Page 53 of Devil’s Night (The Shadows of Darkness Universe #3)

He only wanted me vulnerable.

“You should see yourself,” he says, tilting his head. “A little candlelight. A velvet mask. And all that loyalty just melts away, doesn’t it?”

I don’t speak. I can’t. My mouth is dry, my body frozen, still reeling from the violation of what I let myself believe. What I invited in.

“You looked so pretty standing there. Waiting.” His tone is light. Pleased. “I almost didn’t want to ruin it.”

He starts walking toward the door, not rushed, not even careful. Confident. He’s made his move, and he doesn’t need to stay to see the damage it caused. My silence is confirmation enough.

At the threshold, he glances back over his shoulder. I see the faintest glint of his eyes beneath the mask, inhumanly calm.

“I’ll see you again soon,” he says softly, almost sweetly. “When Echo’s not home to protect you.”

The door shuts behind him.

No echo. No footsteps.

Just silence.

The moment the door shuts, I collapse forward.

Not onto my knees, not in surrender, but in recoil.

My arms shake as I brace them against the mattress, trying to steady myself, trying to understand what the hell just happened.

The air around me still smells like smoke and sandalwood, the warmth of the candles licking my skin like some cruel afterthought, as if the room hasn’t realized that the ritual is over.

That it was never real.

The mask lies in a heap on the floor now, crumpled and accusing, its velvet form stained by my own sweat and shame. I want to scream. I want to rip it apart, destroy every soft reminder of how I stood here, bare, trusting, waiting , for a man who never even stepped inside.

I should’ve known. Should’ve felt it sooner. But I’d let my heart cloud my instincts. Let the scent of him, the idea of him, be enough.

I force myself to stand.

I’m halfway across the room before the world goes silent again, not warm, not reverent, just still.

Still in the wrong way.

Still like something is holding its breath.

My spine prickles. The hairs on my arms rise.

I don’t hear the door open again. I don’t hear the footsteps. There’s no sound to warn me, just the shift in the air, the kind you feel before a storm hits and tears everything apart. It’s in that heartbeat of silence, that razor-slice of knowing, that I realize, I’m not alone.

I spin, but too late.

A hand wraps around my wrist and yanks.

Hard.

My whole body lurches forward, and I hit the dresser with a dull thud, the edge biting into my hip.

My free hand lashes out, nails catching cloth, skin, something.

The scent that hits me isn’t Echo, it’s sharper, metallic, threaded with sweat and something sterile.

The grip tightens. His other arm snakes around my waist, pinning both of mine to my sides before I can even get enough air to scream.

My throat burns.

I open my mouth, just enough to yell, just enough to cry out his name, but I don’t even get that far.

He shoves something between my lips. It’s thick, cotton maybe, and laced with something bitter.

My jaw aches as it stretches to accommodate the gag, my scream strangled down to a pathetic muffled sob.

I thrash harder, twisting my body, trying to drop to the floor or kick out behind me, but he’s strong, brutally so, and frighteningly silent.

No curses.

No gloating.

No sound at all except my own ragged breathing and the sharp shuffle of feet on the wooden floor as he drags me back toward the hallway.

I slam my heels against the ground, claw at his wrists, elbow his ribs.

He stumbles once, I feel his balance shift, feel a sliver of hope slice through the fear, but it’s not enough.

He adjusts too fast. Traps my wrists with one hand, yanks them behind my back so hard I nearly cry out around the gag, and clamps his other arm tight around my throat, not choking, not yet, but controlling.

Possessing.

The hallway spins as he forces me down the stairs.

My feet barely find the edges of the steps.

I stumble, crash against the wall, but he holds me upright, herds me with precision, like he knows the layout of the house as well as I do.

Like he planned this. Like every step has been choreographed in advance.

The candles flicker behind us. The flames distort and dance as if they know what’s happening, but they offer no protection.

No witness.

Just heat.

Just shadows.

He doesn’t speak until we reach the bottom of the stairs. Until he slams me up against the wall just past the threshold of the kitchen, knocking the wind out of my lungs. My legs buckle beneath me, but he’s already pulling something from beneath his coat. A small syringe. A cap. A glint of silver.

Terror floods me so fast I can barely see.

I try to scream again, louder this time, but it’s no use. My throat burns, my jaw aches, and the sound dies in the folds of the gag.

That’s when he finally leans in, pressing his masked face close to mine.

His breath is steady.

His voice colder than the steel he's about to sink into my skin.

“You should’ve stayed quiet.”