All Chapters of His Pretty Little Liar - The Devil’s Snare - Book 1: Chapter 291 - Chapter 300

Continued: "Guys," I murmur, my voice barely above a whisper as Sven meticulously cleans the dried blood from Niko's back, using his old t-shirt and a bottle of water that I hadn't had the chance to swipe myself. The air is thick with tension, and the desperate urgency of the moment hangs heavily around us. "In the market, at the stall. I saw Benji Densel there," I confess, the reality of the encounter clawing at my mind. "What?" Niko suddenly jolts closer, his eyes wide with a mix of fear and disbelief. His hand gently cradles my cheek as if trying to draw out the truth from me. "What did he want?" Sven's voice is low but laced with a sinister curiosity, a faint hint that he suspected as much but hadn't chosen to ask before. "Nothing," I reply with a shrug, though a frown creases my brow. The memory of Benji's inscrutable expression and actions is unsettling. "He just pushed me towards you and vanished as quickly as he appeared, like a ghost slipping through the shadows." And

Continued: "We should toss it into the ocean, cut off the proverbial loose cannon," Sven states, turning toward me with an intense gaze. "No communication is safer than obsessively waiting for their next move." "May I?" I ask, extending my hand for the phone. Bianca passes it to me with a quick, anxious motion as if relinquishing a dangerous artefact. I take a moment to inspect it, my curiosity piqued. The back cover lifts away easily, revealing an ancient battery, a relic from another era. Beneath it lies an old-style SIM card, its purpose nearly obsolete. The device powers on instantly, fully charged, and I delve into its contents, scrolling quickly through contacts, recent, and messages—only to find an unnerving emptiness. It's entirely devoid of any information to digest. "It's not an immediate threat," I clarify, glancing at the phone on the table between us, its screen dark and silent. "There's nothing on it to indicate it's been used before. It's likely that Densel—at least

Continued:As I scroll upwards through the messages, the rush of the downloaded images fills the screen: one of Luca striding purposefully through a vast hanger alongside the imposing figure of Mass; he looks tired and frayed, and another captures Emma, serene and unaware, nestled in her bed with her pillow between her legs as she always sleeps, and a third – a jarring sight – shows Niko, the fabric of his t-shirt drenched in crimson, stark against the sandy backdrop of the beach just earlier on and lastly, a picture of Sven, bruised and bloody, hanging on a familiar chair from the dining table of this very yacht in the darkness.Each of these snapshots feels painfully recent, yet Emma's photograph unsettles me the most. It appears pixilated, as though captured from a distance, and an unsettling thought creeps into my mind: could there be a breach in Luca's defence whilst she's left to defend herself and her baby? Is it possible that Emma, seemingly safe in her slumber inside a seemin

Two Hours Earlier Sven As I stroll through the boat's cabin, I navigate with a sense of purpose, the gentle sway of the vessel adding a rhythmic quality to my movements. My gaze scans the shelves, searching for the familiar bottles of alcohol that Dimitri enjoys keeping close at hand. This boat has always been a sanctuary from the hustle and bustle of his everyday life and is usually reserved for his cherished holidays. It serves as an escape for him and Lucia, a serene retreat on the picturesque island that Dimitri takes great pride in owning. This slice of paradise is not merely a yacht; it is a legacy that proves his ability to accumulate things over inheriting them from his father and even his grandfather before him.Dimitri presents a facade of stoicism, his expression often unyielding and impenetrable. Yet beneath this rugged exterior lies a complex and vulnerable soul that only a select few have been fortunate enough to encounter. Me being one of those souls.This, I believe

Bianca Derek's grip tightens around my bicep, the pressure like a vice, as he guides me away from the shadowy confines of the Morettas' boat shed. A heavy silence envelops us, the only sound the quiet lapping of the water against the dock as we make our way across the weathered boards. At the far end of the dock, we disembark from the wooden planks and step down onto the cool, damp sand. We walk on it for a few minutes around the unsuspecting corner, where a small motorboat awaits us. Its white hull gleams under the fading evening light, contrasting sharply with the dusky surroundings. Benji stands by the boat, his expression unreadable. He's flanked by Franko, who's covered in blood, most likely Sven's if my gut leads me to believe right, and a few other men I can't place. Their silhouettes loom against the backdrop of the moon, creating an atmosphere charged with tension and unspoken intentions. I implore Benji with every ounce of desperation coursing through me, my body trembl