Page 37 of Devil’s Night (The Shadows of Darkness Universe #3)

Chapter twenty-seven

That Four Letter Word

Katya

T he morning air is cool against my skin, but it does nothing to steady my nerves.

Each step is calculated, heels traded for soft-soled boots, the tight black fabric clinging to my body chosen not for vanity but for utility.

Shadows swallow me easily in clothes like these.

I blend in. I disappear. Just like I was trained.

But right now, stealth isn’t about survival. It’s about him.

Trailing Echo isn’t something I should be doing. It’s reckless. Dangerous. Foolish. And yet, the moment Maria walked away, the moment I read the words Your move in that note, I knew there wouldn’t be peace until I understood what game he was playing.

He wouldn’t be stupid enough to go back to his house, I tell myself again, eyes darting along the dim streets, scanning every turn like he might materialize out of the dark.

Not after formally requesting a meeting with my father.

That alone is a declaration of war, or something worse. A dare. And Echo Kane doesn’t bluff.

My fingers curl tighter around the phone in my hand, screen lighting up with a soft glow. For a moment, I just stare at it. At the silent weight of my own betrayal.

I’d slipped the tracker onto his phone last night, sometime between the third orgasm and the moment he passed out, spent and buried in me so deep I wasn’t sure where he ended and I began. He didn’t even stir. Just sighed in his sleep like he owned the air between us.

He wouldn’t have noticed. He never notices when I’m watching.

The app takes a second to load, the red dot pulsing against the digital map. My heart kicks against my ribs as I realize exactly what I’m seeing.

Not his estate. Not Catalyst headquarters. Nowhere secure.

An abandoned building. East of town. Remote. Isolated. Forgotten.

And he’s there.

No guards. No cameras. No eyes.

A trap, maybe.

Or maybe it’s something worse.

The urge to call someone flickers and dies just as fast. My father would send a team. He’d send guns and firepower and too many questions I don’t have answers to. And Echo would vanish. Or bleed. Or kill.

None of those options sit right.

The car hums to life beneath my hands as I start the engine, headlights off until I’ve cleared the edge of the estate. The roads ahead blur into black as the city gives way to wilderness, and my fingers tighten on the wheel with every passing mile.

Because I don’t know what I’m going to find.

Only that if he’s doing something reckless, something violent, I need to know about it.

And if he’s not…

If he’s hurting…

If he’s planning something I’m not part of,

Then he’s the one who needs to be afraid.

The further I drive, the more the world seems to unravel behind me.

Streetlights vanish. Pavement cracks beneath the tires.

Civilization gives way to rot, rusted fences, warped signs, buildings swallowed by time and ivy.

The kind of place you’re taught to avoid as a child, but taught to study once you learn the truth of our world.

Because monsters don’t hide in castles. They breed in forgotten places like this.

And now, Echo Kane is the one nesting in the dark.

The building comes into view like a specter rising from the earth, three stories of crumbling brick, boarded windows, and silence so thick it feels alive.

My car slows as I pull to the edge of the lot, careful not to park too close.

I kill the engine, let the morning shadows wrap around me like a second skin, and step out.

There’s no wind. No movement. Just the hush of something waiting.

My boots crunch softly against loose gravel as I approach, eyes scanning the perimeter. No obvious guards. No surveillance. No movement through the broken windows, just the outline of rot and shadow.

And then I hear it.

A scream.

It cuts through the silence like a blade. Not a woman. Male. Ragged. Frantic. A sound that doesn’t echo so much as it vibrates, as though it’s clawing at the foundation of the building itself. Followed by something else, a thud. Wet. Heavy.

Then silence.

The hair on the back of my neck stands on end, every instinct in my body bracing for violence. But I don’t move. Not away. Not back. I take a step forward.

Another scream follows. This one shorter. Hoarse. It gurgles before it cuts off entirely, and suddenly the air feels tighter, like the building itself is holding its breath.

He’s in there.

Echo.

Not just fucking. Not teasing. Not seducing.

This is something else.

I inch closer to the entrance, staying in the shadows, trying to piece together what the hell I’m walking into. Blood hums in my ears. The metal door is cracked open slightly, just enough for someone to slip through.

Part of me wants to call out. To stop this before it spirals into something irreversible.

But another part… the part he’s carved into me like a second skin…

Wants to see.

Wants to understand just how far he’ll go when no one’s watching.

Because if he’s killing tonight, I need to know why.

And if he’s unraveling…

I need to be the one to stitch him back together.

The door is cracked just enough to see him, only him.

Even with the blood, the ropes, and the broken man tied to the chair, it’s Echo who commands everything. The room bends around him. He doesn’t just stand there, he possesses the space. Like it belongs to him.

His shirt is rolled to the elbows, forearms cut with ridges of lean muscle and smeared with streaks of red, each movement fluid, purposeful.

The knife glints in his hand, not erratic, not sloppy.

He’s methodical. Calm. So devastatingly calm it makes my stomach twist. That control, so cold and calculating, somehow sets me ablaze.

Garrett groans, low and breathless, slumped forward in the chair with his wrists bound in stained rope.

His chest rises and falls with frantic, shallow gasps, and yet I don’t feel sorry for him.

Not really. Not when I see the way Echo tilts his head, studying Garrett like he’s a puzzle with one missing piece.

“Fuck you,” Garrett spits, blood flecking his lips.

Echo smiles.

Not wide. Not crazed. It’s subtle...measured. A slow, curling thing that settles into the corners of his mouth like he’s savoring every second.

“Fucking,” Echo murmurs, voice smooth as velvet, “is precisely the reason you’re in this predicament.”

He steps closer, and I swear the temperature of the room shifts with him. The knife comes down with quiet finality, no rage, no shouting. Just the wet sound of steel sinking into flesh. Garrett screams, head snapping back. The blade’s buried deep in his thigh.

I should recoil. I should run.

But I don’t move.

Because it’s not just the violence, it’s the way Echo moves through it.

The way he’s perfectly composed, eyes sharp and electric, hair curling slightly at the nape from sweat.

His chest rises slowly, deliberately, like he’s meditating in the middle of a storm he created.

Every breath he takes is power. Every word is a command.

He circles the chair, voice low and deliberate. “So tell me, what do you know about Katya?”

“Fucking nothing,” Garrett gasps. “If I’d known her crazy-ass ex would be doing this, I’d have never gone near her.”

He says my name like I’m a mistake. Like I’m something to regret.

But Echo doesn’t even blink. Instead, he tosses Garrett’s wallet to the ground.

Photos spill out.

I recognize them instantly, moments of me, stolen when I wasn’t looking. Me ordering coffee. Me getting into my car, glancing over my shoulder, unaware I was being watched.

My blood runs cold. My skin burns.

“You were sent to watch her,” Echo says softly, stepping in so close Garrett flinches. “You weren’t some idiot barista with a crush. You knew who she was. You researched her. You joined her circle, shadowed her habits. So tell me… who sent you?”

The knife skims gently across Garrett’s cheek now. Just a whisper of steel against skin.

It’s maddening, how beautiful Echo is in this moment.

Wild and contained all at once. His voice, low and intimate.

His eyes, glinting with fire and calculation.

The flex of his jaw, the faint scrape of stubble, the sweat painting his collarbone beneath the open edge of his shirt, it’s all heat, and rage, and devotion.

As if every brutal thing he does here tonight is an act of worship.

And I should be screaming. I should stop him.

But I can’t look away.

Because somewhere in the pit of my stomach, in that dark place I never dare to touch, I want him to hurt for me.

I want him to ruin the world for me.

I want to walk into that room, step over the blood, and remind him exactly who he’s doing it for.

The gunshot still echoes, trapped in the concrete walls like a ghost refusing to leave.

Garrett’s body slumps forward in the chair, lifeless. Slack. Blood pools beneath him with a slow, steady rhythm, thick and metallic, the sharp scent of it saturating the room. It clings to the air, coats the back of my throat, and seeps into the pores of my skin like a stain I’ll never wash away.

But I don’t regret it.

I thought I would. I thought something in me would snap after the trigger pulled.

That I’d shake. Fall apart. Collapse into some hollow version of myself and cry about what I just did.

But instead, there’s only stillness. A kind of silence that feels sacred.

Solid. Like the moment I made that choice, I stepped into the version of me Echo’s always seen.

I don’t even remember reaching for the gun.

One second, Garrett was speaking, naming the man who sent him.

My father. Of course it was my father. The man who keeps pretending he still owns me, who thinks I need protection from my own darkness.

The next moment, my hand was already steady, finger curled with certainty, bullet leaving the chamber before I could blink.

And now he’s gone.