Page 2 of Devil’s Night (The Shadows of Darkness Universe #3)

Chapter two

Blood, Sweat, and Bloodlines

Katya

“ A gain!”

Her voice cuts through the room like a blade, and a moment later, Maria's foot does too.

Maria’s leg slams into my side, the sharp strike knocking the wind from my lungs. Pain blooms beneath my ribs as I hit the floor, the impact jarring, my body already begging for rest. But there’s no room for mercy here.

Not in this place.

Not under her .

Before Maria's satin-covered foot can come crashing down on my chest, I roll, sweat-slick palms slipping against the polished floor. I lash my leg out in a last-ditch attempt to sweep her ankles and bring her down with me.

But Maria moves like smoke, graceful and elusive.

The blade in her hand flashes under the studio lights, and I feel the whisper of its edge graze far too close to my skin. Instead of the floor, the tip of her knife nearly finds my arm.

I suck in a breath, sharp and ragged, my muscles trembling from fatigue.

“You’ll have to be quicker than that,” Maria taunts, her voice sugarcoated in mockery.

She stalks forward, feline and poised, and with a flick of her wrist, she drags her blade across my cheek. Not deep, but deliberate. A reminder. A signature. A threat.

I recoil instinctively, blood blooming warm against my skin. Lifting trembling fingers to my face, I trace the cut, crimson now painting my pale cheek in a thick, angry smear.

“Get up, Katya!”

Mrs. Pavlov’s voice is a hissed command, sharp as broken glass.

Her hair is coiled into its usual severe bun, not a single strand out of place. Her eyes are reptilian, cold, watchful...unblinking. In her hand, she clutches the thin metal rod that’s already kissed my back more times than I can count.

Every mistake. Every hesitation. Every falter is met with steel. Punishment is as much a part of the routine as the steps themselves.

“It is all about grace, ladies,” Mrs. Pavlov says, circling like a vulture. “Your movements must be beautiful... and lethal. You are not girls. You are weapons. Remember that.”

Maria steps back as I slide my knife toward her.

She doesn’t flinch.

Her feet glide effortlessly, body moving like she was born in rhythm with violence.

There’s no pain in her eyes. No fear. Only satisfaction.

My back throbs, raw and striped with welts. Maria’s skin remains untouched, unpunished. Of course it does.

Gritting my teeth, I force myself upright. My feet scream in protest. The tips of my pointe shoes are soaked with blood, the fabric fraying, skin inside torn and raw. Each step is agony.

But I push through it, because to fail again means another strike. Another mark. Another smirk from Maria.

Maria watches me with the grin of someone who knows she’s already won.

“Katya,” Mrs. Pavlov purrs, stepping close enough for her cold perfume to burn in my nose.“Run through your routine again.”

I swallow…hard.

My body is already collapsing beneath me: legs shaking, toes throbbing and my vision hazy.

But I raise my arms, set my position, and lift to a pointe.

I turn.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Each one shakier than the last. My form falters, balance slipping as pain sears up my legs.

“Grace,” Pavlov snaps.

The rod comes down, slicing across my shoulder blades.

“Poise.”

Another strike. This time across my lower back.

“ Dignity. ”

The third blow sends me to my knees.

“Stop!” I cry out, the word torn from my throat.

My knees crack against the floor, my feet crumpling beneath me. My toes scream within the confines of bloodstained satin. Finally giving in; I collapse, my body broken and trembling.

And yet, I know this isn’t the end of it.

Not here.

Not with her.

Behind me, laughter bubbles like poison. Snickering, Maria tilts her head and shakes it slowly, her golden braid swinging behind her like a noose.

The other girls join in with twisted smiles, their eyes gleaming, not with pity, but with pleasure.

They love watching me fail.

They feed on it.

“It would seem the rest of you value the money your families have put into your training,” Mrs. Pavlov says, her voice thick with disdain.

A sneer clings to her face as she paces past them, her heels clicking against the polished floor like gunfire.

“You are all excused for today.” She waves her hand, as if dismissing insects.

The girls scatter like the well-trained, well-fed wolves they are, casting smug glances over their shoulders as they leave. Maria lingers the longest, soaking in my humiliation like it’s sunlight, basking in it.

Trying to push myself up, my arms tremble beneath me. The pain in my back is a low roar, my knees raw from the cold, unforgiving floor.

Crack.

Her rod lands again, slapping across the fresh bruises on my spine. I let out a dull whimper, my voice barely more than a breath. Then she crouches beside me, quiet and cold.

Lifting my chin with the metal tip of her rod, she forces my eyes to meet hers.

Her gaze is merciless.

The look of someone who’s made a life out of sculpting killers.

“You think because your father is Dimitri Romanov you get it easier?” she hisses, her lip curling.

No warmth. No softness. Only ice.

“You think being a Romanov means you're above this?”

She leans closer, her breath venomous.“Your father is the very reason those girls get to sleep in penthouses. The reason they eat. The reason I have a villa in the South of France. He pays for their comfort. And you…” Her rod presses into my throat now, just enough to remind me how easily she could crush me.

“You are supposed to carry that legacy.”

She pulls back, standing tall again, like I’m not even worth the breath it took to dress me down.

“The Romanov empire will not survive on the back of a weak, spineless girl. Stand up. ”

I do.

Somehow, I do.

Despite the screaming of my bones.

Despite the swelling in my ankles and the blood soaking through my shoes.

Despite the way my entire body feels like it's being stitched together by willpower alone.

“You will run through the routine,” she snaps, turning her back to me. “ Until your body gives out from exhaustion. ”

“And if you do not beat Maria tomorrow…” She pauses, looking over her shoulder, her eyes narrowed, dead and hungry. “I promise you, Katya, you will learn what real pain feels like.”

My throat tightens. My vision swims. My pulse thunders like it’s trying to break out of my chest.

This is the cost.

The unspoken price of being his daughter.

The price of being a Romanov .