Page 54 of Devil’s Night (The Shadows of Darkness Universe #3)

Chapter forty

Run Echo Run

Echo

I hadn’t planned to be gone this long.

That thought hits first, sharp and dismissive, like an aftertaste I want to spit out the second it forms. I know better.

Timing matters. Precision matters. I should’ve been here an hour ago, maybe two.

I’d planned every step of the night with the kind of scrutiny that keeps people alive.

But I let myself relax, let myself believe we had time.

That she was safe. That this house, my house, was the one place on earth no one could touch her.

Now the second I step through the front door, every nerve in my body tells me I was wrong.

It isn’t immediate, no shattered glass, no alarms. Nothing loud or obvious.

It’s quiet.

Too quiet.

And the air… it’s wrong. Warm. Sweet.

There’s a scent curling through the space that doesn’t belong to this house. Not to me. Not to her. Wax, maybe. Smoke. A soft, sickly sweetness like vanilla left too long in the sun. I follow it into the hall, where the flicker of firelight paints the edges of the walls in gold.

I don’t own a single fucking candle.

But there they are. Lined up on the hallway table, flame by flame, burning low like they’ve been lit for hours. The wax is dripping steadily down onto the surface, creating glossy little puddles on wood I keep spotless.

None of this is mine.

Every step toward the bedroom feels heavier. Slower. My boots barely make a sound, but the air gets thicker with every breath, like I’m descending into something I can’t quite see.

The closer I get, the more I feel it, presence. Not energy. Not movement. But intent. This isn’t just a setup. It’s a message. Every carefully placed candle, every softened light, the scent still clinging to the air... it was all arranged with one goal in mind:

To draw her in.

And now it’s drawing me.

I reach the doorway and stop.

The bedroom is still bathed in that same low golden glow, soft and romantic like a scene from a dream.

The bed’s unmade. The sheets pulled halfway to the floor, her silk dress twisted in a heap, the sash torn loose beside it.

It would look like foreplay, like a perfect, delicate mess, if not for the silence.

If not for the fact that she’s not here.

And then I see it.

Her mask.

The one I left on the pillow this morning, untouched, waiting. It’s not there now. It’s on the floor, crushed at the bridge like someone gripped it too hard, like it was torn off in a rush.

My eyes scan the room, cataloging every inch like a sniper sighting targets. The chair near the vanity is pushed back at an odd angle. One of the candles has toppled onto its side. And there, just beside the window, almost like an afterthought, a single black glove.

Placed.

Deliberate.

Like a signature.

I move slowly, not because I’m afraid, because I’m calculating .

Because if I let myself feel for even one goddamn second, I’ll start tearing this room apart until there’s nothing left but splinters and rage.

My hand hovers near my weapon as I walk to the glove, crouching to examine it. No initials. No markings. No blood.

But I already know what this is.

This wasn’t a robbery.

It wasn’t a mistake.

It was an infiltration .

Someone planned this. Someone got into my house. Past my security. Past every measure I set in place. Someone walked into my territory, looked at the woman I love, and decided they could take her.

And they did.

My vision goes dark at the edges. I’m aware of my breath, how shallow it is. A knot twists deep in my gut, not panic, but grief . The kind of grief that becomes fire. Becomes rage. Becomes the end of whoever was stupid enough to think they could touch her without dying for it.

I back out of the room slowly, keeping my gaze on the floor as I trace the faint scuff marks from her heels, dragged, not walked. Every detail confirms what I already know. She didn’t go willingly. This wasn’t seduction. This was force. Silent, surgical, and personal.

Someone knew where to hit me. Knew exactly when to strike. And they left the scene just messy enough to twist the knife.

I reach for my phone, already barking commands into the line before it fully rings.

“Lock the compound. Sweep the perimeter. Pull every camera within a ten-block radius. Anyone moves, I want them flagged. If they’re breathing, I want them on their knees.”

There’s no need to say who I’m looking for.

They know.

She’s gone.

The room has been stripped of safety. Every familiar detail, the sheets she curled up in, the pillow she stole from my side, the robe I left draped over the chair for her comfort, has been transformed. Twisted. Turned into part of a spectacle I never gave permission for.

This was supposed to be ours.

But the moment I step fully into the bedroom, it feels desecrated.

My boots stop at the edge of the bed, the soles grazing across the faint smear of blood on the hardwood, hers, without question.

That iron-rich scent is faint but distinct, and it coils up into my sinuses like a taunt.

I track the trail, small, deliberate spots, not enough to kill her, just enough to tell me she bled. To let me know.

And then I see it.

Not tucked away.

Not hidden.

Right there, bold as a fucking slap.

A note.

Placed neatly on the center of the bed like a calling card. White, stark against the muted grays of our bedding. The handwriting is tight, slanted, and deliberate, each curve and angle more of a threat than any weapon.

I don’t touch it right away.

Just stare.

I want to believe, for a fraction of a breath, that maybe she left it.

That it’s from her. A whisper, a warning, something.

But the longer I look at it, the more I know.

She wouldn’t leave her blood on my bed. She wouldn’t disappear without a fight.

And she sure as hell wouldn’t leave a note written in something that smells like rust and revenge.

When I finally pick it up, the paper is heavier than it looks.

No frills. Just a message.

Thought your past wouldn’t come to haunt you?

Time to clip her wings.

That’s it.

That’s all they needed to say.

And yet it’s everything.

My hands don’t shake. Not visibly. But my breath shortens, tightens in my throat, the same way it did the first time I held a blade to a man’s neck and realized I wasn’t doing it for orders, I was doing it because it felt necessary.

This?

This feels worse.

Because someone thinks they’ve reached back into a part of me I buried long ago. The version I’ve kept chained, starved, half-dead behind layers of cold logic and control. They think they can dig him up and puppeteer him. Use my history like a knife.

But what they don’t understand is, I buried that man for a reason.

Not because he was weak.

Because he was too efficient.

And now?

Now I’ll become him again.

Not because they dragged me there.

Because they threatened her.

They touched something I built with blood and grit. They broke into the only home I’ve ever let myself want. And they left behind a fucking invitation to war. A message written in her blood, daring me to remember exactly what I used to be.

And I will.

Every brutal second of it.

Because this time, I’m not fighting for Catalyst.

I’m not fighting for orders, or control, or legacy.

I’m fighting for her.

And when I find them, whoever they are, wherever they’re hiding, I won’t ask questions.

I’ll just burn the world until she’s back in my arms.

Because if they clipped her wings, then I’ll teach them what it means to die by the hands of a man who knows how to fly without them.

The paper crumples in my fist.

I don’t even feel the burn of it cutting into my skin, don’t register the blood where my nails break through flesh. All I can see is that goddamn line, still burned into my mind like a brand.

Time to clip her wings.

I stare at the bed, the sheets we shared, the fabric that still smells like her. And then something inside me just... detonates.

A roar tears from my throat, guttural and raw, the kind that hasn’t left my body in years. Not since before Catalyst. Not since I was the monster they trained and then tried to bury. It echoes off the walls, rattles the picture frames, vibrates through my ribs like a bomb went off behind them.

And then I move.

The first thing to go is the nightstand.

I rip the drawer clean out and throw it across the room, contents shattering against the far wall in a burst of broken glass and useless bullets.

The lamp follows, glass exploding as it hits the floor.

A candle gets kicked sideways, wax splattering up the wall like blood.

The dresser doesn't stand a chance. One solid boot and it tips, crashing sideways with a wooden groan that almost sounds like protest. I drag the rest to the floor with both hands, not even feeling the splinters slicing my palms as it goes down in a thunderous heap.

The mirror above it cracks when I slam my fist into it, once, twice, three times, until my knuckles are split open and the reflection staring back at me is fractured, distorted. Unrecognizable. A dozen shards of my own face, all twisted with fury. All helpless. All too late.

“FUCK!”

The word rips through the space like a gunshot, but it doesn’t make a dent in the grief thudding beneath my sternum. It doesn’t do a damn thing to quiet the sound of her voice in my head. The way she whispered my name last night like it meant something. Like I meant something.

And now she’s gone.

Stolen.

Used to get to me.

Used to hurt me.

My hands slam against the walls as I pace the room like an animal trapped in a burning cage, fury blurring my vision. I want to destroy more. I want to raze the fucking building. Tear down the ceiling, rip through the floorboards, scream until the sound breaks something other than myself.

But even as I wreck everything around me, it isn’t enough.

Because I can’t break the thing I want to most.

The one who took her.

The one who dared.

The one who thought I’d come undone.

You don’t get to take her from me and live.

You don’t get to leave her blood in my bed and walk away.

You don’t get to leave a message unless you’re ready for a reply.

And mine?

Mine will be delivered with a body count.