Page 30 of Devil’s Night (The Shadows of Darkness Universe #3)

Echo presses in close, not just threatening, but invading.

His presence wraps around Garrett like smoke, intoxicating and suffocating.

His free hand comes up, thumb brushing along the underside of Garrett’s jaw, not affectionately, but with eerie calm.

Like he’s choosing whether to end him or just leave a scar.

“You smell like her,” he murmurs, the words meant for both of us. “Which means you’ve touched something that doesn’t belong to you.”

His eyes lift to mine, wild, dark and burning.

“Did you let him fuck you, Katya?”

I don’t answer. My chest is tight. My throat dry. There’s nothing in my body that doesn’t remember what it felt like to be under him, his weight, his breath, his hands on my throat, his name on my lips like a prayer and a curse.

His smile curls wider.

To Garrett, he whispers, “You thought you were safe in her bed? Thought this was real? This isn’t yours. She isn’t yours.”

The barrel of the gun presses harder beneath Garrett’s chin. He trembles.

And Echo?

He just watches me.

Like I’m the only thing in the room that’s alive.

“I'm not a fucking delivery driver,” he mutters, the words gravel in his throat, thick with venom and whiskey.

“Don’t,” I breathe, barely audible, my chest rising too fast.

“Garrett,” I snap louder, swallowing down the tremor in my voice. “Go.”

He doesn’t hesitate. Smart boy. Garrett bolts like the air just turned to poison, stumbling over himself in his rush to escape. I hear his feet disappear down the hallway, the slap of soles against tile fading fast.

Echo scoffs behind me, something feral flickering in his chest as he kicks the door shut with the heel of his boot. The lock clicks with finality, and it’s just us again. Him. Me. This awful silence that hums with everything we never said.

His eyes sweep the room, taking in the candles, the soft light, the still-warm food cooling in its untouched containers. His hands are stained, slick and red, drying in the creases of his knuckles, and yet he doesn’t bother to hide them.

“Candles,” he growls, voice low and bitter. “A nice meal. Katya Romanov’s got herself a fucking suitor.”

My jaw tenses. “Where’s the delivery driver?”

“Alive,” he shrugs. “In his car.”

“How the hell did you get out of your house without being seen?”

His smile is slow, crooked, and wrong. “I’m sure you’d love to know.”

The moment stretches, breathless. My gun is already in my hand. So is his. Neither of us flinch.

“I’m not going back to Catalyst,” I say, the words sharp and cold. “I’m not going back with you.”

There’s a glint in his eye, something twisted and hungry. “Did you fuck him?”

My laugh is brittle, hard-edged. “You came all the way here to ask me who I’ve fucked? Was it worth a bullet in your head, Echo?”

His gun lowers.

Mine doesn’t.

He doesn’t seem to care.

Sliding his pistol back into the holster at his hip, he steps closer, slow, unbothered, like my aim means nothing.

“You’re not going to shoot me.”

“Wanna bet?” I whisper, cocking the gun with a quiet click. My finger itches against the trigger.

“You’re not going to shoot me,” he says again, softer this time, more like a promise than a dare. He closes the space between us one step at a time, until the distance is gone and only heat remains.

“I’m not playing games with you anymore, Everett Kane,” I snap.

“They were never games, Katya,” he murmurs, slurring slightly, his breath thick with liquor. He’s close enough that I can smell it now, smoke, sweat, and something sharper beneath it. Something dangerous.

“You’re drunk.”

“Liquid encouragement.” He smirks lazily, dragging his tongue across his bottom lip. “Only got so much time before one of your daddy’s little pets realizes your coffee shop fling bolted, and the driver’s still sitting in his car wondering what just happened.”

He steps again. I retreat.

“Echo-”

“Katya,” he purrs, closing in until the muzzle of the gun presses to the center of his chest.

He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t blink. Just reaches up, slow, and curls his fingers around the barrel, dragging it down his sternum like it belongs to him. “You gonna shoot me?” he whispers, head tilted. “Hmm?”

I don’t move.

His thumb brushes the side of the trigger. Teasing. Testing. Owning.

“Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do now that you’re playing the part so well?” he hisses. “Daddy’s little heir. Following his orders. Wearing his mask.”

“I’m not following his rules-”

“Then whose?” he cuts in, voice guttural. “Whose rules are you following, Katya?”

“No one’s.”

“Wrong.” His hand shoots forward, sliding up under the hem of my shirt. The heat of his palm sears my skin as he drags his finger over the name carved into my flesh. His name.

His breath shudders out against my neck.

“You know it,” he growls. “You fucking know it. When I snap my fingers, you follow. When I speak, you move. When I touch you-”

He grabs my jaw with his blood-stained hand, tilting my face toward his.

“-you melt.”

And god help me, he’s right.

The crack of steel against his face echoes like a gunshot in the room.

My grip doesn’t falter as the barrel of my weapon slams into his cheekbone, sending him sprawling back onto the couch.

He curses under his breath, stumbling, catching himself against the cushions, blood already blooming beneath his skin.

That perfect face, flushed and dazed, tilts up toward me with a mix of fury and something far darker.

He should be afraid.

But he isn’t.

I step over him slowly, deliberately, letting my shadow fall across his body like a warning.

He groans, reaching for his side, but I move quicker.

My fingers curl around the pistol holstered at the back of his waistband, and I wrench it free, flinging it across the room where it clatters uselessly against the tile.

“Not anymore,” I murmur, a slow, dangerous smile curving my lips. Holstering my own gun, I reach down, sliding my fingers over the knife strapped to my thigh.

“I have an idea of my own, actually.”

His eyes flick to the blade as it catches the low light, but his gaze doesn’t linger long. It returns to me, always back to me, as if he can’t help himself. Like even now, bleeding and breathless, he wants more.

I don’t give him a chance to rise.

Before he can push off the couch, I lunge, grabbing him by the throat. My palm presses hard against his neck, driving him backward, pinning him down. His breath catches, sharp and involuntary, but I don’t let up. I squeeze.

Hard.

The muscles in his jaw tighten beneath my fingers, his hands flying up to grip my wrists, but he doesn’t fight. Not yet. His eyes flare wide, the whites showing, and still... he holds my gaze.

He watches me.

His legs shift beneath me, bucking once in resistance, then stilling as I tighten my grip. The veins in his neck throb against my palm, his lips parting as oxygen slips away from him like a lover leaving in the dark.

There’s something erotic in the power. In the way he lets me take it.

His face begins to blur at the edges, the fight draining from his limbs as the lights behind his eyes start to flicker.

And still, I don’t release him.

Not yet.

You're in my cage now Everett Kane.