Page 12 of Devil’s Night (The Shadows of Darkness Universe #3)

My breath catches in my throat as my fingertips brush over the damp cotton. Shame burns hotter than anything he’s done to me yet.

I don’t even look up. I don’t want to see his face.

But I feel him lean in closer. Like he already knows.

“Open your mouth for me,” he whispers, the command as intimate as it is violating.

My lips part before I can stop them.

I don’t know if it’s obedience… or survival. Maybe both.

He holds the blade steady in his gloved hand, turning the hilt slowly, deliberately, before lifting it toward my lips.

I hesitate, but his eyes don’t waver. That look, the one that says he’ll make me regret disobedience, burns into me like a brand. My lips part, unsure whether it’s defiance or dread that’s keeping me from trembling more.

Cool metal grazes my tongue.

He slides the hilt past my teeth, letting it linger too long, the cold unforgiving taste of steel dragging along my tongue, deeper… until it taps the back of my throat. Tears prick at my eyes from the pressure, and only then does he pull it back, slow and measured.

“Want it back?” he murmurs.

His hand shifts, tightening around my throat, not enough to choke, not yet, but enough to remind me who’s in control.

I say nothing.

My fingers tighten around his wrist before I even realize I’ve moved.

The leather of his glove creaks under the pressure of my grip, my nails sinking into it, not to push him away, but to feel .

The space between us crackles, like a wire pulled taut between violence and something far more dangerous.

His breath brushes my skin, hot and slow, and when he speaks again, his voice is a caress dipped in cruelty. “Hmm?”

Then the hilt slides lower.

The sound, slick, obscene, stills everything. The air. My breath. Him . It hits us both. The confirmation. The truth.

I’m wet.

And not from fear.

Heat blooms across my chest, radiating up my neck as I freeze, unable to look at him, unable to hide what my body has already admitted. Confusion coils with the shame, the fury, the dark, aching hunger I’ve fought to ignore.

He leans in, impossibly close, his mouth grazing the shell of my ear.

“That wasn’t part of the plan,” he murmurs, voice rough, like gravel and heat, each word digging beneath my skin, lodging there.

“You’re already wet,” he breathes, more stunned than mocking, as if the admission slips out before he can reel it back.

My lashes flutter open, locking onto his stare. There’s no cruelty in his expression now, just something darker. Confusion. A reluctant hunger. Like he’s trying to make sense of the thing pulsing between us.

As if I’m supposed to explain the betrayal of my body.

“You-”

The word barely escapes before I shift. Just enough to press my leg against him. The contact is brief, but undeniable.

Heat flares through me.

Because I feel it. The pressure beneath his pants. The stiff response he’s trying, and failing, to ignore.

His eyes widen, just a flicker, but it’s all I need. My voice drops, velvet laced in venom.

“And you’re already hard-”

His hand tightens around my throat, just enough to make my breath stutter, just enough to remind me he’s in control. The weight of him, the force of his presence, settles over me like a storm ready to break.

Then he moves, driving the hilt into me with a dark kind of reverence. The hilt presses against me again, not gentle but not cruel, dragging a gasp from my lips before I can stop it. I shouldn't feel this. I shouldn't want this. But my body arches anyway, traitorous and aching.

His gaze never leaves mine. It’s sharp, devouring, filled with something primal. And when he sees the way I respond, despite the defiance still burning in my eyes, his lips curve into a smile that makes my stomach clench.

"You hate this," he murmurs, voice low and smug, "but your body... your body knows better."

The next thrust is deeper, pulling another sound from my throat I can’t swallow fast enough. My hands fist his shirt, my skin flushed and burning. I bite down on my bottom lip, hard, but it doesn’t stop the heat spiraling through me.

Each breath is shallow. Each movement of his hand calculated. Controlled.

“You want to hate me,” he whispers, his mouth brushing the shell of my ear. “But you want this more.”

And god help me, because in this moment, he’s right.

“Being fucked by your own knife, my hand around your throat, my name carved into your skin…” His voice is low, not a growl, not a whisper, but something between, like a prayer and a curse. “Your pussy wet before I ever truly touched you, Katya. That’s the truth. That’s the part that haunts you.”

My body burns with shame, with betrayal, not by him, but by my own skin.

It responds to him against my will, hips rocking instinctively with each cruel thrust of the weapon.

I hate it. I hate him . But I can't stop.

Warmth coils deep in my stomach, and I bite down hard, stifling the sounds clawing their way up my throat.

His hand tightens just a little more. Not enough to choke, not yet, just enough to remind me who holds the reins.

“Your silence is louder than your screams, you know,” he murmurs, almost fascinated. “And still... your body answers me.”

It’s unbearable , the way he watches, the way he knows . Every thrust, every reaction, every flutter in my breath. He isn’t just breaking me physically. He’s unraveling something inside me, piece by jagged piece.

Spitting at him feels like the only rebellion I have left. It lands squarely across his cheek, a line of spit trailing down his face. His movement halts, not in anger, but surprise. Then, slowly, the edge of his mouth curls, not with rage… but with something close to pride.

“You finally fought back,” he says, wiping his face with the back of his gloved hand. “Took you long enough.”

He pulls the knife from between my thighs, and for a second, I swear I feel colder without it. Hollow. Empty.

I recoil from the thought, grabbing my pants and yanking them up, my fingers trembling as I cover myself. On my feet now, my breathing is shallow, unsteady. We just stare at each other. Two predators caught in the same snare, unsure which one is actually bleeding.

He holds up the knife, turning it in the low light. Something glistens at the base of the hilt. undeniable, shameful.

“You came,” he smirks, quieter now. “Imagine if it was my cock.”

Panting, chest heaving like a caged animal, I glare at him through a haze of adrenaline and shame. My heart thunders, every beat a war drum against the walls of this prison.

“Let me out of here,” I growl, voice hoarse, barely tethered to sanity.

He steps closer, his eyes gleaming with something unholy, hunger, yes, but something more twisted. Reverent.

“After that?” he murmurs, and before I can recoil, he drags his tongue deliberately across the hilt, slow and taunting, tasting me, tasting power. The sight shouldn’t make my breath hitch. It shouldn’t root me in place. But it does. God help me, it does.

As if savoring the moment, he licks his lips, watching my every flinch like it’s the first spark of something sacred.

Then, with a flick of his wrist, he tosses the blade to the floor, the metal clattering like a gunshot in the silence.

“Your fear,” he breathes, his voice dangerously soft, “is my addiction, Little Butterfly.”

And I realize, too late, that it’s not just my body he’s claiming.

It’s every piece of me I thought was untouchable.