Page 11 of Devil’s Night (The Shadows of Darkness Universe #3)

Chapter ten

My Secret Addiction

Katya

P ain lingers like an old friend, nestled deep in my feet, my spine, and now curling into the fragile curve of my torso. Groggy, aching, I roll to my side, my fingers grazing beneath my hoodie and freezing the moment they land on a bandage pressed above my hip bone.

“What the fuck…” The whisper falls from my lips as my eyes dart down, the stark white wrap standing out against the grime of my clothes.

Shifting again, I brace for the familiar pull of chains. But they never come.

Instead, what greets me is worse, stranger. A plate rests just inches from my reach. Eggs. Bacon. Still steaming.

And beyond that? Him.

He sits silently, eyes locked on me, watching. Measuring. Waiting.

My body moves before I can stop it, legs scrambling backward across the mattress, instinct flaring. But his boot strikes hard and fast, colliding with my chest and sending me crashing back down, air knocked from my lungs as the mattress catches me.

“Sit,” he commands, voice laced with cold indifference.

The gleam of metal follows, my knife, drawn casually from his belt like it belongs to him now. Gloved fingers flex around the hilt. He points it toward me, not as a threat, but a directive.

“We both know you're too weak and too groggy to do anything right now.”

His tone cuts like a scalpel, clinical, bored, but watchful.

A groan pulls my attention sideways. Nikolai lays slumped across the far wall, water bottles placed beside him like some kind of peace offering.

“He’s not dead,” the man mutters, catching my glance. “He wanted water. I wanted silence.”

My gaze snaps back to him. “Why did you unshackle me?”

He doesn’t answer. Just nudges the plate closer with the tip of the knife, as if feeding a feral dog.

“Eat.”

Pulling up my hoodie, I press gently near the bandage. The pain is faint, dull...managed. My stomach churns with more than hunger.

“What, need me to eat so you can keep harvesting my organs?” I spit, eyes narrowing.

His lips twitch in faint amusement, or annoyance, I can’t tell.

“If I wanted your organs, sweetheart, you’d already be dead and drained on the floor. This? This is me being nice. Now eat. You look like shit.”

“Well, being held captive does tend to ruin one’s glow,” I mutter, my voice dry.

His stare doesn’t waver. “Don’t bullshit me. You looked like shit before I ever took you.”

The words hit harder than I expect.

He leans forward slightly, the air between us thick with something too intimate to name. “Your ankles are sprained. Your back looks like a fucking chopping board. Your feet were bleeding through your shoes.”

Glancing down, I notice they’re gone. I hadn’t even realized.

“You touched me,” I say flatly, the accusation resting heavy in the space between us. “While I was unconscious. Just like him.”

His jaw tightens. “I moved you off the cold concrete and gave you a mattress. Would you rather I left you to freeze?”

“And you just so happened to take off my shoes? Look under my clothes?”

The accusation hangs in the air, daring him to respond.

He stands slowly, that blade still in hand, his steps silent but deliberate. Looming. Controlled. Dangerous.

“Careful with your tone,” he says, voice low, sharp enough to draw blood. “Don’t mistake this for mercy. You’re still mine. And if I say eat, you fucking eat.”

For a breath, neither of us moves. The heat between us could burn the walls down.

But my body, weak, starved, aching, knows better than to keep testing the fuse.

Still, I keep my eyes on him as I reach for the plate, teeth clenched, rage and something far darker roiling in my gut. Hunger gnaws at me, but it's not just for food.

It's for answers.

It's for vengeance.

I shovel the food down like it might be taken from me, each bite more about survival than satisfaction. The plate is cleared within minutes, the gnawing hunger in my gut easing only slightly.

He watches without saying a word.

When I push the plate toward him, his hand moves. Not to reach for it, but to casually sheath my knife back into the waistband at his hip. His next move is slower, more deliberate, he pulls a bottle of water from his jacket pocket, then a small plastic bag filled with pills.

My eyes narrow, breath catching just slightly.

“What are they?” The question is low, wary.

“Painkillers,” he answers. “For your ankles. And for the gift I left under that little bandage on your side.”

Something tightens in my chest.

My fingers drift to the edge of the hoodie, just above my hip, brushing the gauze lightly. My heart skips, my voice sharpened by dread.

“What’s under the bandage?”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “My name.”

For a second, my world narrows to the sound of blood roaring in my ears.

“You put your fucking name on me?” My whisper is brittle, shaking, venom laced with disbelief.

“A good reminder,” he murmurs, leaning forward, his voice a low hum of amusement. “You don’t belong to the Romanovs anymore.”

His breath fans over my jaw, sending a shiver down my spine.

“You’re mine now.”

My pulse spikes. Every nerve ending inside me is on fire. Whether from rage or adrenaline or something more dangerous, I can’t tell. I don’t think I want to.

Everything inside me fractures.

Without thinking, my body moves. I lunge at him, teeth bared, fingers clawing through his hair as I throw my weight into his lap.

His back slams into the floor as we crash to the mattress in a blur of limbs and heat.

My hand scrambles for the knife at his waist while his hand closes around my wrist.

He’s strong, too strong, and even dazed, he overpowers me with little effort.

But I fight.

I twist and thrash and grind against him, and somewhere in the middle of it, our bodies lock into each other, breathless, panting.

Then I feel it.

The cold press of steel slipping past my lips.

My eyes widen.

The Glock.

His Glock.

It pushes deeper, the barrel gliding slow and steady along my tongue until it kisses the back of my throat. My gag reflex flares. My body stiffens.

His weight pins me down, one hand twisted in my hair, the other steady on the weapon.

His smile is the most dangerous thing I’ve ever seen.

“Do I have your fucking attention now, butterfly?” he whispers against my cheek, voice so low it’s almost intimate.

The gun slides deeper, suffocating. Humiliating. I can’t breathe, can’t think, but I feel everything.

Heat coils low in my stomach. Shame and fury twist together, and I hate the way my body responds, hates the way part of me trembles not just from fear, but from how devastatingly close he is.

“You wanted your knife back?” His mouth brushes the shell of my ear, his tone dark and wicked. “Fine.”

He pulls the gun back from my mouth, slow and deliberate, watching every second of the recoil in my body as oxygen floods back into my lungs.

I gasp. Cough. Swallow the burn in my throat.

Lying beneath him, I feel like a live wire.

And I know, from the way he’s looking at me, from the tension in his body against mine, he feels it too.

Whatever this is between us, it’s not clean.

It’s not sane.

And it sure as hell isn’t over.

“Take off your pants.”

The command lands like a crack through the air.

My breath hitches. “No.” The word barely escapes, a trembling murmur as my eyes widen in disbelief.

He leans closer. Slow. Unyielding. The air between us turns colder.

His voice lowers, just above a whisper.

“Take off your pants, or I’ll shoot Nikolai in the head right now and make you clean it up.”

My stomach drops. The world narrows. My gaze darts to Nikolai, still slumped nearby, silent but alive. For now.

The threat isn’t empty.

Every inch of me screams not to move, to fight, to run, but there's nowhere to go, no one to save us. My fingers tremble as I reach for the tie of my sweats. Fumbling with the knot, I blink away the burn rising behind my eyes.

Don’t give him the satisfaction.

But I do. I have to.

Yanking the waistband down, I strip them off, teeth clenched, leaving myself in nothing but my underwear. The cold air hits my legs like ice, prickling my skin, but it’s nothing compared to the heat of his stare.

He watches every movement.

Not like a man admiring a woman, but like a predator savoring the way his prey obeys.

With casual ease, he tucks the gun away. The tension in the room only thickens.

Then his hand is on my throat.

The leather of his glove bites against my skin, not squeezing, not yet, just holding, reminding me who holds the power here. I suck in a breath, heart hammering against my ribs.

His other hand moves with precision.

He yanks free the knife from his side, my knife. The same blade he took from me. The same one he used to mark me. His fingers trace the hilt like it belongs to him more than it ever did to me.

Pinned in place, barely clothed, heart thundering and throat wrapped in his hand, I can feel it, this isn’t just punishment.

It’s control. Ritual. Possession.

And the worst part?

Part of me is still burning beneath the terror.

“Slide over your panties,” he purrs.

The sound of his voice coils down my spine like smoke, heavy with something too smooth, too dangerous. My stomach turns, knotted with dread and something far more shameful. Something I don’t want to name.

If I refuse, I know what he’ll do. I’ve seen what he’s capable of. Felt it.

My breath falters.

With trembling fingers, I reach beneath the hem of my shirt. The elastic clings to my hips like it knows it shouldn’t be moved, like it’s trying to protect what little dignity I have left. But I slide it aside anyway, slowly, hesitantly, baring myself without baring everything.

That’s when I feel it.

Warmth.

Wet.

A slick heat pooled between my thighs.

It hits me before I can hide from it, the damning proof that my body has betrayed me. That somewhere, beneath the fear and the hate and the humiliation, something in me is… responding.

To him.

To this.