Page 29 of Devil’s Night (The Shadows of Darkness Universe #3)

Chapter twenty-three

You're In My Cage Now

Katya- Week's Later

" K atya?"

Nikolai snaps his fingers in my face like I’m some disobedient child, like he hasn’t already disgraced himself beyond repair.

The gesture is desperate, offensive, and unoriginal, exactly what I’ve come to expect from him.

He’s always trying too hard, puffing his chest like it matters.

Across the room, the two guards posted by the door remain still, confirmation that he holds no real power here.

The aged scotch burns down my throat in a way that should bring calm. Instead, it stokes something low and hot in my belly, something I haven’t been able to smother since I walked out of Catalyst. Every swallow tastes like regret. Like memory. Like him.

That thought should’ve been buried by now.

It should’ve died the moment I turned the key and locked Echo Kane behind glass.

But it hasn’t.

It clings to me like his fingerprints still staining my skin. I down the rest of the glass anyway.

"Don’t remember asking you to speak," the words leave sharp and clipped. Glancing across my father’s desk, everything about this space is curated, pristine. Dominance built into the bones of the room. And still, it reeks of absence. My father isn’t here. Which means I am the one they answer to.

Nikolai shifts uncomfortably under my gaze, his mouth twitching before he speaks again. "Your father asked you to look this over while he's away."

A folder lands with a soft thud in front of me, tossed carelessly across the polished wood. The emblem stamped across the front hits like a gut punch. Catalyst. That familiar sigil, clean lines, power etched into its design, is more than just a logo. It’s a ghost. A memory. A warning.

And beneath it, the faint echo of his presence.

The file remains unopened as I study him, shoulders squared, face carefully neutral, the coward hiding behind new loyalty.

After fleeing Echo’s grasp with his tail between his legs, Nikolai returned to my father and spun a half-truth with just enough shame to be believable.

Claimed I was hysterical, corrupted, fucked senseless into loyalty.

Left out the part where he failed to kill me.

Where he failed to control anything. Where he begged.

My father saw through it immediately. Called it what it was, cowardice. But loyalty, even from the weak, still buys time. So here Nikolai stands, still breathing, still offering reports like he's earned the right to be here.

“Is that all?” The question isn’t really for him. It’s for the men who allowed him into this space. For anyone who forgot that my word carries weight now.

Nikolai’s lips thin. "No one’s seen Echo in weeks. His house is quiet. Still guarded, but no movement. If he’s there, he hasn’t left."

The way he says Echo makes something shift beneath my ribs. That name alone drags heat and ache to the surface, uninvited. Images flicker, Echo’s hand at my throat, his voice in my ear, the feel of him still imprinted between my legs.

But it doesn’t show. Not here. Not to him.

“That’s not your concern,” I murmur, pouring steel into every syllable. “You’re lucky you weren’t castrated. Lucky you’re still allowed to come and go with your pride intact.”

His expression darkens, but he doesn’t speak. He knows better.

“If that’s all,” I say smoothly, pushing my chair back with quiet grace, “our men will see you out.”

A smile pulls at my lips, cold and practiced.

“Tell your father thank you for this month’s generous contributions,” the tone drips honey over the blade. “And do let him know I look forward to meeting his new pick for our families' union.”

The scotch still lingers in my mouth, warm and bitter. The emblem still stares at me from the desk. And somewhere far from this room, behind glass and silence, I know Echo Kane is still waiting. Guarded. Hidden.

And despite everything, so am I.

The union was formally dissolved in the wake of Nikolai’s disgrace.

After his failure, his cowardice, his cruelty, there was no salvaging what little pretense had existed between us.

My father and his agreed to sever the tie, quietly, cleanly, replacing it with a new arrangement bound to another name in the Sokolov house.

Another pawn. Another promise. One meant to repair the fracture Nikolai left behind.

“Will do,” he mutters, jaw clenched, eyes avoiding mine.

I offer only a nod. That’s all he’s earned.

My men move toward him, hands lifting to escort, but he yanks his arm away before they can lay a finger on him.

“I can see myself out,” he snaps, wounded pride wrapped in false confidence.

The anger in his retreat is louder than his footsteps, his pace too fast, too tight. Practically running. Pathetic.

As soon as the door clicks shut, silence falls. I don’t fill it. I let it sit.

Then I speak, calm and clipped. “Leave me.”

The guards hesitate, only for a breath, then file out wordlessly, the weight of their boots disappearing down the hall.

Alone, I glance at the folder still sitting on my father’s desk, the Catalyst emblem like a shadow bleeding across the cover. I open it, fingers slow, careful. Inside, documents, maps, and images.

Noah Ackerman. Roman Briar. Anastasia Burns. Locations, last known movements, habits.

The weight of it makes something coil low in my stomach.

“Hmm,” I murmur, tracing the corner of the page. “Interesting.”

Names I know. Lives I’ve brushed against in fleeting moments, some more than others. Allies. Enemies. Echo’s world, mapped out for my benefit. Or my manipulation.

My phone vibrates on the edge of the desk, the screen lighting with a single message that makes my blood cool despite the burn in my chest.

Can't wait to see you tonight!

So normal.

Only it isn’t.

This is what healthy is supposed to look like. What safety should feel like.

But none of it does. Not really. Not anymore.

The text feels foreign in my hand, like someone else’s life flashing across the screen. I stare at it a moment longer before slipping the phone into my coat pocket and exhaling a slow, deliberate breath.

This is normal.

This is what normal should be.

And yet, deep down, I know, nothing may ever feel normal again.

The keys rattle in the lock as I slip into the apartment, my body sore, my mind fractured in a dozen different places.

Candlelight greets me first, casting golden shadows across the walls.

The scent of clove and wax lingers, heavy and cloying.

It’s all too intentional. Too nice. This isn’t mine.

This isn’t comfort. This is someone else trying to make a home where there never was one.

Garrett stands in the kitchen, lighting the last of the candles.

His face is soft, his smile boyish, like he’s proud of the ambiance he’s curated.

He moves with gentleness, as if we’re something tender.

“You’ve been working late,” he offers, striking a match with one hand.

“Didn’t realize insurance paperwork could be so emotionally daunting. ”

There’s something in me that wants to laugh at the irony. Instead, I stare, unmoved.

“When did fucking turn into gestures?” The words slip from my mouth like venom wrapped in silk.

He chuckles, mistaking my disdain for flirtation. “You’re far too cold, Emma.”

Emma. That name doesn’t belong to me. It feels like wearing someone else’s skin, tight and suffocating. He’s been in my bed more than once, and still, he has no idea who I am.

Shrugging off my coat, I toss it and my bag onto the couch, the weight of them hitting like punctuation. “I told you,” I say, voice low and flat. “You come. You leave. That’s the deal.”

Garrett approaches like he’s about to press his luck again, leaning in, kissing me softly. It’s a harmless kind of affection, light and meaningless, a touch that demands nothing but offers even less. For a moment, I let him.

Then the knock comes. Three short raps against the door.

My spine stiffens before I even register the sound.

“That must be the rest of the food,” Garrett says, already heading toward the door, but my stomach is already twisting. Something is wrong.

A voice comes through the door, muffled but clear.

“I have an order for Katya.”

My entire body locks into place. That name, my name, shouldn’t exist in this space. Not with him here. Not like this. My hand instinctively moves to the waistband of my jeans, fingers grazing the hidden steel of my gun.

Garrett, oblivious, undoes the lock with a frown. “No Katya here. Are you sure you’ve got the-”

The door opens.

And there he is.

Echo.

The shadows cling to him like lovers. His hat is pulled low over those eyes, eyes I know better than my own.

There’s blood on his hands, smeared across his knuckles like war paint.

His curls stick to his temples with sweat, and he holds a takeout bag like it means something, like it doesn’t already drip grease onto the floor between them.

He doesn’t speak at first. He just looks. At me. At Garrett. At the space between us.

Garrett, caught off guard, takes a step back. “Jesus, man, are you, are you okay?”

“Garrett,” I say, voice low and flat. “You should go.”

He turns to me, confused. “If you’re not feeling well, I can-”

“She told you to leave,” Echo interrupts, voice calm, edged with something sharp and volatile beneath the surface. He steps inside slowly, the takeout bag dropping from his hand. It hits the hardwood with a dull splatter, something wet and red leaking through the bottom.

Garrett straightens, posturing like he might defend something. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”

Echo doesn’t respond.

He moves.

One swift motion, and the gun is beneath Garrett’s chin, lifting him slightly onto the balls of his feet. Garrett stiffens, lips parting, his hands flying up as if that will save him. The cold metal under his jaw silences every breath in the room.