Page 51 of Devil’s Night (The Shadows of Darkness Universe #3)

Chapter thirty-eight

New Beginnings

Katya

I t’s been twenty-four days.

I’ve counted them, each one carved into my memory with the precision of a scalpel.

Twenty-four days since I stood in the rubble of my father’s empire with ash on my face and smoke curling behind me like a crown.

Twenty-four days since the name Romanov began to unravel, thread by gilded thread, until there was nothing left of it but whispers and dust.

And still, I wake up waiting for the weight of him to return.

The silence is louder than it should be.

Sometimes, I find myself listening for the familiar creak of his footsteps, the harsh sound of his voice at my door, the metallic click of the lock sliding into place. I listen for the phantom pain of obedience and punishment, proof that maybe this freedom is still a dream I’ll wake from.

But it never comes.

The empire he built, the one that raised me like a weapon and praised me when I bled for it, has been dissolved. Dismantled with brutal efficiency by the very man he underestimated. By Echo Kane, and by me.

Every safe house has been seized. Every corrupt Romanov enforcer captured or killed.

The bribes, the payoffs, the offshore blood-trafficking networks, the compounds with sterilized walls and shackles, all gone.

Catalyst stripped the house bare, and anything they couldn’t use to rebuild… they buried.

The accounts are frozen. The properties turned over. Even the families who once begged to be married into Romanov prestige have gone silent. Legacy doesn’t mean much when it’s drenched in the screams of children and the scent of fire.

And I… I don’t know who I’m supposed to be now that I’m not surviving him.

The children are safe, at least as safe as they can be. They stay in temporary bunkers, converted Catalyst wings turned into makeshift sanctuaries. The walls aren’t pretty. They’re not lined with gold or silk like the ones I grew up in. But they’re clean. They're warm. They don’t lock.

Sometimes at night, I sit in the hallway and listen to them laugh. Not always. But some nights.

That’s how I measure progress now.

In laughter.

In breath.

In the space between heartbeats when I realize no one is coming to drag me back.

There are days where I feel nothing. Like I’m just a hollow echo of the girl who burned her father alive.

I go through the motions, tending wounds, checking inventory, moving children from location to location.

Everyone calls me Katya Kane now. The name fits more every time someone says it.

But I still keep my Romanov ring in a small black box under my cot.

Not as a keepsake.

As a grave marker.

I don’t wear it. I don’t open it. I don’t even look at it.

I just need to know it’s there. That I’m the one who put it away.

That I chose.

That I still can.

From my place on the windowsill in the east wing, I can see the tree line stretching out past the compound. The forest beyond looks untouched, quiet and indifferent. Like it doesn’t care who rules, or who dies. It just continues. Unbothered. Unyielding.

Sometimes, I envy it.

Echo’s voice floats down the hall again, low and rough, giving orders to Roman and Ana as they plan the next transition group.

He sounds like himself again, not the weapon forged by revenge, but the man I met beneath all the rage.

The man who touched me like I was sacred after spending years believing he could only destroy.

And he’s mine.

God help me, he’s mine.

There are moments when he looks at me like I’m still glowing from the fire I lit, like the ash never settled. And when he touches me now, there’s no control or conquest behind it.

Only reverence.

Only love.

It terrifies me more than anything else ever has.

I close my eyes and press my forehead to the cold glass. The air smells faintly of copper and medicine. Somewhere down the corridor, someone laughs again. One of the little ones, I think her name is Megan, chasing Ana down the hallway, giggling in oversized socks.

I don’t smile.

But my chest doesn’t hurt quite as much.

There’s still so much to do. Still enemies who haven’t yet crawled out from their hiding places. Still names on lists. Still holes in the world I don’t know how to fill. I don’t know what comes next.

But I know this.

My father’s empire is gone.

And I am still here.

Still standing.

Still choosing.

And for the first time in my life, I don’t feel like I’m bleeding for someone else’s crown.

I feel like I’m building my own.

I find him in the lower wing, tucked into one of the old Catalyst map rooms. The lights are low, the walls still lined with worn-out tactical schematics and field reports from a war that now feels like it ended years ago.

He’s standing over a table, fingers splayed on either side of a spread blueprint, sleeves rolled up, shirt half unbuttoned like he forgot to finish dressing once the adrenaline wore off.

He doesn’t hear me at first.

Or maybe he does, and he just wants me to speak first.

“Planning a war?” I ask, voice softer than it’s been in days.

His head lifts.

And just like that, his whole body shifts.

The tension drains from his shoulders the second he sees me. Like I’m not just Katya to him anymore. Like I’m the calm after a storm he never thought he’d survive. He straightens, and in three long strides, he’s in front of me.

But he doesn’t touch me.

Not yet.

“You’ve been quiet,” he says, his voice rough like he hasn’t used it for anything but orders.

“I’ve been thinking,” I murmur. “About what comes next.”

He nods. His eyes trace mine for a long moment, like he’s waiting for something, permission, maybe. Or confirmation that I’m still here.

“I don’t want you in a bunker,” he finally says.

That catches me off guard.

“What?”

He exhales slowly, reaching up to tuck a piece of hair behind my ear. His hand lingers at the curve of my neck, warm, steady.

“I know this place is safe. Secure. But it’s not a life. It’s just a landing point between fire and flight. You don’t belong between walls anymore, Katya.”

“And where exactly do I belong?” I whisper.

His thumb brushes my jaw.

“With me.”

The words hit harder than I expect.

Not because of how he says them.

But because of how sure he sounds when he does.

“No more hiding. No more pretending you’re just an asset or a temporary ally.” He leans closer. “Move in with me. Not as a gesture. Not as a power play. As you.”

I blink, caught in that strange stillness that happens when everything you’ve ever wanted is suddenly real.

“You’re serious,” I murmur.

“Dead serious.”

His palm flattens over my lower back, tugging me closer, until our bodies align in that quiet, perfect way that never feels like enough.

My hands curl into his shirt. I feel the heat of him everywhere.

The grounding weight of his presence. The heartbeat of something soft in the middle of all the sharp.

“I don’t have a place,” I admit. “Not really.”

“You do now,” he says, no hesitation. “Mine.”

A silence stretches between us, not tense, but deep. Like the ocean holding its breath.

“I don’t want to just survive with you,” I say after a beat. “I want… more.”

“You’ll have it,” he promises, and when he finally leans down to kiss me, it’s not rough. It’s not hungry.

It’s home.

His mouth is still on me when I pull him up.

Not roughly, deliberately.

My fingers thread through his hair, tugging until his lips part from the mess he’s made of me, his breath hot against my thigh.

His eyes, those storm-dark eyes, lock onto mine as I guide him upward, my body aching and flushed, my breath ragged.

I feel him tremble against me, every muscle tight with restraint, like he’s holding himself back from unraveling completely.

Not tonight.

Tonight, I want him undone.

When he rises, I don’t let him speak. I push him backward, slow and steady, until the backs of his legs hit the edge of an old couch. He sinks without a word, lips parted, pupils blown wide, hands flexing like he doesn’t know where to put them if he’s not worshipping me.

I step between his knees, straddling his lap without hesitation. My dress is still hitched high around my waist, and his shirt is hanging open, chest bare, jaw tilted up as if in offering.

“You’re quiet,” I murmur, letting my hands slide down his chest, tracing the defined lines like I’m memorizing scripture.

“You make me that way,” he says hoarsely. “Every damn time.”

My fingers reach for his belt, slow, deliberate. I don’t rush, don’t give him the satisfaction of urgency. I want him to burn with it. Want him to sit in the weight of what it means for me to be the one taking my time.

He watches me, his eyes following every movement, reverent and possessive, his mouth parted as if he wants to say something but can’t find the words.

I roll my hips once, slow and teasing, the friction between us enough to make him groan.

“Katya…” His voice is a growl, hands gripping the arm rest, like touching me would be the end of him.

“Shhh,” I whisper, pressing a finger to his lips. “You begged for this. So let me give it to you.”

When I finally lower myself onto him, I don’t look away. I want him to see it, the way my body takes him in, inch by inch, slow enough to be cruel. His eyes flutter shut, jaw tightening, a string of curses hissing past his teeth like a prayer he’s too far gone to finish.

I start to move, slow, purposeful, grinding against him in a rhythm that’s more worship than war. My hands brace against his chest, and his finally lift, trembling, reverent, one on my waist, the other cradling my jaw like I’m something holy.

“You feel like sin,” he whispers. “And I’d burn in you a thousand times over.”

I smile against his mouth, biting his bottom lip before I kiss him hard, swallowing every broken breath, every groan.

We fall into a rhythm, fluid and hot and devastating.

He lets me lead. Lets me ride him into oblivion, hands never straying too far, like he’s afraid he’ll lose control if he grips too tight.

And when I lean down, lips brushing his ear, I whisper the words that wreck him completely.

“I love you.”

His body shudders beneath mine.

“I love you,” I repeat, hips never slowing. “You’re mine, Echo. Every broken, beautiful piece.”

His arms wrap around me then, tight, possessive, anchoring me to him as if we’re both afraid the world might rip us apart again.

But not tonight.

Tonight, we make something sacred out of the ashes.