Page 40 of Devil’s Night (The Shadows of Darkness Universe #3)

Chapter twenty-eight

Behind The Mask

Echo

T hey call it Devil’s Night.

A night soaked in legacy, lust, and blood. The kind of night whispered about in corners of the world too dark for light to touch. A tradition among the Romanovs, one their inner circle lives for. A night that blurs the line between man and monster, pleasure and pain, predator and prey.

Katya doesn’t know. Not really. She thinks this is just another tactic, me playing puppet master again, pulling strings to keep her close. She thinks this obsession is about control. And maybe, in part, it is.

But she doesn’t know what they do behind those doors. Not truly.

She doesn’t know what Devil’s Night demands.

She doesn’t know what kind of blood they drink, how young it is. How warm. How it’s taken, not offered. How it’s seen as sacrament.

And I sure as hell won’t let them drag her into it.

They’d dress her up like a gift. Lay her bare in front of masked men and twisted gods, pretend it's all part of some legacy she was born into. Let her taste the wine, without telling her where it came from. Let her laugh, unaware of the screams echoing in the lower halls. They’d call it honor. They’d call it family.

But I call it what it is.

Evil.

And I'm willingly walking straight into it. Offering myself to Dimitri like a lamb too proud to bleat. No backup. No Catalyst. No Roman or Noah at my side. Because if they knew, they’d try to stop me. They’d call this what it is: suicide.

But this isn’t about survival anymore.

It’s about her.

It’s about the way her body froze when I said it. The word I never thought I’d say again. Love.

That sick, cloying feeling that makes men soft. Makes them reckless. It’s in my chest now, thick and unrelenting. It's the only reason I’m pacing like this, wearing out the floor, my mind circling her name like it’s the only thing keeping me tethered to this earth.

Roman and Noah? They’re drinking with their families tonight. Safe. Smiling. Blind to the fact that hell is opening its gates and Katya is standing at the edge.

But she’s mine.

And if I have to offer myself, if I have to bleed for her, kill for her, burn for her, I’ll do it without hesitation.

Because when Devil’s Night calls for blood…

It won’t be hers.

Let them take me.

That’s the thought that keeps circling my mind like a vulture, hungry and patient.

Let them use me. Let them shackle me to their legacy, bury me under the weight of their rituals and demands.

I’ll be their monster. Their blade. Their fucking slave if that’s what it takes to keep her untouched by their poison.

I’ll kneel. I’ll bleed. I’ll strip myself of every last shred of pride if it means Katya never learns what it feels like to be fed from.

They want a symbol of control? Fine. They can carve their crest into my chest and call it loyalty. I’ll smile through the pain if it means her name never finds its way onto their altar.

But even in my madness, part of me still fights.

Pacing the room, my hands tremble. The scent of blood clings to me, hers, mine, theirs. I don’t even know anymore. My jaw aches from grinding it too hard. My mind keeps screaming for me to tell someone. Loop someone in. Give Roman a damn heads-up before I get myself killed.

But I already know what he’ll say.

He’ll tell me this is emotional. He’ll tell me I’ve lost control. That she’s gotten too deep, that my judgment is compromised. And he’ll be right.

Fuck, he’ll be right.

Still, my fingers twitch toward my phone like they have a mind of their own.

She’s all I see when I close my eyes. Katya on her knees, fire in her eyes, blood on her lips. Katya, trembling and broken and still strong enough to look me in the eye and call me out on everything I am. Katya, carved and claimed, with her name etched into my flesh like a promise.

I swallow hard, the silence around me deafening.

I can't let her be a pawn. I can't let them take her.

If I give myself to Dimitri, maybe he'll see the value in me as more than just a Catalyst threat. Maybe he’ll call off his fucking dogs. Maybe he’ll consider it a peace offering. A sacrifice.

A trade.

My phone screen glows in the dark, Roman’s name pulsing like a heartbeat I can’t outrun. There’s no plan left, only instinct. A compulsion born from guilt and something far more dangerous: desperation.

Silence blankets the room, thick with the whisper of everything that’s gone wrong. Every breath drags like gravel down my throat. The phone feels slick in my hand, not from sweat, but the dread that whatever happens next, there's no undoing it. No redemption arc waiting at the end of this.

The call connects on the second ring.

“Echo?” Roman’s voice slices through the quiet like a blade, alert and already on edge.

His tone demands answers, but my mouth won’t cooperate. The words swell, fight, stumble.

A swallow lodges halfway down. The weight in my chest doesn’t budge.

“R-Roman…” The name barely makes it out. Slurred by the pressure behind my ribs.

A pause stretches between us, too short to be silence, too long to be safe.

“Echo, talk to me.”

Teeth grind hard enough to threaten the enamel. Tongue thick behind the words that won’t form.

“I…” A breath hitches in my lungs, useless. “I fucked up.”

There’s more to say. There always is. An explanation. A plan. A confession that Katya is no longer a mission but a heartbeat in human form. But even thinking it feels dangerous.

And Roman doesn’t get another second.

The call ends with a final click.

The silence that follows doesn’t feel empty.

It feels like judgment.

And now, there's no turning back.

The silence after the call lingers like smoke, clinging to my skin, seeping into the cracks of my resolve. Roman’s voice still echoes faintly in my ears, that edge of alarm, that unspoken what have you done hanging in the space between us even after the line went dead.

Stumbling into the bathroom, the light overhead flickers to life, casting a pale glow across the cracked porcelain and rusted fixtures. The mirror stares back, unforgiving.

The man staring back is barely holding together.

Fingers fumble at my collar. The fabric is stiff with dried sweat and regret. With slow, mechanical care, the tie is straightened. The knot pulled tight like a noose. Jacket smoothed down. Shoulders squared. It’s almost laughable, dressing for death like it’s a fucking meeting.

A slip of paper catches the corner of my vision.

Tucked beneath the rim of the box Dimitri had sent, is a folded note. The handwriting is precise. Deliberate. The ink pressed deep into the page like a threat.

No mask. Time for everyone to see the real Echo Kane.

A slow breath escapes my lips.

So this is it.

Not the monster behind the glass.

Not the executioner Catalyst built.

Not the savior Katya thought she saw buried somewhere beneath all the violence.

Just the raw, exposed truth.

No more masks.

No more lies.

Only the reckoning.