Page 5 of Devil’s Night (The Shadows of Darkness Universe #3)

Chapter five

Fool Me Once, Pay The Price

Katya

“ D id you come to play today?” Maria sneers, eyes narrowing with mockery, voice thick with venom.

The sting in my feet is relentless, but I push through it, letting the harsh melody of Mrs. Pavlov’s piano drag me into rhythm.

Each note slices through the haze of pain, grounding me in movement.

The sharp, deliberate chords mask the aches of last week, the bruises, the shame, the memory of Isaac’s lifeless face.

“What’s wrong? Gone mute?” Maria presses, circling closer. “Can’t think now that big brother is-”

My arm lashes out before her sentence finishes. Steel bites through skin, and the red that blooms across her arm is instant. She stumbles back, clutching the wound, surprise flashing in her eyes. The sight of her faltering fuels something buried deep inside, something desperate and unrelenting.

Momentum carries me forward. Spinning hard on the ball of my foot, I drive my leg into her wrist, sending her knife clattering to the floor.

Blood drips freely now from her arm, painting a trail as she staggers, her body barely holding form.

The skin inside my shoes burns raw, every pivot cutting deeper. Still, movement doesn’t stop. It can’t.

Mrs. Pavlov circles like a shark, eyes sharp, expression carved from stone. With no hesitation, she brings the metal rod down on Maria’s back. The sound of it cracking against flesh echoes through the studio.

“Pick it up,” she hisses. “You’re not done.”

Maria trembles as she bends to retrieve the blade. Fingers slick with blood, she lifts it toward me again, her face pale, her eyes never leaving mine.

“He is dead,” the words leave my lips before I can stop them, low, steady and dangerous. “But I’m not.”

“Shame,” she breathes, her voice shaking just enough to betray her. “Would’ve been doing the world a favor.”

Grace.

Poise.

Humility.

The words echo in my skull, Mrs. Pavlov’s pillars of control, etched into us like commandments.

And yet, none of them have ever belonged to me.

Not grace when survival demands brutality.

Not poise when blood slicks my hands.

Not humility when every day is a war.

Just pain.

Discipline.

And the fire that’s finally starting to burn back.

The knife clatters to the floor, forgotten.

Grace no longer matters. Precision, poise, control, none of it survives the heat flooding through my veins.

The rage that’s been simmering beneath the surface boils over, breaking through the carefully constructed shell they’ve forced me into.

Every welt from Mrs. Pavlov’s rod, every sneer from my father, every moment Isaac’s lifeless body was paraded like some grotesque warning, it all crashes into me at once.

All because of my name.

Romanov.

A legacy soaked in blood, and now it's bleeding out of me.

“You fucking bitch ,” the words rip from my throat, sharp and unfiltered, right before my fist connects with Maria’s jaw.

The impact is solid, satisfying. Her head snaps to the side as she tumbles backward, hitting the floor in a graceless heap.

A chorus of gasps erupts from the girls around us, the room falling into stunned silence.

Even Mrs. Pavlov yells, the sharpness of her voice barely cutting through the static in my head.

Maria scrambles to sit up, blood pouring from her nose, her eyes wide with a mixture of shock and fear. Another blow lands, this one harder, fueled by years of swallowing everything that should’ve been screamed.

“My brother will hear about this!” she shrieks, her voice cracking.

“ Tell him ,” I hiss, towering over her. “Tell him his delicate little bride-to-be just beat the shit out of his cunt-whore of a sister.”

The words hang in the air like smoke, filthy and thick, impossible to ignore.

A hand clamps around my wrist before the next punch can land. Mrs. Pavlov yanks me back, her face twisted in disgust, eyes wide like she’s staring at a wild animal she no longer recognizes.

“My girls do not fight like men , ” she snaps, her voice trembling with rage. “ Stand up. ”

Breathing hard, I pull away from Maria, chest heaving. The girls who once giggled behind raised hands now rush to Maria’s side, lifting her to her feet with hesitant touches, as if being near her might invite the same punishment.

“You were sent to me to be sculpted into graceful weapons , ” Pavlov continues, circling me now. “Not turned into rabid dogs. What do you think your father will say when he hears of this?”

A slow smile spreads across my face as I glance toward Maria, her once-perfect features marred with bruises and blood.

“I don’t know,” the words slide out with ease, “but I know that felt fucking amazing . ”

Dragging my wrist from Pavlov’s grip, I spit on the floor, letting it land like a final insult between us. Her lips twitch with fury, but she doesn’t speak. She doesn’t have to.

The other girls part as I walk past, their wide eyes following me like I’ve become something else entirely. Not Katya the Romanov daughter. Not Katya the dancer. Something new. Something dangerous.

And for the first time in what feels like years, I don’t feel like a puppet on a string.

I feel alive.