly.

..deliberately. E. C. H. O. Blood beads along each letter, thin trails weaving toward the waistband of her pants.

Staring at my work, my heart pounds harder than I expected.

She asked for my name.

Now she’ll always know it.

Against my better judgment, I swipe a thumb through the blood, then bring it to my tongue. The familiar taste of the metallic, warm liquid spreads, but something else is there.

Something that lingers.

Fuck.

I hate the way my body reacts. The pulse in my groin, the ache in my chest. She’s unconscious. Vulnerable. And still, the sight of her, the scent of her, blood, sweat, that faint perfume clinging to her hoodie, it makes my control slip.

Pulling the hoodie down, I smooth it over her skin. But just as I go to move away, my hand brushes against something rough. I frown, then slowly turn her onto her side.

The sight knocks the breath from my lungs.

Her back is a canvas of pain. Scars slash across her skin, some healed poorly, others fresh, barely scabbed. They vary in width and depth, but all are brutal, unmistakable in origin. Rod lashes. Dozens of them. Some cross over each other, layering pain atop pain.

My hand hovers above her spine, trembling now. I’ve seen this kind of cruelty before. I’ve inflicted it. But this? This was drawn out. Repeated. Designed to break someone.

A dry laugh chokes from Nikolai’s throat. When I look at him, his expression is grim.

“You thought the Romanovs spared their daughters?” he says. “You thought Katya got to be soft?”

The taste of her blood still lingers on my tongue, and now it turns bitter.

“What did they do to her?” The question leaves me sharper than I intend, thick with something I don’t want to name.

Nikolai lets out a bitter laugh, dry and sharp. “You mean what did she do to herself?” He leans his head back against the wall, eyes bloodshot, voice rough with exhaustion and spite. “You’re looking at the cost of failure as a Romanov.”

I glance down at her, still unconscious on the floor her body barely rising with each breath. Nikolai’s words loop in my head: failure, cost, Romanov.

“The shoes you were asking about,” he continues, voice low. “Mrs. Pavlov doesn’t just train women. She breaks them. Katya dances on sprained feet.”

Moving to the edge of the mattress, I kneel beside her.

My hands hover above her ankles, hesitation crawling down my spine.

Carefully, I unlatch the slippers, each movement slow, deliberate.

The fabric clings to her skin, stiff with dried blood and sweat.

When the shoes finally come off, I stare in stunned silence.

Her feet are mangled. Swollen. Raw. Bruised in places that should never be bruised. Red welts bloom around her toes, skin cracked and torn. She’s been dancing on these?

“She sprained her ankle a week ago,” Nikolai mutters, watching me from across the room.

“Courtesy of her loving big brother. My sister nearly shattered the other one not long before that. Her father told her to toughen up or face something worse. The scars on her back? Pavlov’s doing. Discipline for losing a combat match.”

I swallow hard, my thumb grazing the edge of her ankle. She doesn’t stir.

“A lady’s back,” he continues, his voice distant now, almost reciting, “is never seen if she’s dressed modestly. A woman shall serve her husband. Not like he has much use for her back, or her feet, for that matter.”

The words taste foul in my mouth.

Romanov women aren’t meant to rule. They’re meant to breed. To bleed. To serve.

“To them, she’s not a person. She’s an asset.

A baby factory, a chess piece, a pretty little puppet with a blade in her sleeve.

And me?” Nikolai chuckles darkly. “Well, I’m just the sperm bank.

So congratulations, Catalyst. You kidnapped their breeding pair.

Dimitri won’t care. He’ll just make another.

Another heir. Another obedient girl. One who hasn’t started biting back. ”

My hands curl into fists. I want to deny it, want to say she’s more than that, that she’s nothing like what he’s describing. But that would mean admitting I’ve started to care. And I can’t. Not here. Not now.

“She didn’t know what Issac was really doing,” Nikolai adds after a moment. “And if I’m being honest… I think a part of her was relieved when he died. You’re not the first person to hurt her...and you won’t be the last.”

The words echo in the silence, slamming into me harder than any blade ever could.

I stare at her small, bruised frame. She looks so young like this.

So small. And yet, every inch of her tells a story.

The calluses. The welts. The bruises. She’s been serving someone her whole life, family, duty, expectation. And now me.

I shift back, rising slowly.

“What’s your plan for her?” I ask, the question more loaded than I mean it to be.

Nikolai gives me a long look. Not hateful. Just… tired. “I think I just told you.”

Turning away from them both, I move toward the door, heart pounding so loud it threatens to crack my ribs. My hand hesitates on the handle, but I don’t look back. The moment the metal door slams shut behind me, the air tightens around my chest.

I shouldn’t care.

But the way her blood looked with my name carved into it… the way she breathed my command like it was gospel…

It’s already too late.