Page 19 of Devil’s Night (The Shadows of Darkness Universe #3)

Chapter sixteen

Private Property

Echo

F ucking stupid.

No, worse than stupid.

Debilitating.

What the fuck was I thinking?

She was right. I should’ve tortured her. Should’ve kept her in the dark, locked up and broken beneath Nikolai, right where Romanov scum belong. Let her rot in the filth she crawled out of, remind her what she is.

And yet, here I am.

I let her out. Let her breathe my air. Sleep in my sheets. Bathe in my water. I dressed her in my clothes like she belonged here. Like she hadn’t come from bloodlines soaked in betrayal.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

Nikolai’s story doesn’t matter. None of it matters. I can’t trust a single goddamn word out of his mouth. I know that.

But her?

Fuck.

The way she tasted, God, the way she tasted. Sweet, like sin and surrender. The way she looked at me while I licked her clean, the way she curled into my lap like she was made for it, like she’d been waiting to crawl back to me. There was no fear in her eyes. No hesitation.

She came to me.

Needed me.

Her thighs spread, her fingers twisted in my hair like she’d rather die than let me stop.

Her hips grinding against my mouth, using me, riding me until she shattered all over my tongue.

And when it was over, when her cum was still dripping down my face, she licked it off like it belonged to her.

Like she wanted to wear her filth on her tongue just to make me proud.

There was no shame. Just heat. Hunger. Desperation.

And I should’ve stopped. I should’ve walked away.

But I didn’t. Because I didn’t want to.

I wanted to ruin her.

I wanted to bury myself so deep inside her pussy, she wouldn’t know where she ended and I began. I wanted to hear her scream my name when I ripped her apart. I wanted her to bleed around me, to cry and beg and still come undone like she was grateful for the pain.

All my sickest fantasies. All my worst, filthiest fucking desires.

I wanted to break her.

She should’ve run. Should’ve taken the first chance she got and disappeared into the dark.

But she didn’t.

She stayed.

Why?

Why the fuck didn’t she run?

The question clawed at the inside of my skull all night.

Why didn’t she run?

The collar had been off. The keys were right fucking there. No chains, no threats. Nothing but her and the door. I gave her every reason to leave, every opportunity, and still, she stayed.

And for the life of me, I can’t figure out why.

There’s no comfort in this place. No softness in me. I’ve done nothing but remind her who holds the leash. Nothing but use her, test her, push her closer to the edge.

Last night was supposed to be a test.

A way to see what she would do when the cage was cracked open.

But now, hours later, in the dull, hungover haze of morning, the real problem settles in like rot: I don’t even know what answer I wanted.

Would I have been satisfied if she ran?

Would I have hunted her down just to punish her for proving she could?

Or was I hoping, deep down in some sick, twisted corner of myself, that she’d stay? That she wanted to?

The thought sours in my stomach.

I take a long, bitter swig of my coffee, letting the burn coat my throat. It doesn’t help. My head’s still fogged from last night, her taste, her sounds, the way her body moved against mine like it had done it before. Like it was meant to.

Normally, I don’t take days off. Work is routine. Structure. Control. But the idea of walking into that office, sitting through one of Roman’s probing conversations, pretending I’m not unraveling from the inside out?

I’d rather set the whole place on fire.

The house is too quiet.

Katya’s door remains shut. No sound, no movement, no breath I can hear. The silence presses against my ears like cotton soaked in gasoline, suffocating and ready to ignite.

Every curtain is drawn, every window blocked.

This house was designed to isolate, to keep things in.

Out here, miles from civilization, surrounded by trees and thick forest, even if she did run, she wouldn’t get far.

Two miles on foot through woods she doesn’t know.

No phone. No car. No one to hear her scream.

The worst part? She knows that.

And still, she stayed.

My foot taps against the tile floor, a slow, agitated rhythm. I can feel the mistake before it forms in my chest, before it rises up through my throat and pushes past my teeth.

My gaze drifts to the plate I set out for her, untouched. Cold now. Pointless.

A stupid gesture.

And still, something in me lurches.

Why the fuck did I do that?

“Fuck,” I hiss under my breath, raking a hand down my face.

She’s in my walls now. In my head. In my goddamn bloodstream.

And I don’t know how to get her out.

Making my way to her door, I slide the lock open with a soft click, revealing the girl on the other side.

Her expression is clouded with confusion, lips slightly parted, eyes darting toward the kitchen like she’s waiting for the next blow, the next command. Not trust. Not warmth.

I follow her gaze toward the plate of food I’d been about to bring her. It sits on the counter, untouched. A silent offering I’m no longer sure I have the right to make. Without a word, I leave it there and step back, watching her cautiously emerge from the room.

When she crosses the threshold, I nudge the plate toward her. My jaw tightens.

It’s impossible not to see her as she was last night.

On her knees. In my lap. Breathless and wrecked and mine.

But now, now she’s guarded, controlled, studying the plate like it might bite.

Her eyes flick to the utensils, fork, knife, like she’s calculating, like she doesn’t know whether this is another test or a trap. She hesitates, fingers brushing the metal. Then finally, after several seconds that feel like an eternity, she picks up the fork.

Without a word, she sits at the kitchen island and begins to eat.

I watch every movement. Every swallow.

“Is it true?” I ask. My voice is low, heavy with something I haven’t named. “What you feel… about your family’s work?”

She glances up at me through her lashes, pale skin tinged with a flush that spreads slowly across her cheeks. Shame? Anger? Guilt?

“What did Nikolai tell you?” she counters, leaning into her hand, feigning nonchalance.

But I see the shift in her. Something in her walls cracks, just a little.

Right now, like this, I don’t see the killer Noah wrote about. I don’t see the Romanov heir carved from steel and blood. I just see her.

“Do you know what Dimitri does?”

A bitter laugh escapes her lips as she nudges the plate aside, appetite vanishing like smoke.

“My father lies. Kills. Manipulates. Blood paved the way to every inch of his success,” she murmurs. “I’ve killed for him. Sold myself to his vision. Used drugs, power, whatever he needed. I was a weapon he forged with his bare hands.”

Her voice is distant. Detached. Too calm for the things she’s saying.

“But you didn’t follow blindly.”

Her eyes flick to mine, and for the first time, her voice softens.

“Not always. I saw what he didn’t. I saw the cracks. The corruption. When the people he called allies turned out to be monsters, I didn’t protect them. I eliminated them.”

Her jaw tightens. “It made me an enemy in my own house. Pavlov’s punishments became worse. My father’s grip turned to chains.”

A silence falls, thick and suffocating.

“The children,” I say, before I can stop myself.

She goes still.

Her face drains of warmth. “What children?” The words fall unevenly from her lips.

I look away.

Guilt crawls beneath my skin like ants. I didn’t mean to say it. Not like that. Not now.

“This is a game,” I mutter, jaw clenched. “And I’m fucking losing.”

Her chair scrapes sharply as she stands. She moves fast. Faster than I expect.

I turn to see her hand wrapped around something silver and bright.

A knife.

“What the hell are you talking about?” she spits, the blade trembling in her grip as she raises it between us. Her eyes are wild, not calculating. Panicked.

I don’t flinch. I look down at her.

She’s not faking.

This isn’t an act.

The knife shakes in her hand, not because she’s weak, but because she’s rattled. She’s desperate for the truth. And I just tore open something she wasn’t ready to face.

“Put it down, Katya,” I say, my voice flat, but not cold. “You’re not going to hurt me.”

Her lips quiver. “I need answers.”

“Not like this.”

Her flush deepens. Her frustration burns through her restraint.

Grabbing the back of her neck, my fingers slide into the heat of her hair, holding her steady. Her breath hitches. Her pulse pounds under my palm. I grab her wrist, squeezing hard enough to make the blade drop to the tile with a sharp clang.

Pulling her closer, I feel the fury thrumming off her skin.

But underneath it?

Is confusion.

Fear.

Need.

“That’s enough questions for today,” I hiss, my lips brushing the shell of her ear.

Her breathing staggers.

“Maybe it’s time you went back to your room.”

And this time, when I guide her back toward the hall, she doesn’t fight me.

She follows.

Her jaw tightens like a warning, eyes sharp and unreadable. Then, without a word, her free hand moves.

Cold fingertips graze the edge of my waistband, delicate but deliberate, the icy trail of her touch igniting something primal just beneath my skin. My muscles tense, the air stilling around us as her fingers slide just under the fabric, teasing, testing...threatening.

I should stop her. I want to stop her.

But I don’t.

Because my heart is already slamming against my ribs, blood rushing so hard it drowns out reason. The ache between my legs surges instantly, heat pulsing, blood thickening, everything below my waist demanding more.

Then, she yanks her wrist back.

My stomach clenches, breath caught.

Her narrowed eyes lock onto mine like a challenge, a dare, and then she sinks. One slow, calculated motion until she’s on her knees in front of me.

My throat dries.