Page 8 of Devil’s Night (The Shadows of Darkness Universe #3)

My stomach twists. Adrenaline roars through me as I jerk my blade from my pocket, the hilt biting into my raw palms. The man lunges just as I slash, steel tearing across his palm in a quick, clean line.

He hisses, but the sound is amusement, not pain.

That smile returns, only now it’s twisted. Unhinged.

He takes a step back, admiring the blood trickling from the wound like it's an offering. I hold the knife out between us, feet planted, ignoring the ache in my heels and the scream in my tendons. Pain has no place here now.

Only survival.

Who the fuck is this man?

“Fentanyl on the cables,” he says casually, flexing his bleeding hand as he looks down at Nikolai’s crumpled body. “Narcan’s in my car. He might live. Might not. Honestly?” His eyes cut back to mine, voice dropping to a snarl. “He’s not the one I came for.”

Another step closer.

My grip tightens, blade steady, breath ragged.

“Step the fuck back before I show you what your insides look like,” I growl, steel meeting steel in my voice.

His grin widens.

“This?” he asks, lifting his bleeding hand. “I let you do this Katya. I let you see me bleed.”

And then, God help me , he drags his tongue slowly across the cut, licking the blood like it’s some kind of ritual.

My stomach lurches.

What the actual fuck.

“You’re sick,” I spit. "How the hell do you know my name?" I seethe.

“How do I know your name?” he muses, ignoring the insult completely. His tone is taunting now, teeth bared in a smile that doesn’t belong on a sane man. “How do I know his name? How did I reroute your Tesla’s GPS without ever stepping inside it?”

He leans in, eyes gleaming.

“Who has all the questions now, Katya? ”

It’s the ink that gives him away.

A dark, inky tattoo etched into the underside of his wrist, revealed for the briefest moment as his sleeve shifts. But I know that mark, have memorized it in the nightmares that followed Isaac’s death. It’s more than a symbol. It’s a signature.

Catalyst.

Everything inside me unravels at once. Thought dissolves. Training, instinct, grief, they all merge into one blinding surge of rage. I don’t hesitate. My body moves before my mind catches up, launching forward as my voice rips out raw and venom-laced.

“You killed my brother!”

The knife flashes in my hand, silver catching in the fading light as I strike again and again.

My aim is precise, but he’s faster. He ducks every swing, his body moving like he’s already memorized my rhythm.

There’s something calculated in the way he avoids each blow, not defensive, not panicked. Almost… entertained.

His hand shoots out, wrapping around my throat, not with the intent to strangle, but to command.

One smooth motion and I’m driven back, slammed against the hood of the Tesla.

The metal shudders beneath me, the impact rattling down my spine.

My breath catches in my throat, but I don’t cry out.

I grit my teeth, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

Pain pulses behind my eyes. The blood, his, mine, I can’t tell anymore, smears across my cheek and jaw.

Copper thickens the air, seeping into my mouth.

He leans over me, body heavy, posture relaxed as he rips the blade from my hand.

My back arches against the cold metal of the car as he pins me there, his presence pressing down like a storm.

The knife, now in his hand, drags along the curve of my waist. Not hard enough to cut. Just enough to remind me he’s in control. I try to shift beneath him, but he anticipates it, adjusting his grip until every part of me is locked into place, beneath him, beneath this moment.

“You’re fast,” he says, voice low, smooth. Almost admiring. “But sloppy.”

I hate the way my breath hitches. Hate the heat that prickles across my skin despite the cold. I hate the way his eyes stay fixed on me, on my face, my lips, my throat, as if he’s mapping the entire geography of my fear and fascination in real time.

And I hate how much he sees.

“So much fire,” he murmurs, leaning in. His breath brushes my lips, warm and maddening. The sound of it makes the space between us feel intimate in a way that shouldn’t be possible, not like this, not now .

Before I can respond, before I can twist away or scream or sink my teeth into his neck, he pulls something from his pocket. I see the blur of movement, and then the cloth is over my mouth.

A sickly sweet scent floods my nose and burns its way through my skull. Chloroform. I try to thrash, to turn my face away, but it’s already too late. The fight drains from my limbs. The air thickens, my head spinning as his voice drips into the hollow space left in my mind.

“I did kill your brother,” he whispers, not with regret, but with purpose. The blade in his hand lowers, slowly, tracing down the front of my body with unbearable slowness. Not to harm. To mark.

“And now, Little Butterfly,” he says, his mouth so close to my ear it sends a chill racing down my spine, “I'm going to kill you.”

Darkness claws at the edges of my vision. The last thing I feel is the scrape of the blade halting just above my waistband, daring, lingering. The last thing I see is the curve of his mouth, something between a smirk and a promise.

And then everything disappears.