Devil Of Dublin Novels & Stories

"Hmm, yes, no matter who he is, he can't actually be a devil, right? Tanya asked back as she didn't know why Lydia was acting that way about the devil. "The devil, a man who came from the deepest part of hell, a man whose face as beautiful as that of adonis, his body cannot be more perfect, his voice as deep and enticing as an angels voice, but personality like the devil. His smile can freeze one's heart and may even cause the person to die. It is rumoured that those who had seen that sinister smile either had fallen into a tragic trauma or better still died tragically. The devil is no other than Alexander quinn.

A strange gleam flickered in the Sheikh's eyes as he spoke, his deep voice breaking the silence: Shams al-Duhur: In a small town, there once lived a sect of corrupt humans who gathered the innocent and slaughtered them as sacrifices to demons. But the demons betrayed them, killing each one and leaving no bodies behind. Their blood filled a vast pit beneath this very town—a pit dug by the devil himself, which became a lake of human blood, fed daily by the endless violence of wars and accidents. From this curse, Malik was born. The devil claimed to be a soldier on Earth and sent him to fill that lake with blood without end. No human being can stop him or uncover his true nature.

Papa said. Ronan remained silent, a contemplative and tumultuous glint in his eyes as he watched me. “What, no gloating? Unlike you, D’yavol.” My stomach dropped, and my lips parted in awareness. Ronan chuckled at my expression. “Don’t look at me like I made it up. I prefer a woman screaming my Christian name when I’mburied deep inside her.” I was wrong. The devil didn’t have red skin and a forked tail. He reigned havoc on Moscow with a dirty mouth, an easy smile, and a snake for a heart.

"I fucking hate you" He didn't even seem fazed by my little outburst. Just stared at me like I was boring. "I haven't even started Matilda, you can't break already, that would be fucking boring" I was starting to realize why they called him the devil. His eyes spoke of torture and for the first time, I was truly scared of what he might do to me. A notification cut through the silence. His phone. He glanced at it once. Then his expression shifted slightly. Not emotionally, Just focused now.

His hands crunched the bones around my wrist. "Please. Please, don't kill me. I am not a spy,” I pleaded. He grabbed my hair and tossed my head backwards. He placed the knife over my neck. "Don Rossini is an old lousy man with loose plans. Say hello to the devil when you get to hell,” He whispered into my ear, the hair at the back of my neck rose high. He pressed the sharp blade over my neck. "Rossetti?!” His hands froze at a spot. He reduced his grip around my hair. I was able to see Valentine standing at the door.

I closed my eyes, shut my mind from thinking anything, and started counting in my heart to distract myself from the devil's closeness. "It's getting cold," The devil whispered into my ear after a while and I trembled from the slight touch of his lips rubbing on my earlobe. I immediately opened my eyes, flushed completely, and when I saw that devilish smirk on his face. I felt like digging a hole and hiding inside it. How could I be so idiot? He isn't the one in s*x more than I am... Why do I always keep thinking about s*x with him even when I know he is a devil and a dangerous creature?

DANTE'S POV People call me the Devil of New York. They're not wrong. I've killed men for less than a dirty look. I've gutted rats who thought they could steal from me. I've fucked women who begged for mercy and made them beg for more pain instead. My empire runs on blood, loyalty, and fear. That's the only language this rotten world understands. And tonight, I reminded everyone of it. Crawford thought he could play me. Thought he could borrow money from my syndicate, promise returns, and then ghost like I'm some dumb fuck banker. No. You don't spit in my face and walk away.

Only the foolish make deals with the devil. Only the ones drowning in pride… or pain. Because the devil doesn’t barter. He doesn’t wait at crossroads. He doesn’t ask for permission. He takes. He does not knock—he kicks down the door. He does not beg—he commands. He does not love—he consumes. He wraps his hunger in charm, his cruelty in confidence, his madness in tailored suits and cold, perfect smiles. And once you catch his eye, it’s already too late.

Wolves collided with the shadows of those wings, thrown across the room as blood and instant death erupted. Vivica froze, eyes wide, her chest rising as she watched the devil himself descend upon them. The dark blue aura surrounding him pressed against her burning skin, sending a thrill along her heated skin, and desire, through her. All the rumors about him turned out to be true. He was the Devil. The real Devil. Finn stepped forward deliberately, each movement slow, lethal, deliberate. He stopped just in front of her, the room now deathly silent except for the beat of her pulsing heat.

The vampire was looking at the devil as if to a psychopath " well let's see how much more cuter my dear daughter can get" says the devil and got his wings out and started flying toward Celea