Page 52 of Devil’s Night (The Shadows of Darkness Universe #3)

Chapter thirty-nine

Can You Hide From Your past?

Katya

T he house is quiet when I arrive.

Not the sterile quiet of locked rooms and cold walls, the kind I grew up in, but something warmer. Intentional. Like the silence was chosen, built into the space like a secret.

The door creaks shut behind me, and for a moment, I just… listen.

The faintest flicker of something sweet hangs in the air, smoke, honey and sandalwood. The scent winds its way through the foyer like it’s leading me somewhere.

And then I see it.

Candles.

They’re everywhere.

Small white votives flickering along the floorboards, trailing up the staircase, their golden glow casting shadows that dance across the walls like ghosts with secrets. There’s no overhead light, just that warm, pulsing amber glow drawing me deeper into the space.

My shoes come off without a thought, the silence in the room somehow demanding bare feet.

There’s something reverent about the way it’s all laid out. Thoughtful. Measured.

This isn’t just romance.

It’s control.

It’s invitation.

And it’s him.

I follow the trail, heart pounding faster with every step, the soft hush of candlelight brushing against my skin like a prelude to something darker. Something earned.

When I reach the bedroom, the door is cracked just slightly.

Inside, it’s more of the same, candles lined along the windowsill, the edge of the dresser, the nightstand. Everything glows with soft gold light. The bed is made, sheets crisp and dark. My breath catches as I take it all in.

And there, on the edge of the bed, is a single note, folded and precise.

I step closer, fingers trembling slightly as I lift the paper and open it.

Put on the mask.

That’s all it says.

Just four words.

But it feels like a dare.

My eyes lift, and that’s when I see it. A black velvet half-mask laid out across the pillow. Sleek. Ornate. Almost ceremonial in the way it gleams in the candlelight.

A slow, pulsing heat coils in my belly.

He’s not here yet. That much I know. I would feel him if he was. The air would shift. The shadows would tense. I would tense. But all I feel now is the want.

Not just to obey.

To offer.

He set this up for me. For us.

And I want to play.

The mask feels heavier than it looks.

Lifting it from the pillow, the velvet is cool against my palms, plush, but firm in shape.

It’s not a cheap thing thrown together for spectacle.

The kind of item meant to conceal and reveal all at once.

The edges are smooth, but the inner lining carries warmth already.

As if it’s been worn before. As if it knows where it belongs.

My fingertips trace the curve of the eye cutouts, the sweep of the nose bridge. He chose this for me. Not just as an accessory, but as a command.

Put on the mask.

Not will you. Not if you’re ready.

Just, do it.

My pulse stirs at the finality of it.

I cross the room slowly, trailing my fingers along the edge of the mattress as I move toward the mirror.

The soft glow of the candles paints my reflection in amber and gold, skin kissed in firelight, shadows gathering in the hollows of my collarbone and along the inside of my thighs where my dress has begun to slip.

I didn’t notice until now just how exposed I already am.

The fabric barely clings to my body, whispering down my arms as if it's ready to fall.

Standing in front of the mirror, I hold the mask up to my face and breathe in deep.

Then I lower it, press it gently into place, watching my reflection shift with it. My eyes remain visible, sharp and dark beneath the satin frame, but the rest of me is cloaked in mystery. Softer. More dangerous. Like a secret waiting to be told in screams and sighs.

I don’t tie it yet. Not until I’ve taken in the sight of myself. My bare legs, the open robe, the flicker of firelight skimming every curve like his hands already have. The way my pulse throbs at my throat. I’ve never felt more visible than I do now, half-covered, half-masked, all exposed.

Slowly, I tie the mask into place, the ribbons whispering across my cheeks as I knot them behind my head. A shiver races down my spine, not from fear, but anticipation.

He told me to wear this.

He told me nothing else.

Which means he’ll do the rest.

The silence stretches.

Each candle flickers as if it senses what’s coming.

And then-

A soft click from the front door.

My breath catches.

I don’t move.

The footsteps are deliberate. Slow. The kind of pace Echo only uses when he knows you’re waiting. When he wants each step to be a warning.

I remain by the bed, spine straight, chin lifted, hands folded at my front like I’m about to be examined.

Judged.

Claimed.

The bedroom door creaks open behind me, and I watch him in the mirror as he enters.

Dark suit. No tie. Shirt collar open. Hair still wet from the rain.

His eyes find me in a breath, and he stops just inside the doorway.

Doesn’t speak.

Doesn’t blink.

His gaze trails from the mask down the line of my bare shoulder, over the open part of my robe, to the place where my thighs meet.

He inhales slowly.

And then the door clicks shut behind him.

The mask makes me feel like someone else, but the way he looks at me?

That makes me feel like his.

The door clicks shut behind him, sealing the room in warmth and flickering gold.

The candlelight doesn’t flinch. It just sways, soft and slow, casting shadows like dancers across the far walls.

My breath is still and shallow, held in my chest as if even exhaling too loudly might disturb the ritual he’s clearly set in motion.

I don’t speak. Don’t move. Every muscle in my body is tense with anticipation, every nerve aware of how bare I am beneath the silk robe hanging loose around my hips.

I expect him to speak. To say my name the way he always does, low and reverent like a prayer just before it turns blasphemous.

Or to hum something smug beneath his breath, the way he does when he wants to watch me squirm, knowing I’ll respond without even meaning to.

Echo never enters a room quietly when I’m waiting for him like this. He drinks in the moment. He owns it.

But the silence stretches too long.

There’s no teasing breath against my ear. No scrape of belt buckle. No quiet sound of shoes being kicked off in haste, like he’s too eager to bother with patience.

Just stillness.

Too still.

His footsteps are slow, but they don’t creak the floorboards.

They don’t make a sound at all, like he’s gliding across the room without the weight Echo always carries, the heaviness of his presence, the storm he brings with him wherever he goes.

This feels lighter. More precise. Measured in a way that sends a chill skimming across the surface of my skin.

I hear him behind me, not by sound but by pressure. The weight of a gaze I can’t see but feel, crawling up the back of my neck like something cold and wet. His breath fans the air, soft and even. No tension in it. No rasp.

I try to breathe around the tightness blooming in my chest, but something isn’t right.

I can feel it now, blooming slowly under the veil of warmth and intimacy like rot beneath roses.

Still, I stay frozen in place, as if moving will make it worse.

I try to listen, to latch onto any detail that might settle the dread rising like bile in my throat.

His hand touches my hip.

It’s gentle. Fingertips only. Tracing the curve like he’s uncertain, or worse, curious. The contact should ground me. Should remind me this is real, that it’s Echo, that I’m safe.

But it doesn’t.

His other hand moves higher, gliding up the side of my waist, brushing the edge of my ribs, then higher, toward the ribbon of the mask tied behind my neck. He stops there, fingers ghosting across the knot. He doesn’t pull. Doesn’t tug. Just lingers.

Watching.

Waiting.

Echo would’ve gripped me by now. Would’ve tilted my chin back, forced eye contact through the mask and reminded me exactly who I belonged to. He would’ve said something filthy, something dangerous. Something mine.

This man, this presence , says nothing.

When he finally does speak, the words land wrong in my ear, sliding beneath my skin like oil.

“You wore it for me…”

The voice is low. Controlled. But clean.

Too clean.

No rasp. No strain. No gravel curling around the consonants like a bruise. Echo’s voice is lived-in. Rough from war, worn from smoke and screaming and too many nights he didn’t sleep. This one is smooth. Precise. Like it’s been trained to charm and cut in equal measure.

My lungs freeze.

For one long, aching moment, I try to pretend I didn’t hear it. That the air between us is warped, the acoustics wrong. That it must be Echo and my mind is just playing tricks on me. But then he speaks again, and this time, there’s no denying it.

“I wonder,” he muses, voice thoughtful, as if turning me over in his mind, “if he knows how easy you are to dress up.”

My spine locks. My heart starts pounding, too loud, too fast, thudding against my ribs like it’s trying to escape.

My skin goes cold beneath the robe, the firelight suddenly too dim, the shadows too thick.

Every detail begins to warp in on itself.

Every flicker of candlelight feels like a warning I didn’t see in time.

I turn.

Too late.

He’s already stepping back, just far enough that I can’t see his face clearly through the low light. The shadows cling to his jaw, his cheeks, the corner of his mouth where a smile is blooming, sharp, cruel, and somehow worse than violence.

He wears a mask too.

Not velvet. Not soft.

Black leather, carved to cut, sculpted with precision like a second skin. The kind of mask meant for anonymity. Meant to hide the monster underneath, not invite it forward.

I don’t recognize him. Not fully. But he knows me. The way he watches me, owns the moment, tells me everything I need to know.

This isn’t Echo.

It never was.

He never intended to touch me.