Page 36 of Devil’s Night (The Shadows of Darkness Universe #3)

Chapter twenty-six

Whispers From The Devil

Katya

M orning seeps in through the window like a soft betrayal, warming skin that still throbs from the night before.

The ache isn't gentle. It's deep, lingering in the marrow of my thighs, in the hollow of my spine, in the sting between my legs where his hands, his mouth, his everything, left their mark. Every breath brushes against bruises that haven’t even begun to settle. Beneath the hum of pain, something deeper thrums: a memory I’m too wrecked to recall fully, and too full to forget.

Sheets tangle around my legs like restraints, soaked and twisted, the mattress damp beneath me in places I don’t dare identify.

His scent still clings to the linen, dark and primal.

A musky blend of sweat and blood, sex and control.

The evidence of his presence is everywhere, except for the man himself.

The spot beside me is vacant, still warm but fading quickly. Only the impression of his weight remains, like a ghost pressing into the mattress. Reaching toward that empty space, fingers brush only fabric and something foreign, paper, soft and crumpled, nestled where his hand should be.

The note is simple. Two words scrawled in dark ink, slanted and precise.

Your move

No punctuation. No signature. As if he knows he does not need one.

Breath snags in my throat. Not from fear. From the cruel intimacy of the message. It’s not over. It never is. He didn’t fuck me into the ground and walk away. He’s waiting. Watching. Still playing.

The bed frame is cracked at the top, the headboard split where his grip turned savage, where I thrashed too hard against the ropes.

One of them still dangles, frayed at the knot, bloodstained at the base where skin must have torn mid-struggle.

Pain flares across my wrist at the sight, not from the injury, but from the memory it summons.

Between my thighs, the mess is unbearable. Slick, blood, and the thick, unmistakable drip of him spilling from inside me. The room smells like a sin that’s settled into the walls.

A soft tapping draws my attention toward the window.

It’s rhythmic, almost delicate. A flutter more than a knock. On the sill, a jar, small, cylindrical, and sealed tight. Inside, a single butterfly beats against the glass, golden wings flashing each time they strike the sides. Trapped. Desperate. A reflection, a mockery, a message.

Laughter breaks from my throat, rough and hoarse and far from sane. Not amusement. Just recognition. Of course he'd leave that. Of course he'd find a way to turn even something beautiful into a cage.

Movement is slow. Limbs resist. Muscles protest. Standing feels like surfacing from the bottom of a lake, every step a reminder of where his body was and where mine still responds. The silk robe clings where skin is tacky with sweat, grazes where the bruises ache most.

A knock at the door cuts through the room.

Not tentative. Not loud. Sharp and measured, three taps, then silence.

No name.

No voice.

Fingers tighten around the edge of the robe, blood humming under the surface. Whether it’s him returning for more or someone else entirely, the aftermath clings to me in ways no fabric can hide.

He left me wrecked.

And still, some sick part of me hopes it’s him.

The knock echoes through the room again, a sharp crack against the aftermath of silence.

For a moment, I don’t move. The air still carries the scent of him, Echo, along with blood, sex, sweat, and something rawer.

Something that lingers in the pit of my stomach and burns low like a second heartbeat.

It’s not just soreness that slows me as I approach the door.

It’s dread. It’s instinct. A pull in my gut that says whatever is on the other side isn’t safe.

And yet, I go anyway, dragging myself across the room with a quiet grace that betrays the wreckage under my skin.

Muscles ache. Thighs tremble. The robe I tied around myself clings to my skin, damp where bruises are beginning to bloom, silk catching along the stickiness between my legs where his cum is still slowly leaking out of me.

I open the door without ceremony.

Maria stands there, arms crossed like she owns the threshold.

Her hair is pulled back into a sleek twist, not a strand out of place, her lipstick perfect, deep red, like fresh blood.

She’s smiling, but it’s not friendly. It’s the kind of smile women like us are taught to use when we want someone to know we’re dangerous.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” The bite in my tone is intentional. I make no effort to hide the disdain curling off my tongue. Her presence alone is an insult. Her timing is worse.

Her gaze flicks across my face, down my neck, catching for just a second on the faint handprint on my throat. Her smirk sharpens.

“My brother sent me,” she says casually. “To make sure you were ready for tonight’s meeting. He said you asked your guards to leave last night. He was… concerned.”

Concerned.

The word tastes like poison.

“Your brother doesn’t give a shit about me,” I snap, not bothering to hide the venom in my voice. “Try again.”

She lifts one shoulder in a soft shrug, feigning innocence. But her eyes say something else. There’s calculation behind them, perhaps even awareness. She knows. Not everything, but enough.

My attention slides to the phone in her hand, and that’s when it clicks.

The meeting. The perfectly timed absence of my men. The silence that gave Echo the space to destroy me.

He got into my phone.

Fucking bastard.

Of course he did. Of course he played me before he ever touched me. The seduction started long before the first bruise. The moment he cleared my house was the moment he claimed me without laying a hand on me.

And now Maria’s here like a messenger of fate.

“So,” I mutter, voice tight, “what meeting are you talking about?”

The smile fades from her lips. Her spine straightens, posture going rigid with the weight of what she’s about to say.

“Echo Kane,” she announces like it’s a name that still holds reverence. “Requested a formal audience with your father. Dimitri expects you there. And all the families have been summoned.”

The air shifts.

Not just tension now. Power. The kind of power that drips slowly into a room and turns into something suffocating.

“When did this happen?”

“Last night.” She licks her lips once, hesitating. “The bastard seems to have grown a pair after what he did to you and Nikolai.”

“When?” My voice comes out smaller than intended. Not weak. Just… off-balance.

Maria tilts her head. Her tone softens just slightly, but the steel is still there.

“Tonight,” she says, eyes narrowing. “Your father’s hosting a dinner. One that Echo isn’t expected to walk away from.”

For a moment, I can’t breathe.

Not because of the threat implied. But because of the way my body reacts to it.

The part of me that should feel relief doesn’t. The part that should want him dead, doesn’t. I can still feel him inside me, deeper than anything I can wash off. Still hear the things he whispered as he fucked me into something barely recognizable. Still taste the ghost of him on my tongue.

I should want vengeance. Should want blood.

But all I feel is a pull. A low, aching tether that won’t stop tightening around my ribs.

Dimitri’s setting a trap.

And something inside me already knows, if Echo walks in alone, he’s not walking out.

And if he dies tonight, something in me might die with him.

Something’s wrong. Not in the way that makes you panic, but in the way that coils low and tight, like instinct knows what logic hasn’t caught up to yet. The kind of dread that doesn’t scream. It whispers. It strokes your spine like a lover’s touch and tells you everything is about to change.

Echo… what the fuck are you doing?

Maria doesn’t stay long enough for a goodbye. She just holds something out, a square black box, sleek and heavy in her manicured hands. There’s no bow. No note. Just the unspoken weight of expectation.

“Black tie,” she says, voice clipped. “A gift. Courtesy of your father.”

There’s venom in the word courtesy , but she’s already turning on her heel before I can call her on it. Her heels click softly down the hall, each step getting quieter, until the silence is deafening again.

I close the door slowly, carefully, like shutting it too hard might break whatever fragile thing still holds me upright. The box stays in my hands as I lean back against the wood, the cool edge pressing into my spine.

It takes me a full minute before I move.

The silk robe rustles around my legs as I pad barefoot across the floor, the aftermath of Echo still clinging to every inch of my skin, every throb between my thighs, every unsteady breath. I haven’t even cleaned myself yet, haven’t washed away the scent of him. Part of me isn’t ready to.

I set the box down on the vanity and stare at it.

A gift from my father. A black-tie event. All the families attending. And Echo, requesting a formal meeting like he hasn’t just fucked me so hard I can barely walk. Like he hasn’t carved his name into me with a blade.

None of this adds up.

And I know that voice in my head, that quiet, dangerous whisper, it’s right. He’s playing something bigger than seduction now. This is no longer about claiming me. This is about power.

And I need to know what he’s planning before it’s too late.

The box remains unopened on the vanity, but I already know what’s inside. Something black. Expensive. Meant to soften the edges of my reputation in front of the other families. Meant to make me look tame.

Only, no one in that room knows the truth. Not the way I do.

Echo Kane doesn’t play by anyone’s rules.

Not even mine.

And if my father thinks he can use tonight to trap him, if Echo’s really walking into a dinner that’s meant to be his execution, then I have no choice.

I have to follow him.

I have to find out what he’s planning.

Because the last time I underestimated Echo, I ended up on my knees.

And if he burns this world to the ground, I need to know whether I’m standing beside him… or in the flames.