Page 15 of Devil’s Night (The Shadows of Darkness Universe #3)

Chapter thirteen

What Of Us Remains?

Katya

S team coils thick in the air, blanketing the room like a second skin. The scent of vanilla mixes with something deeper, something masculine and sharp. It clings to the tile, to the porcelain, to me.

Water rushes behind me, filling the tub to the brim, the sound almost soothing if not for the tension knotted in my spine. I sit stiffly on the edge, arms wrapped tight around my legs, trying to ignore the damp press of the mask against my face and the leather collar snug at my throat.

He hasn’t said anything for a while.

But I can feel him. Standing just out of reach. Watching.

My thoughts spiral, sharp and chaotic. If I could find his gun, I’d end this. I’d drown him in the tub, watch the bubbles go still. I'd run. I’d survive.

But I don’t know where he’s hidden it.

And worse, I don’t know if I want to move yet.

His voice finally cuts through the fog. Low. Measured. Unyielding.

“Take off the mask.”

I don’t flinch. Don’t look at him. My lips part in a bitter smile, a scoff escaping before I can hold it back.

“You gonna point your gun at me if I don’t?”

There’s no answer.

Only the heat of his body drawing closer, the soft brush of fingers along my jaw as he peels the mask away like he’s stripping the last bit of control I had left. Light floods back in, too bright. I blink through it, vision clearing just in time to see him standing over me.

His shirt sleeves are rolled to his elbows. The top two buttons undone. His black tie wrapped carelessly around his right hand, veins flexing beneath the tension in his grip. There’s no gun holstered at his waist. No badge. No sign of restraint.

Only Echo.

Only the locked door behind him.

This isn’t a temporary place.

It’s lived in. Sharp suits hung by the door. A toothbrush in the holder. This is his.

“You don’t take prisoners home,” I murmur. “This isn’t a sting house.”

He doesn’t respond.

Doesn’t have to.

His silence says everything.

When he speaks again, it’s not a suggestion.

“Take off your clothes.”

I tense. The words sink into my skin like heat. Not loud, not cruel, but final. Unmoving.

“I’m not doing it with you in here.”

“I’m not leaving.”

We stare at each other, unmoving.

“I’m not stripping with you watching.”

His smile is slow and arrogant.

“Funny. Fear made you spread your legs easily enough.”

The words should make me flinch. Should make me burn with shame.

But instead, the air between my legs shifts. Warmth stirs. Unwanted. Treacherous.

I hate him. I hate how my body reacts to him.

“Turn around,” I mutter, eyes narrowing.

“No,” he answers, taking another step forward. “I’m not careless enough to do that.”

His hand hooks the collar, and before I can resist, he’s pulling me up, slow and deliberate. My legs wobble from the pressure on my ankle, and I reach for his shirt instinctively, palms flattening against the firm wall of his chest.

His heartbeat is steady beneath my fingers. His breath warm at my temple. He doesn’t move. Just watches me fall apart.

“I fucking hate you,” I breathe, words thick with exhaustion and fury.

His voice dips, soft and cruel all at once.

“Why do you think you’re here, Little Butterfly? You think I brought you here because I like you?”

I don’t answer.

I can’t.

My fingers move to the waistband of my sweatpants, and slowly, I push them down my hips. They fall in a whisper, pooling around my ankles, leaving me half-naked in front of him.

“You’re no better than the rest of them,” I whisper, lifting my shirt over my head and keeping my back turned. “You’re just another man who gets off on control.”

Heat radiates behind me before I feel his hands.

They land heavy on my hips, warm and possessive, fingers splaying wide as he presses forward. His chest brushes my back, the hard ridge of his cock grazing my ass through his slacks.

My breath catches. My thighs clench.

“You keep talking like a victim,” he growls, his lips brushing against the shell of my ear, “but you’re dripping down your legs.”

“No, I’m not,” I whisper, even though I know the truth. My body betrays me in every way that counts.

In the mirror, I see it. My bare body flush with his, arms wrapped around my chest to hide what I can. But nothing is hidden. Not from him.

“Pity,” he mutters.

His fingers slip down, curling into the waistband of my underwear. He doesn't hesitate.

One brutal yank.

The lace tears down my thighs, pooling at my feet like a final humiliation.

I’m completely exposed.

Back arched.

Breasts heaving.

Ass brushing the hard length of him that he makes no effort to hide.

He doesn’t touch me again. Doesn’t push. Just stands behind me, watching the way I tremble.

My arms instinctively stay crossed over my chest, but I can feel his eyes on every inch of me. Branding me.

Then comes the command, low, deep, and final.

“Put your arms down.”

I swallow hard, throat tight against the collar.

This isn't a request.

This is a choice.

To fight.

Or to surrender.

I don’t move.

His hand glides up my spine, slow and possessive.

“You want to get clean?” he asks, voice softer now. “Then show me what I own.”

My jaw clenches as his hands find my wrists, guiding them down with slow, unshakable control.

I don’t fight him. I can’t, not now. My balance falters, and I instinctively grip the fabric of his shirt to stay upright, the pressure of the collar at my throat a constant reminder of just how little power I hold in this moment.

He circles me like a predator sizing up his prey, the air between us thick with steam and something darker, something primal. My breaths come shallow and uneven, chest rising and falling as I try to keep hold of whatever fragments of dignity I have left.

“Open your eyes, Katya,” he commands, voice low, dangerous.

The tug on my collar is sharp, yanking me forward a step. I stumble into his chest, and the breath leaves me in a rush. Slowly, I lift my gaze, forcing my eyes open just as his settle on mine.

He doesn’t look away.

Neither do I.

His grip shifts to my hips, grounding me, anchoring me. I’m bare, exposed, trembling beneath his stare, but all he does is hold me there, like he’s waiting for something.

The worst part?

He doesn’t have to touch me for my body to betray me.

My pulse pounds. My thighs ache with heat I didn’t give permission to exist.

I glance toward the mirror, just for a second.

And my eyes fall. Traitorous. Curious.

My breath catches.

He’s hard. Straining against his slacks, the evidence of his arousal painfully obvious, the sight flooding warmth through my core like wildfire.

I can’t look away.

The tension in his jaw sharpens as he follows my gaze.

“If I wanted you to look at my cock,” Echo growls, his hand snapping up to grab my face, his fingers tightening around my cheeks, “I would’ve told you to.”

His grip is firm...commanding. His voice just as dangerous.

“You’re naked,” he breathes, leaning in closer.

“I’ve tasted your cum. You’re still clinging to my shirt like you want me to hold you.

I know the exact pitch your whimpers hit when you're close. I can see your breasts, your nipples are already begging, and I’d bet my life if I reached between your thighs right now, you’d be wet, just from seeing what you did to me. ”

My heart pounds. My legs tremble. There’s no escaping the truth of what he’s saying, no room to argue when my body pulses at every word from his mouth.

His grip eases, just slightly.

“But let me make one thing clear, Katya,” he growls, reaching down to the floor. “You’re not here for what you want.”

His hand finds the discarded fabric, my underwear, soaked and ruined from everything he forced out of me earlier. Balling them in his fist, he raises them slowly, like a gift, like a sentence.

“You’re here because I’m going to torture you,” he says, his voice dropping lower, darker. “Not the way Nikolai got it. Not the way Isaac begged for it. No, you get a different kind.”

His fingers press the fabric against my lips, and I hesitate.

Just for a breath.

And then I open.

He slides the underwear into my mouth, pushing past my resistance, until I’m gagging on the taste of my own shame, pain, release, and humiliation thick on my tongue.

I stare at him, wide-eyed, heart racing.

He doesn’t blink.

Just pushes me down to my knees with a steady hand, bending me forward over the rim of the tub. The porcelain is warm beneath my face, heated by the water still running behind me, filling the air with more steam than I can handle.

His voice is a razor.

“This is the kind of torture that bends you,” he whispers into my ear. “Breaks you. Makes you forget you were ever anything but mine.”

His hand slaps down on my ass, hard and unrelenting. The sting ricochets through me, and I scream, the sound muffled by the fabric in my mouth as my hands claw at the edge of the tub for something, anything, to hold onto.

Another stroke of his hand follows, not as hard, but slower. More deliberate. His palm traces the scarred skin of my back, and I shudder.

“The next time you get the chance to run,” he murmurs, “you won’t want to.”

Fingers hook into the sides of my gag. He pulls the ruined underwear from my mouth, dragging them past my teeth. I gasp for air, chest heaving as oxygen returns in sharp, greedy bursts.

He tosses them aside like they don’t matter.

Like I don’t matter.

“Why are you doing this to me?” I croak, turning to look at him, barely able to keep my voice steady.

His expression doesn’t change. His eyes don’t soften.

“Get in the water, Katya,” he says coolly. “You don’t get to ask questions tonight.”

I hesitate, knees weak beneath me. My body still burns from the slap. My throat aches from the gag.

“I won’t be your pet,” I whisper, eyes narrowing.

He leans down, voice brushing over my lips like smoke.

“We’ll see.”

And then, sharper..final.

“Now get in.”

The water laps softly around me, the scent of vanilla and salt clinging to the steam as I lean forward, staring down at my reflection.

It’s distorted in the ripples, fractured like everything inside me.

But for once, the heat soothes instead of scorches.

My body, bruised and aching, finally finds something close to relief.

The burn in my ankles fades to a dull throb beneath the weight of the bath, and for a moment, I let myself breathe.

I scrub at my hair longer than necessary. Not because it needs it, but because I don’t want to get out. I don’t want to move. I don’t want the spell broken.

Across the room, Echo sits with one leg crossed over the other, the pages of War and Peace flipping steadily in his hand. He doesn’t speak. Just reads. Occasionally glances up.

The silence between us is suffocating.

Thick and full of everything neither of us will say.

I watch him more than I should. The way his jaw flexes when he reads something he disagrees with. The way his thumb taps the edge of the book in rhythm with his breathing.

Maybe… maybe there’s still something human in him.

“Can I ask you something?” I whisper, voice barely above the water.

His page freezes mid-turn. He doesn’t look at me right away.

“Ask,” he says finally.

“How old are you?”

He closes the book slowly, resting it on the counter before drawing in a long, thoughtful breath. His eyes meet mine, unreadable.

“How old do you think I am?”

A question with a question.

Typical.

I raise a brow. “Old enough to know kidnapping is illegal.”

Something dangerously close to a smile flickers at the corner of his lips. Not warm. But real.

He moves, rising from the chair and crossing the tile in slow, unhurried steps. The sound of his movements echoes against the walls as he kneels beside the tub.

“Thirty-eight,” he answers, voice low and smooth. “Lean back.”

My muscles tense. “Why?”

“I’m going to help you with your hair.”

That throws me.

My fingers twitch beneath the water. The collar still rests snug around my neck, a physical reminder of who he is and what he’s done.

“Take it off,” I whisper, quieter this time. “Just while I’m bathing.”

He starts to rise.

Panicking, I reach out, curling my hand around his wrist. My fingers wrap tight, pleading without words.

“You can put it back on after,” I say, barely holding my breath. “Please.”

He stares at me for a long moment. Too long.

And then, he does it.

The collar slips from my neck with a soft pull, the absence of it both freeing and terrifying.

I lean back, slowly, letting my body melt into the heat as his fingers thread gently through my wet hair. The sensation is startling, almost tender. He works the soap through with practiced ease, his touch careful. Methodical.

For the first time, he doesn’t feel like a captor.

Just a man.

“You already know how old I am,” I murmur, closing my eyes beneath his hands.

“Twenty-five,” he says. “Five foot two. One hundred and ten pounds. Allergic to strawberries. You hate being watched while you sleep, but you do it with your mouth slightly open. Should I keep going?”

My breath catches. His voice is calm, but the words wrap around me like a noose.

“I know everything that matters,” he adds.

He finishes rinsing the soap from my hair, his touch lingering longer than it should. Carefully, he helps me sit upright again, a strong hand steadying my back as I shift.

My fingers brush his cheek.

A scar, faint, but present. My thumb grazes it softly, before I can think better of it.

“How did you get that?” I ask, my voice a thread of breath, too intimate to take back.

His entire body stills.

The softness vanishes.

“I think we’re done,” he says, pulling away like I burned him.

The moment snaps.

Just like that.

He reaches for the collar, and before I can protest, it’s back around my neck. Cinched tight. Familiar and cruel.

The bath is over.

The warmth of his hands replaced by cold absence.

And as he rises and walks toward the chair, he doesn’t look back.

The man who touched my hair, who let me breathe, is gone.

Only Echo remains.

And as he lifts the mask, sliding it back over my eyes, I realize that something far worse than fear has begun to take root inside me.

I miss the man more than I fear the monster.