All Chapters of The Devil You Know : Chapter 71 - Chapter 80

ELIJAH I bucked, but the drug hit fast—head swimming, limbs growing heavy. “No…” My voice slurred slightly, vision blurring at the edges. Panic clawed, but my body betrayed me, muscles softening against my will. While the haze built, Cristian turned to Alonso. They crashed together again, kissing fierce, hands tearing at clothes. Shirts hit the floor, Cristian's lean frame against Alonso's bulk. Belts unbuckled, pants dropped, cocks springing free. Alonso's was thick, veined, head already leaking; Cristian's longer, curving up. They stroked each other while making out, grunts mixing with wet smacks of lips. “Condoms,” Cristian muttered, breaking the kiss. He grabbed two from the table, ripping packets open. They rolled them on, latex snapping tight, lubing up with quick pumps of fists. Alonso's eyes never left me, cock twitching in his hand. The bed dipped as they climbed on, Cristian positioning in the middle. My head lolled, the injection making everything fuzzy

ELIJAH A faint noise pierced the fog in my head, pulling me from the depths of whatever drugged oblivion I'd been sinking into. It was a whimper—soft, broken, like the mewling of wounded animals echoing around me. My eyelids felt glued shut, heavy with exhaustion and chemicals that still coursed through my veins, making my limbs leaden and unresponsive. I tried to move, to lift a hand or even twitch a finger, but nothing happened. My body betrayed me, shutting down inch by inch, the sedative clinging like a lover I couldn't shake. But my ears worked fine, sharp in the haze, catching every pitiful sob, every ragged breath from the shadows. The sounds sharpened into something more structured, rhythmic. Voices—deep, male, laced with excitement and greed—rose in the distance, numbers thrown like weapons. “Fifty thousand!” one barked. “Seventy-five!” another countered, the words overlapping in a frenzy. Bidding. It sounded like an auction, the kind I'd only heard about

ELIJAH It’s been weeks. I don’t even know how many anymore. The sun rises, sets, and bleeds into another day that feels exactly like the one before. The walls of this room are too clean, too quiet. They hum with silence, mocking me. Nora comes in again—same time, same tray, same soft expression like she’s afraid I’ll shatter if she breathes too loudly. She sets the food down on the bedside table, along with the pills I’ve grown to hate. “Eli,” she says gently, “you need to eat. You can’t keep skipping your medication.” I stare at her, then at the food. The smell makes me sick. I shake my head. “I’m not hungry.” She sighs. It’s that kind of sigh people give when they’ve run out of words but still have to say something. “You said that yesterday. And the day before. Please…just a little.” “I said I’m not hungry,” I snap, my voice breaking halfway. She flinches. I hate that she flinched. Nora tries again, sitting on the edge of the bed, cautious. “You need to calm down. You’r

ELIJAH The smell of fried eggs and toasted bread hit me the moment I came down the stairs. It was the kind of smell that usually meant peace—home, warmth, stability. The kind that said, you’re safe here. For the first time in weeks, I thought maybe I could breathe again. The faint chatter of the morning news drifted from the living room where my father sat, his low voice occasionally grumbling at the television. I could see my mother, bustling around in her nurse uniform, her hair tied up neatly, her focus on setting the table. She moved with the same rhythm she always had, as if nothing in the world could shake her calm. I stood there for a second, watching her. It almost felt like the world had paused for me to take this in. After everything that happened—the chaos, the pain, Andrade’s silence—it felt unreal to be back here. Back in this house that smelled of coffee and disinfectant. My old life. The one I ran from. Mom turned, saw me standing by the stairs,

ANDRADE The clock on the wall ticked too loud. Every sound grated against my skull like sandpaper. I’d been sitting behind my desk for hours, just staring at the same damn file, pretending to read. My eyes kept going back to my phone, to the message I hadn’t answered. ~ If you don’t come, you’ll never see me again.” I’d read it a hundred times, maybe more. The words had burned through me, left something raw behind that wouldn’t heal. It had been a month. A month since I brought him back from that nightmare. A month since I took him to the safehouse, made sure he had everything he needed, and then walked away like a coward. He had looked so fragile that day — quiet, pale, still trembling when I left. I told myself it was for his own good. That I was protecting him. But the truth? I couldn’t stand to look at him. Every time I saw his face, the guilt tore through me. The disgust followed close behind. I hated myself for it. The knock on the door was soft, but I sti