Page 17 of Devil’s Night (The Shadows of Darkness Universe #3)

Chapter fifteen

Sins Hide In The Shadows

Katya

M ake it stop.

A pillow muffles the sound of my ragged breathing as the darkness pushes in on all sides.

Silk sheets twist around my limbs like restraints, clinging to sweat-slicked skin as memories of the day coil tighter around my throat.

The room is too still, too quiet. The kind of silence that amplifies every breath, every thought, every unrelenting echo of him.

Moonlight no longer graces the floor.

It’s buried behind thick, unfeeling clouds, leaving me suspended in pitch-black nothing. No glow. No stars. No escape. Just cold air, the faint scent of his cologne lingering in the fabric, and the unbearable weight of knowing he’s always watching.

Seven days.

Seven nights alone in this room, the camera blinking in the corner. No visitors. No escape. Only his voice on the intercom, the pills he leaves on the table, and the quiet understanding that sleep comes at a price.

Tonight, the sleep aids remain untouched.

Chest heaving, legs unsteady, I slide out of bed. Pain flares in my ankles, but the pills dull the worst of it. Bare feet pad across the floor as I stagger to the door, the knob icy against trembling fingers.

Locked.

A familiar curse leaves my lips as I rattle it, twisting hard. “Come on,” I whisper, voice breaking. “Come on, come on...fuck-”

The door swings open mid-struggle, and I stumble forward.

Straight into him.

Hard muscle catches my fall. Warm hands press against my arms, steadying me just as the door slams shut behind us with a sharp, final click . The lock turns.

He’s here.

And the room suddenly feels smaller.

“You’re supposed to be asleep,” Echo mutters, voice low and hoarse with whatever dark thing he’s been drinking.

“The light-” My breath trembles. “I told you I can’t sleep without it.”

A hum escapes his throat. Not quite sympathy. More like amusement.

Keys hit the nightstand with a metallic clatter.

He steps closer, slow and deliberate, until his shadow consumes the sliver of space between us. The heat of him rolls over my skin, soaking through the thin fabric of his shirt that I still wear like it belongs to me.

“Come here,” he says.

Not a command shouted.

A promise whispered.

Feet move without permission, drawn into his gravity. The air between us crackles, heavy with things unspoken.

Fingers brush the buckle at my neck. The collar loosens and drops. But his hand doesn’t leave. It curls around the nape of my neck, thumb stroking softly along the tender skin of my throat.

That slow, deliberate touch sends a shiver down my spine.

“Does it hurt?” His breath is warm at my cheek. “Your skin?”

“A little,” slips past my lips, barely more than a breath.

The smell of whiskey clings to him.

“Why are you here Echo?” The question barely escapes.

“You say my name,” he murmurs, voice deepening, “like it means something.”

His touch lingers for one second too long.

Then, it’s gone.

The absence burns more than the contact.

He moves to the bed without another word, muscles shifting beneath the loose fabric of his shirt. The mattress dips beneath his weight as he sits on the edge, sleeves rolled up, neck exposed.

His presence radiates through the room, thick and oppressive, a pulse in the dark.

Behind him, the collar lies beside the keys.

Within reach.

But so is he.

Heat pools low in my belly, shame curling in its wake. There’s a choice hanging in the air, suspended between the silence and the tension threatening to snap.

Keys.

Or him.

Safety.

Or something that feels like danger wrapped in silk and the low growl of my name on his lips.

“You did cut it into my skin,” the words slip out, barely a whisper, the sting still echoing in my flesh.

“That I did,” he drawls, voice low and careless, like he's proud of it. “And to answer your question, I’m here to help you sleep.”

Sleep.

The laugh that nearly escapes me dies in my throat.

Twisting to glance back at him, hesitation creeps in.

“There’s still no light.”

A slow smile curves his mouth. “I don’t need light to make you sleep.”

He pats his thigh, the invitation clear. Commanding.

Not a request. A warning.

“Collars off, Butterfly,” he says, each word like silk laced with threat. “Don’t make me drag you over here by your hair. I could have you at my feet before you even reached those keys. Now, come.”

My pulse roars in my ears as I take a breath that doesn't settle. Stepping forward, the sharp ache in my ankles makes each movement feel like a punishment. There's no dignity left in the way I crawl onto the bed, knees sinking into the mattress. The weight of his gaze burns into me.

Straddling him.

Close enough to feel the heat rising off his skin. Close enough to feel his thick, hard cock beneath me pressing right where I’m starting to throb.

The contact steals the air from my lungs.

We’re nose to nose, breath to breath, but he doesn't kiss me. No, he just watches. Watches like he's already won.

His hands find my thighs like they've always belonged there, dragging over the skin in slow, deliberate strokes. Then, nothing. He leans back, hands falling away, a cruel smirk twisting his lips as he lets me sit there, needing more.

“What are y-you doing?” The words stumble from my mouth, almost accusing, but far too breathless to sound like protest.

“Nothing.” His voice is the kind of soft that scrapes. “You put your hands on me. You climbed into my lap. You put yourself on my cock. All I did was ask you to come over here.”

A game.

That’s what this is.

And I’ve already lost.

“You-” My palm slaps his chest, frustration and something far darker swelling inside me. But it’s not anger that drives the motion, it’s desperation. Because moving only grinds me harder against him, and the friction sends heat spiraling up my spine. My breath hitches. His doesn’t.

That smug bastard doesn’t even flinch.

His cock pulses against me, thick and unrelenting, teasing every inch of where I ache the most.

He’s not touching me now. That’s the worst part.

He doesn't have to.

His nose brushes mine, eyes locked on my face like he’s reading every dirty thought that’s racing through me.

“I what, Katya?” he purrs, voice dipped in sin. “Say it. I want to hear you choke on it.”

And God help me, I almost do.

“Can you touch me?”

The words fall out like a sin, soft and reckless. A whisper I should’ve swallowed.

His silence stretches, thick and knowing.

Then, finally, his hands are on me.

Rough palms glide up my thighs, calloused fingers claiming the skin inch by inch, and the moment he touches me, something deep inside ignites. Not a spark. Not a flicker. A fucking blaze. It licks up my stomach, down between my legs, spreading until the ache is impossible to ignore.

I should stop this. I could stop this.

He’s drunk. The keys are right there. I could run. I know how to fight. I’ve brought men twice his size to their knees.

But I don’t move.

I just burn.

“How else did you think I was going to make you sleep?” he murmurs, voice low and sinful, like he already knows he’s won.

When his fingers hook the waistband of my boxers, I lift my hips without thinking. No resistance. No hesitation. He slides them down my legs slowly, savoring it, dragging the cotton over my trembling thighs like it’s a ritual. By the time they hit the floor, I’m already soaked with anticipation.

He falls back against the mattress, but there’s nothing idle in the way he moves. It’s deliberate, calculated and possessive.

And then he pulls me with him.

His grip on my thighs is firm, almost bruising as he drags me up his chest, positioning me exactly where he wants me, hovering over his face, knees spread on either side of his head. I can feel the heat of his breath against me, and it’s like every nerve in my body snaps awake.

He hasn’t even touched me there yet, and I’m already falling apart.

My fingers find his hair, tangling in the wild curls like it’s the only thing anchoring me to reality. But the moment I try to shift away, try to slow this down, he growls. A sound low and primal, vibrating right against the place I need him most.

“You’re not running now,” he mutters against me, lips brushing my skin. “Not after asking me to touch you.”

His fingers dig deeper into my thighs, spreading me wider, locking me in place. His mouth is so close I can feel the warmth of his tongue just before it makes contact.

And then, he licks me. Slow. Torturous. Claiming.

A strangled sound tears from my throat as my head falls back, every ounce of shame drowned beneath the heat of his mouth. He doesn’t tease. Doesn’t ease me in.

He devours.

His tongue works me open like he’s starving, like this is his reward and punishment all at once. Each flick, each curl of his tongue sends lightning through my veins. My hips roll without permission, chasing more, needing deeper.

“Fuck,” I gasp, my grip in his hair tightening as he groans against me, the sound sending vibrations through my core.

“You taste like sin,” he growls, licking me again. “Like you want to be ruined.”

And maybe I do. Maybe I already am.

Because I can’t remember why I ever wanted to run.

“You’re done when I say you are.”

The warning curls from his lips like smoke, sinking into my skin and making my heart thunder so violently I swear he can feel it. There’s no room to speak, no room to think, not when he grips my thighs and forces me down harder onto his face.

A gasp rips out of me, sharp and guttural.

The heat of his mouth crashes into me, and suddenly I’m nothing but sensation. His nose is buried deep between my folds, tongue moving with ruthless precision, slick, strong, devastating. He doesn't ease in. He attacks.

Every stroke of his tongue is deliberate. Every suck, every press, is a silent promise to ruin me.

He licks up every inch of me like I’m the only thing that’s ever mattered. Like he’s been waiting his whole life to taste me and now that he has, he’s never letting go.