The House Of The Devil Novels & Stories

(Adelaide & The Devil) He stepped inside. Adelaide’s breath fled her lungs. The man—The Devil—stood framed in the doorway, firelight painting sharp lines across his bare chest. His dark hair was damp with sweat, strands clinging to his forehead. His jaw was clenched hard, a muscle ticking violently. His shoulders rose and fell in slow, controlled breaths, the only visible sign of the storm he was barely keeping leashed beneath his skin.

Mia couldn't believe she was staring at the devil. She couldn't fathom how he was there in the first place. In second place, there was a very rich and powerful man bleeding to death on the restroom pathway of a vessel filled up with the ultra wealthy, and upper echelons of society. This was something straight out of a horror movie. “What the fuck, Luca?!” Her eyes doubled when she heard Lev’s voice. And as it moved, she saw him standing behind the devil, his mouth wide open in shock.

-- I worked extra late today, only when it’s nine thirty did I log out of my computer and I go home, exhausted and fed up, holding a paper cup of steaming pumpkin spice latte, I enter the house only to smell roasted potatoes, the whole house smells delicious, I kick my shoes and arrange them on the shoe rack before walking to the dining room. Devon is obsessed with the whole house being clean, everything is just so spotless, nothing is even out of place, it’s weird because he cleans the house himself. A bowl of roasted garlic mashed potatoes and chicken lies on one side of the table, a bottle of merlot wine placed beside the bowl and there’s also buttered Irish soda bread. What the hell? Dev

"Stop all drug supply to Mikequel Christoper! And return double the money received from him." "Yes, sir." Devon switched off the phone unilaterally. He looked down at his right hand, blood still clinging to his palm. He slapped the face of a young woman he would trust as his bottom. "I bet she's more brutal than Alaric's son and daughter," Devon thought. *****

Vimar and Brage sink into the grass, while Indra manages to stay upright. "Your friends aren't as strong as you are. You're interesting, little girl. Who are you?" Indra raises her chin, looks defiantly into the fairy queen’s bottomless black eyes and replies in a strong voice: "I am Indra, the Devil's Daughter." Melia's backing away. Her companions make hissing noises and the ashen fog retreats several meters revealing blossoming wildflowers underneath. Melia raises a hand and the fog stops. Then she turns back to Indra and studies her from top to bottom. "I didn't know Lucifer had a daughter..."

she asked inquisitively. “Devils Night is our favorite night of the year, a night of mischief. It started in Detroit but has spread so far beyond all of that. It is a night to celebrate being young and free, a night to have a little fun. I don’t see anything wrong with that.” she was hanging on my every word. It was all true but there was another reason for the name. Devil’s night was also Synestra’s birthday. “One final question, what do you think about the protests and people saying you somehow brainwash your fans with your music?” she asked and I could tell she thought this was a hard hitting question. I decided to have a little fun with her.

“Who are you?” “Let’s get you settled before I tell you who I am,” he said. I shook my head. “No.” My voice was hoarse from crying too much as I spoke. “Tell me, now. Please.” He sighed. “Lazzaro Visconti.” My already sore eyes widened, and my body began to tremble as I recoiled. No. Please. No. Lazzaro Visconti. The devil himself. He was said to have killed his wife after she bore twins for him. He was the most ruthless of them all, and above that, the Visconti family had a decade-long beef with my family—the Martelli family.

Maybe start planning my next escape for real this time. And then—he did something that caught me off guard. Ronan Blackwood, the Devil himself, squatted in front of me. Not stood. Not loomed. Squatted. Eye level. Holding two glasses of wine in his large hands. “What’s the problem?” he asked, his voice softer than I’d ever heard it. I looked away. “I’m fine,” I muttered.

No surprise Devon’s high gates were wide open when Josh rolled the car through them and parked up next to a slick black Corvette belonging to his buddy. His second team was overseen by his friend, Darren. A team rarely called on, but with much on hand tonight, both teams were on duty. Darren no doubt already had Devon just the way he wanted him: cowering. As he slipped from the car, he had to shake his head at the gushing fountains and marble-tiled pillars of Devon’s Mediterranean-designed house, knowing this posh lifestyle came from the suffering, blood-shedding and soul-stealing of innocent people.

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.