Page 7 of Devil’s Night (The Shadows of Darkness Universe #3)

Chapter seven

The Path Less Traveled

Katya

“ Y ou look like fucking shit,” Nikolai laughs, the sound dry and grating as he fumbles with his house key. His fingers, jittery from whatever he took earlier, move quickly, not toward the door, but toward his next fix.

With practiced ease, he dumps a fresh line of coke onto the key’s flat edge, snorts it without flinching, and exhales like it’s the only thing keeping him standing.

“You can thank your sister for that,” I mutter, flexing my bruised knuckles, watching the cracked skin pull tight over split bone. The sting is dull now. Familiar.

“Maria?” He arches a brow, shaking his head with a scoff. “Don’t tell me you finally laid into her.”

“More like… I finally stopped listening to Mrs. Pavlov.”

He lets out a low whistle, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. “You know your father’s gonna lose his mind when he hears about that. This isn’t the time for you to start going rogue, Katya. Not after Isaac. Both our families are on edge. They’re expecting us to be flawless.”

I glance at him sideways, voice flat. “You only came to pick me up so you could check off a box on your family's weekly Romanov PR tour. Make Mommy and Daddy think you give a shit.”

“It’s all about the money, Katya dear,” he sneers, mimicking my father’s favorite phrase.

“Our parents didn’t marry for love, and neither will we.

It's legacy. Power. That’s all it’s ever been.

The least we can do is pretend, spare a few civil moments together so the time we’re forced to share doesn’t feel like outright war. ”

“Oh yes,” I smile bitterly, “me, you, your coke lines, and your limp cock...a Romanov fairytale.”

His eyes narrow, the grip on the wheel tightening as he exhales through his nose. The tension between us shifts, colder now, but not unfamiliar.

“My cock will be fine,” he snaps, holding the bag of coke up between two fingers like a trophy. His gaze locks on mine, sharp and petulant. “So long as the Romanov drugs keep flowing my way.”

My hand trails slowly across his thigh, deliberate and unhurried. Fingertips graze the soft fabric of his pants before slipping beneath, dancing lightly over the weak bulge hidden behind his boxers. No teasing, just intention. A firm grasp, a slow, calculated massage. Enough to get a reaction.

His breath catches, body stiffening beneath my touch. For a second, his eyes widen, not in pleasure, but in panic. There’s no hunger in his expression, no heat. Just tension.

Coke cock.

The realization is enough to make my lips twitch with amusement.

He swats my hand away, too late to hide the embarrassment creeping up his neck. His cheeks flush red, and he fumbles with his pants, trying, and failing, to recover whatever dignity he thinks he has left.

“I have my doubts,” I murmur, voice soft but loaded, watching him struggle.

His scowl is immediate. “You know,” he snaps, still adjusting his waistband, “you really are a bitch.”

A smile curls at the corner of my mouth, unfazed. “You’re not betrothed to me for my kind attitude,” I reply smoothly, leaning back, letting the silence stretch long enough for the humiliation to settle between us.

He doesn’t answer.

He can’t.

Because we both know the truth.

This arrangement was never built on compatibility, just power, inheritance, and appearances.

Eyes locked on Nikolai’s GPS, I narrow my gaze. The route displayed on the screen winds deeper into forest than it should. Less city. Less light. More trees. More isolation. The map shows us frozen in place, the icon of the car unmoving even as the tires hum beneath us.

Nikolai taps the screen with growing agitation. Nothing changes.

“What the fuck?” he mutters, leaning closer. White powder still clings to the edge of his nostrils, smeared like war paint. His high is wearing off, and with it, the illusion of control.

“I thought you were taking me home , ” I bite out, sitting up straighter.

“Traffic,” he shoots back, almost defensive. “This way was supposed to be quicker-”

But something isn’t right.

“Brakes,” I say sharply, gaze darting to the road ahead.

Nikolai flinches but slams his foot down, jolting us to a hard stop. The tires screech against damp asphalt, and we both lurch forward.

Just ahead, an older SUV idles sideways in the middle of the lane, hazard lights off. A lone figure stands near the front of the vehicle, hunched under the lifted hood, his features obscured by a ball cap and shadow. At first glance, he looks harmless, one man, working on the dead engine.

But something feels… wrong.

He steps away from the hood, slowly, deliberately. Broad shoulders, tall frame, dark light brown curls that peek out from beneath his hat. Dressed in a black hoodie and dark jeans, he blends into the early evening like smoke. Hard to place his age, early thirties, maybe.

With a casual wave, he signals toward us and begins walking in a steady line toward Nikolai’s side of the car.

Nikolai tenses beside me. His hand drifts low, curling around the grip of the pistol in his holster. His instincts are predictable, pull the gun, play the tough guy.

“What the hell is he doing?” he whispers, voice tight.

I swat his hand before he can fully draw. “His car’s just broken down,” I say under my breath. “Don’t be a jackass. Roll the window down and try not to look like a paranoid cokehead.”

Nikolai grits his teeth, then reluctantly pulls his hand away from the weapon and hits the window switch. It rolls down halfway, but the man is too tall, his torso blocks the view entirely, his face still obscured.

“Hey, man,” the stranger says, his voice low, deep, and strangely smooth. “Got jumper cables? Battery’s toast.”

“This is a Tesla,” Nikolai scoffs, rolling his eyes as he leans out the window.

“Which has a battery,” I cut in. “Get out and help him. It’s not like he can call for roadside out here. Signal’s trash.” Without waiting for a response, I swipe Nikolai’s coke bag from the center console and hold it up like a prize.

His eyes snap wide.

“No more goodies,” I smile coolly.

The switch flips in his face. Nikolai bares his teeth, practically growling. “You better get your entitled ass out and help,” he hisses, throwing his door open with a loud metallic creak.

Rolling my eyes, I mirror the motion, stepping out into the crisp bite of the autumn air. Leaves scatter across the pavement, the quiet crackle beneath my boots louder than it should be. The air smells of pine, cold metal, and something else I can’t name yet.

The man’s still standing at the front of the SUV.

He hasn’t stopped watching us.

“Do you have jumper cables?” Nikolai asks, his tone clipped, posture stiff.

“In my trunk,” the man replies, motioning casually behind him. “I can grab them-”

“No,” Nikolai snaps, cutting him off before he can finish. “I got it.”

Without waiting for a response, he rounds the car toward the back, his gait sharp, erratic. The coke still has him on edge, short fuse, shallow breathing, every nerve fraying. He’s one wrong word away from turning this into a shootout.

And just like that, I’m left alone with the stranger.

Only now do I really look at him. Really see him.

Golden-brown curls tousled under a ball cap. Skin sun-warmed and dusted with stubble. A thick scar cuts down his right cheek, catching just enough light to be noticed. His eyes are dark, unreadable, but not empty.

Tall. Broad. Older.

Up close, he could pass for a model in a rugged kind of way, like one of those fashion campaigns that tries too hard to look effortless. But there’s something sharper beneath the exterior. Controlled. Coiled. A stillness that doesn’t belong on someone stranded by a dead battery.

His eyes flick to mine, and my stomach dips.

There’s weight in his gaze, like he’s not just looking at me, but into me.

“What did you do to your hands?” he asks, voice low and steady.

I blink, instinctively curling my fingers before shoving both hands deep into pockets.

The skin on my knuckles is still raw, bruised and cracked from training, from Maria, from every time I stopped pretending to be someone delicate.

His question lands strange. Not condescending. Not amused. Just... curious. Which, somehow, is worse.

“Why does it matter?” I reply, tone flat.

“Just looks painful,” he says, his gaze lingering. He doesn’t push, but he doesn’t look away either.

“It is,” I admit after a beat. “Still, none of your concern.”

His expression doesn’t change, but something tightens in his jaw. He glances down the road, then toward the trees, like he’s scanning for something.

Or someone.

“A lot of old money around these parts,” he mutters, arms crossing over his chest. “Really nice car for two faces as young as yours to be driving.”

There’s something loaded in the way he says it. Not quite accusatory, but not casual, either.

“You ask a lot of questions,” I whisper, voice low, fingers curling tighter around the hilt of the blade hidden in my pocket.

The metal is cool against my skin, grounding.

His gaze shifts back to me, expression unreadable.

And for a moment, the air feels like it’s holding its breath.

“Do I?” he echoes, head tilting ever so slightly to the side.

There’s something eerily calm about the way he says it, as if he's humoring me, drawing out the moment like a cat toying with a mouse.

“Nikolai?” I call out, louder this time, stepping back instinctively as the man takes a deliberate step forward.

No answer.

My heart stutters. No footsteps. No voice. Nothing.

The man nods slowly, that half-smile tugging again at the corners of his mouth. It doesn’t reach his eyes.

Glancing toward the back of the car, the color drains from my face. Nikolai’s body lies motionless near the open trunk, slumped across the gravel. Hands still wrapped around the jumper cables, his knuckles pale.

No rise and fall in his chest.

No twitch.

Just stillness.

Oh no.