Wicked Devil Novels & Stories

The man was a Fallen Devil! A Fallen Devil was a Cultivator who had been infected by Devil Qi, or had strayed into the Devil's Practice for some reason. He would possess the strengths of both an Immortal and a Devil.

Halsey watched as Dwight stepped forward, yanking the Stormborn Devil away with a powerful motion. The Stormborn Devil quickly regained his composure and snarled, his face twisting in rage. "You brat! How dare you ruin my fun!" With that, the Stormborn Devil swung a punch at Dwight. Dwight, agile and quick, effortlessly dodged the blow and retaliated with a punch to the Stormborn Devil's stomach. With a loud bang, the Stormborn Devil crashed into the side of the car, spitting out a mouthful of blood.

And it's ironic because that day was the first day he ever truly called my name with compassion. Blinking away the memory, I bend over the sink and splash water on my face, a devilish grin on. Maybe Papa was right when he said I was from the devil. Else, which child would tie her father to his favorite wooden chair and set him on fire? I felt nothing that day, even though I had a beating heart. I didn't pity him, even though I had a soul that was meant to be kind. Then again, maybe I was once an angel, a mockingbird killed by the wickedness of the ones I loved the most. Maybe it was Papa that turned me into the devil I became today.

she whispered "He asked me to please here, I just do this for money really. He called me I didn't come here on my own" The woman laughed. She was Diana k kws for having a bad temper, also hate when her things are covered, she was bad news: no whore wnated to cross path with her. “Do I look like I care if you’re a whore?” She grabbed Calla’s hair. Outside, the bouncers laughed. “I knew she would end up like this.” he muttered to his fellow-mate. Zane also ways took girls out, fvck and does what he wants! Why? Of course to make Diana angry and so she could go feral... crazy.

His eyes were dark and completely without expression. "My name is Alaric Virelli," he said, as though he expected that to mean something to me, as though his name was supposed to settle everything. "I don't care who you are," I said. "I am not going anywhere with you." Dorian grabbed my arm again and this time he yanked me toward him so hard that I stumbled. He got his face close to mine and his eyes were ugly with something I recognized after a moment as desperation. Not anger. Desperation. He needed this. Whatever this was, he needed it badly enough to drag me out of the house in the rain and hand me over to strangers.

He pointed towards the ward down the hallway. Nikolai watched me, waiting for a reaction. I froze and tried to remember where the name came from. My mind went back to days before my wedding. The music at the club was loud. The DJ played with energetic vibes. The bartender mixed two different drinks and slid them towards us. My fingers tightened around the glass as I took a slow sip. Polina's phone vibrated on the table, the screen displayed “Babe.” She didn't hesitate to swipe right and walked toward the exit.

“A favor. That 's it. I don’t have anything in mind, yet. But when I do, I’ll call for you, you’ll answer me. No matter what. Otherwise, the deal is broken and you’ll get back to this shithole.” Mia breathed heavily. A favor? Get out of there? “Are you the Devil?” she asked. She still remembered some of the things her mother had told her. Mia shook her head, avoiding thinking too deeply about her mother. “Who cares? Does it matter?” “It does! I don’t want no deal with the Devil!” “You’re too picky, for someone who is about to become a worker in a brothel. Not only you, but your little doll of a sister.”

I gasp. He fists my hair at the nape of my neck and yanks my head back, twisting it so I can look him in the eyes as he corrects my words, “The only one that you should be worshipping is me, and I am no God.” He leans in, biting my lower lip, drawing my blood, and licking it. He smiles down at me wickedly, and says, “I am the Devil incarnate, baby,” as he thrusts hard and deep, pretty much hitting my cervix each time. “Oh, Sir, I’m going to come!” I moan.

“You look beautiful. That’s why you can’t entertain me.” The woman held the devil’s arm. The latter’s expression instantly darkened. “I don’t like your touch. Take your hand off me before I chop it off.” “You crazy son of a bitch!” she hissed and let go. His Grace just grinned and waved goodbye. He was about to walk away when he heard the human whisper something. “That wench! If I see her again, I will scratch her face! How dare that filthy woman spoil the fun?!” In an instant, the human coughed up blood. The devil glared at her. “I am the only one who is allowed to bully her. Say those words one more time and I’m going to rip your throat. Now, get out! All of you!”

Instead of the hollow sound of wood, I hear a soft click. A compartment opens. Inside lies a black notebook. Untitled, unmarked, just the initials V.M. etched in fading ink. Vittorio Moretti. I open it slowly. No dates. No numbers. Just a list of names, some crossed out, some circled. And beside one name, scrawled in darker ink, two words that make my stomach tighten: Blood Pact. I stare at it, my pulse steady but my hands clenched. Blood Pact. The term my father used for alliances sealed by death, promises that only ended when one party was buried.