CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

It had been a week since the night I slipped that ring onto Lolita's finger, and every day since I felt her slipping deeper into my grasp. Every touch, every word, had been calculated to pull her closer, to make her need me just a little more.

It was working.

She might not have realized it yet, but she was becoming more dependent on me with every passing day. There was a particular satisfaction in watching her change.

The torment in her eyes whenever she found herself craving my touch, even after everything I'd done to her, was fading away.

There was something endearing in her reactions she tried to hide but couldn't. I knew her better than she knew herself and I was certain of one thing, —my sweet Lolita had a cousin kink. It wasn't something she would ever admit. I'd clocked it the night she had our relation to each other confirmed, how wet she got as I spoke to her. I saw it in the way she reacted to the family history, to the idea of our connection. Every time we were together, the knowledge of it lingered, igniting something darker in her.

We'd been intimate before, but now she wanted me as much as I did her. We'd fucked in every room of the estate at this point—multiple times. Fucking her against the wall where my Rite portrait hung was a memory I often replayed. With Acolyte Selena undergoing her punishment for disrespecting my Lolita, I had taken to having Esther and Verity educate her at home with the other Electi, indefinitely.

I often filled in the blanks they either couldn't or wouldn't, which is how we wound up in front of the portrait to begin with. I never imagined it would be like this. When I first set out to claim her, I thought it would be about control, about fulfilling my role as Diabolus and righting a wrong. It had quickly become more than that. The way she looked at me, like I was the only thing that kept her grounded, was the highlight of my day. I was just as enthralled by her as she was with me, but I had never been afraid to admit that. Not to myself, and certainly not to anyone else.

Those closest to me, the ones who knew me inside and out, all saw it. I cared for her happiness as much as I longed to own her mind, body, and soul. The two weren't mutually exclusive. In fact, they were intertwined—her happiness and her absolute submission. I would see to it that she had both.

My mother had pulled me aside the morning after I had slipped the ring onto Lolita's finger.

We were in the kitchen, preparing breakfast together, something we hadn't done in years. As we worked, she expressed how relieved she was that Lolita had wound up with me and that she didn't have to worry anymore. Her words were full of love and pride, though I could sense the unspoken relief behind them.

I did what came naturally—I reassured her. I didn't mention that both my father and I knew she'd tried to warn Lolita away that first night. Shana hadn't mentioned it either, which was why she was being quietly replaced with someone more competent, who could do a simple fucking job that only required using their eyes and ears. My mother's heart had been in the right place, but her actions, well, they weren't something I could allow to go unchecked.

My father would be handling that.

As I turned onto the long road leading to Carcerem, the sun filtering through the trees, I checked how I was on time. I had driven myself, leaving at sunrise and making my usual early-morning rounds, starting with the Chapel. I handled what I needed to there, ensuring things were running smoothly on site, before heading toward out here—my next stop. The prison was a place of quiet power, a reminder of control and loyalty to the Isle.

While I needed to handle some business there, my mind kept circling back to Lolita. She would be out and about sometime today, going into town. I hoped we would end up home around the same time. It was getting to the point that I didn't like being at the estate without her. The place felt wrong without her presence.

At her last class, before I pulled her from them entirely, I had shown up and kicked out every other woman, just to fuck her on the Matron's desk. I couldn't help myself.

The way she looked at me, the way she surrendered, it drove me mad in the best way.

I'd taken her home after that and had come up with some excuse to make her read in my office while I finished working just so that she was close. Bishop hadn't stopped joking about it since. He'd get it someday and I would pay him back tenfold. Phoenix and Osiris both understood. Keres was one of the very rare exceptions of women brought to the Isle as an Electi with a low-level family.

Her father had an entire life off of the Isle with children. It was unacceptable, but we only learned about it when she took one of Osiris' classes at a university. He'd made the connection almost immediately and a few short months later, decided she would be his. And Phoenix was just as obsessed with his sister, Pandora.

Her story mirrored Lolita's, only with twice the trauma and half the hope. Or was the case until Nix grew tired of fucking their stepmother, and then killed her so that Pandora had to come back home. He'd finally disposed of the woman's corpse a few weeks ago, having grown tired of fucking it too.

We were all pushing for the Electi to be close, to stay connected, and it was working. The bonds were tightening, the web of power and loyalty growing stronger by the day. But even in the midst of all that, all I could think about was Lolita. My Lolita.

I would handle my business today, and take care of what needed to be done, but I couldn't deny the pull to get back to her. To see her face, to hear her voice, to remind her that she was mine in every way. We'd have our final Rite soon, and the timing couldn't have been more perfect. Lolita hadn't brought it up yet—I wasn't sure if she even understood the subtle shifts happening within her—but I knew. I could sense it in the way she moved, the way her body responded to mine.

She was changing, even if she hadn't realized it yet. It was only a matter of time before she would understand what that meant. We'd be putting the nursery to use sooner than later, though I wasn't going to spoil that surprise for her just yet. I'd let her come to that conclusion herself, in time. For now, the Rite was my focus. The ceremony that would seal everything, that would bind her even deeper to me, to the Isle, to our faith. It was the final step, and she was more ready than she knew. I'd made sure of that.

I pulled into the parking lot, sliding my car into the spot beside Jamison's, his black SUV gleaming under the early morning sun. To my right, Bishop pulled in, and his ridiculous music vibrated through the windows of his car, shaking the glass and rattling my patience.

He always had a talent for making an entrance. As I stepped out, the bass thumped in the air. I could see my cousin leaning back in the driver's seat, his sunglasses on and a smug grin on his face. He cut the engine, but the music didn't shut off until he opened the door and got out.

"Nice choice of music again today," I commented, my voice laced with sarcasm.

"Gotta keep things lively, dear cousin," he quipped, his tone all amusement.

I sighed, but the smirk was already tugging at my lips. He had a way of making everything seem lighter, no matter how dark the situation. It was one of the things I respected about him, even if he did drive me crazy half the time. "Who needs torture for our prisoners when we can just have you play your playlist in the parking lot?"

He laughed. "Don't tempt me with a good time."

We fell into step together. Jamison stood by the entrance; his expression unreadable but I knew he was focused. He glanced from me to Bishop, saying nothing as we approached. This was business, after all, and we all understood what was at stake today. I let the thoughts of Lolita and the future fade for now. There was work to be done and part of it was keeping my word to her.

Two masked disciples stood by the heavy double doors of Carcerem, their silent, watchful presence a reminder of the power we wielded. Without a word, they opened the doors as we approached, and I stepped inside with Jamison and Bishop beside me. The cool air hit my skin, thick with the weight of the place, and I welcomed it.

We entered the lobby, a place of dark elegance, where every detail was carefully crafted to create an atmosphere of control, dominance, and quiet fear.

The opulence masked the brutality beneath, but that was exactly how we wanted it. For those who understood, the tension was palpable—there was no mistaking what happened behind these walls.

The reception desk loomed in front of us, and as I expected, Seth was there. The man seemed to live at the prison, always working the desk, always keeping things running smoothly. I was half convinced he never left, though I didn't mind. Seth was exceptional at what he did. His efficiency and dedication were exactly what we needed in a place like this.

"Acolyte Seth," I greeted as we passed, my voice cutting through the quiet hum of the prison.

" Diabolus ," he replied, his head tilting in acknowledgment, his face hidden behind the mask of our order.

We moved past the desk and down the corridor toward the viewing room. The walls were lined with dark, intricately woven tapestries that depicted scenes from the myths of our faith.

" Diabolus, Magistri, " the disciple greeted, his masked face lowering in a deferential bow. His voice was measured, and respectful. Just as it should be.

The three of us took our seats, the heavy chairs arranged in front of the one-way glass window. The room felt colder than usual, though that may have just been the weight of what was about to unfold. The air hung thick with anticipation. I leaned back slightly, glancing toward the disciple who stood waiting for our orders.

"Is she ready?" I asked, my voice calm, though the anticipation simmered beneath the surface.

"She is leashed and waiting, Diabolus ."

" Bring her out. "

The command slipped easily from my lips, and as soon as the words left my mouth, a door on the other side of the glass slid open with a soft click. Two masked disciples entered the room, their movements practiced and deliberate, the leash in one of their hands leading to the figure at the end of it.

Whore Anya.

Her wrists were bound behind her back, her posture rigid as she was led into the center of the room, the cold metal of the collar gleaming in the harsh light. The chain leash rattled softly with every hesitant step she took. There was no fight left in her—there hadn't been for a long time now—but the tension in her body was palpable, like a woman on the edge of her own destruction. Her eyes, filled with a mixture of anger and resignation, flicked toward the one-way glass.

She couldn't see us, but I knew she could feel our eyes on her. The weight of judgment hung over her like a noose. Jamison leaned forward slightly; his eyes fixed on her. Bishop let out a soft chuckle beside me, clearly amused by the situation. I remained silent, studying her, watching the slow unraveling of a woman who had once dared to challenge me. Now she was nothing more than a lesson, a cautionary tale of what happened when someone forgot their place.

"She's healthy?" Jamison asked, his voice casual, though my eyes remained fixed on her.

I could tell he liked what he saw. I didn't begrudge him for that. Despite Anya being a whore's whore, she was still beautiful. "As a goat," I joked, causing him to let out a dry laugh beside me.

The disciple holding her leash led Anya from one side of the room to the other like a prized show dog—one that had been sent to a kill shelter. Her naked body was on full display, nothing left to the imagination. She had been washed and meticulously plucked for the occasion, her skin smooth and gleaming and her long hair like silk.

She followed obediently, every movement measured, knowing full well what would happen if she didn't.

"She, of course, needs to gain some of her weight back," the disciple commented, his tone clinical, "but that won't prevent her from fulfilling her progenitor duties."

Jamison nodded, his eyes still following her for a moment before turning to Bishop. "You slept with her, didn't you?"

Bishop grimaced, and I couldn't help but laugh. The bastard always managed to get himself into these situations. "She was drunk off her ass and wanted Emilio," he admitted with a scowl. "I essentially saved the kid from being traumatized. I got the cameras installed inside her and Lolita's apartment, though, so it was worth the headache."

I laughed lightly. "And?"

Bishop shrugged, leaning back in his chair with a lazy grin.

"She's got a tight body and she's game for anything. And I do mean anything ." His tone was casual, but there was no missing the amusement in his voice.

The conversation hung in the air, cold and matter-of-fact, as if we were discussing livestock rather than a human being. That's what Anya had become—an asset, a tool to be used for the Isle's purposes. She moved across the room with her head bowed, her compliance expected, her role clearly defined. There was no defiance left in her, only the slow surrender of a woman who knew her place. I watched her, detached, wondering if she truly understood the gravity of what was coming.

"You're free to test her out," I said, my voice flat, almost dismissive. "Don't make this choice without at least doing that."

Jamison nodded, his gaze lingering on Anya as she stood there, obedient, collared, and silent. I knew what he was thinking—another breeder under his roof, another woman to carry the next generation of his line. It was a practical decision, one I couldn't fault him for. The alternative would be going through the entire application process again, submitting himself to the bureaucratic maze of our faith with at least a dozen men ahead of him. This way, he'd bypass all of that. Of course, it also meant he'd be taking on the responsibility of training Anya himself and extracting what he needed in exchange.

Bishop, ever the instigator, leaned around me, his grin never wavering. "So, how does Cass feel about this now?" he asked, his tone carrying a playful edge.

I could feel Jamison's tension rise at the mention of his wife, Cassandra. She'd stayed quiet through most of this ordeal, but I knew she wouldn't be thrilled with the arrangement. Not that it mattered in the grand scheme of things. Cass had her role, and she'd play it, whether she liked it or not. That's how things worked on the Isle.

Jamison's eyes flickered with something darker, but he kept his response measured. "She'll do what's expected of her," he said, his voice a touch too controlled.

Bishop chuckled softly. "Of course, she will. But you know she's not gonna be happy about it."

Jamison didn't respond, but I could see the flicker of irritation in his expression. It didn't matter. This was about the future of the Isle, about maintaining our bloodlines. Cassandra knew that better than anyone. Emilio and I had a running bet that he would eventually do away with Cassandra.

Her death would, of course, be framed as an accident. It was only a matter of time. Probably why she was keeping so quiet about him bringing in another breeder, especially after Emilia, the woman he'd been closer to loving than any of the others. If I could take that pain away from him, I would, but for now, this was the best I could offer—Anya. And while it didn't seem like much, at least I could keep my promise to Lolita.

Jamison's gaze lingered on Anya a moment longer before he shook his head. "I need to think on it some more," he said, his voice low. "Before I make any decisions."

"Take your time," I replied, leaning back in my chair, knowing full well he'd come around eventually. "She's not going anywhere." My lips twisted into a smirk before I added, "But while you're deciding… how about we pay Clarice a visit?"

Both Jamison and Bishop perked up at the mention of my biggest mistake, their expressions shifting from neutral to something far more enthusiastic. The two of them hated her with a passion. Clarice had a way of getting under people's skin—especially theirs.

"Hell yes," Bishop said, leaning forward with a glint in his eye. "I could use a little excitement."

Jamison nodded, his mood shifting instantly. "Count me in.

I gave the disciple a curt nod, offering my final words before leaving the room. "Move her to a better-equipped cell," I instructed, glancing back at Anya, who stood in her restrained obedience. "But keep her collared. She's not ready to be without it." The disciple bowed slightly, accepting my orders without question, and I turned to leave, the decision no longer weighing on my mind.

The three of us—me, Jamison, and Bishop—left the viewing room and headed for the elevators, the hum of the prison's cold, mechanical systems droning in the background.

We rode silently to Level 3, where Clarice had recently been moved. She had been shifted from Level 4 in preparation for the upcoming Rite, one she would partake in unwillingly, of course, but that hardly mattered. The Isle always got what it wanted.

When we reached her cell, I couldn't help but note how much further into isolation she was than Anya. It was a cell within a cell, really—layers of barriers and locks, a testament to her fall from grace. I entered one door, and there behind the bars of her enclosure was the former beauty of Stygian Isle. Even the air felt thicker here, heavier with the weight of time and confinement. As soon as I stepped inside, Clarice turned to look at me, her azure eyes narrowing as they landed on me and the men beside me.

Her once ethereal beauty was still there, but over a year in this place had left its mark. Her thick, platinum blonde waves were tangled, though they still fell just past her shoulders, as if clinging to the last vestiges of her former life. Her porcelain skin had lost some of its sheen, but it remained pale, an almost ghostly contrast to the dark, stone walls that surrounded her.

She stood tall, her slender yet curvaceous figure exuding the same regal grace she'd always possessed, though now it was laced with a defiant tension. She still had that presence, that aura that could captivate anyone foolish enough to be taken in by her, but I was long past that. I knew better.

Jamison and Bishop stood on either side of me, both of them watching her with a mixture of disdain and amusement. The hatred they harbored for her was palpable.

"Well, well," Bishop drawled, his voice dripping with mockery as he leaned against the bars, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Look who's still putting on airs. You'd think after more than a year here, you'd learn some humility."

Clarice's lips curled into a small smile, though it didn't reach her eyes. "Humility, Bishop? That's never been my strong suit, you know that." Her voice was smooth, almost melodic, but there was a sharpness beneath it. She was still playing the part she always had—the untouchable beauty, even as she stood trapped in a cage.

I stepped closer, my eyes locking onto hers. "You should be thanking me, Clarice. You've been given a place in the Rite. Not everyone gets that chance."

Her smile faded, replaced by a cold, hardened expression.

"A place I never asked for. But then again, you always made decisions for me, didn't you, Diabolus? "

I smiled faintly, unfazed by her bitterness. "Some things never change."

Jamison crossed his arms, his gaze never leaving her. "She still looks good for someone who's been rotting in here."

"Shame it's all wasted on someone who never knew when to shut up," Bishop added with a laugh.

Her cold smile barely flickered as her gaze swept over us, lingering on me longer than I would have liked. "You're not going to bring your shiny new wife to see me?" she asked, her voice deceptively sweet, though her eyes told a different story. There was venom there, hidden just beneath the surface.

Bishop let out a bark of laughter. "You think he'd ever let her step foot in this shithole? Come on, Clarice. Even you should know better than that."

"He's right." I stepped closer to the bars, my expression darkening. "Why would I ever let her step foot in a place like this?" I said, voice low and dangerous. "The only time you'll lay eyes on her is when you're taking your last breath."

Her smile faltered, the icy composure cracking just enough for me to see the flicker of fear beneath it. I'd seen it before—back when she first realized her fate was sealed. But now? Now, she knew the end was coming. I continued, my voice softening, but it wasn't out of kindness. "Tell me, Clarice… do you ever wonder how it all fell apart? Or have you already figured it out?"

She stiffened, her lips pressing into a thin line, but she didn't speak.

"You think it was just bad luck," I said, shaking my head. "But it wasn't. You see, I orchestrated everything. The affair? The pregnancy? You thought you were being clever, sneaking around with your driver, but I gave him the order. And as my word is law, the man was all too happy to oblige."

Her face paled, and the mask she wore began to crumble. She opened her mouth, but no words came out.

"Oh, I know," I said, my smile widening. "You didn't think he'd betray you, did you? You thought you could control him like you tried to control me. You've always been too predictable."

Bishop chuckled from behind me, leaning against the wall once again as if this were the best entertainment he'd had all week. Jamison stayed quiet, his eyes fixed on her, watching the unraveling.

Clarice took a step back, her once regal posture now faltering. "You bastard," she finally hissed.

"You thought you could carry on an affair, get pregnant, and no one would ever know," I said, voice sharp now. "But I made sure everyone knew. Every. Single. Detail. And when you sought out that little procedure to clean up your mess, I made sure it went just the way I wanted. Sterile, forever."

Her hand instinctively moved to her stomach, and I could see the devastation in her eyes.

"The Isle needed an heir," I continued, "and you couldn't provide one. So you were no longer of any use to me."

The weight of the truth seemed to crash over her, the reality of her situation sinking in. Clarice's downfall had been inevitable from the moment I learned of Lolita's existence. The affair was nothing more than an opportunity for me to make sure she was removed from my life, and her sterility had sealed her fate.

"You could have just divorced me," she whispered, her voice cracking.

I laughed, the sound cold and humorless. "Divorce?" I shook my head, stepping closer to the bars. "There are no divorces in Impío, Clarice. You know that. Especially not for me. You never suggested such a thing when you encouraged me to mold Melanie into what I needed or get rid of her for good. In fact, I remember using the video of how I cut her open as foreplay."

"Well, goddamn," Bishop muttered with a laugh.

Her face paled even further, the memory of her own words and actions clearly surfacing. She had been so sure of herself back then, so convinced she had all the answers. In the end, she had underestimated just how permanent things were in our world and how easy it was for me to get what I wanted.

Lolita Alistair.

There was no space for another.

There should never have been.

Clarice glared at me, but the fire behind her eyes was gone. She knew now. It was likely she had known for a long time, deep down, that I had been pulling the strings. Her arrogance just wouldn't allow her to accept it, and now she was trapped here, a shell of the woman she used to be.

"This is your legacy," I told her, leaning forward slightly. "You're nothing now. And Lolita? She'll be everything you never could be."

Her body trembled with barely controlled rage, but she said nothing. She couldn't. Jamison finally spoke, his tone measured as he said what we all knew. "Clarice, you've always been too arrogant to see the bigger picture."

"She never stood a chance," Bishop added. "Poor thing."

Clarice's eyes flicked toward the both of them, her lower lip trembling. I was certain she knew what was said about her now.

Her downfall was a cautionary tale whispered through the halls of this prison and across the Isle, a story of what happens when you cross the wrong man and think yourself untouchable. By ensuring her fall, I had cleared the path for Lolita's ascension. As tragic as her ending would be, it was nothing but a step toward solidifying my future with the woman who was always meant to hold the sole title of my wife.

I studied Clarice's face for a moment longer, letting the silence hang between us. How far we'd fallen. There had been a time when she could have been everything I needed—a time when we'd been aligned in our ambitions. Or so I thought until I had to deal with her day in and day out. Lolita saved me in a sense, speeding up the erosion of whatever was between me and this woman. In the end, I had molded her into exactly what I wanted: an example.

I sighed, letting the memories drift away. "I'll see you soon," I said finally, a hint of amusement in my voice. "And for once, I'm actually looking forward to it."

Without waiting for her response, I turned on my heel, signaling to Bishop and Jamison. We left her there, trapped in a prison of her own making. Her last days would be spent with the knowledge that I was the one who orchestrated every part of her downfall.

Once we were back in the corridor, Bishop broke the silence, his voice casual as if we hadn't just been toying with the remnants of a broken woman's life. "So, did the audio file work?"

I smirked, glancing at him. "It worked perfectly. I meant to tell you that."

Jamison raised an eyebrow. "How did you tweak it?"

"Emilio helped," I replied. "We used the conversation I had with Anya, chopped and screwed it, and added her voice with a program. The effect was seamless."

I thought back to that day, the look on Lolita's face as she listened to what she thought was the truth. She hadn't mentioned Anya since, but I knew it had shaken her. It had hurt her in a way I could still feel lingering beneath the surface. She was keeping her word, though. And I kept her occupied enough to never let the hurt fester.

She never questioned when her closest friend slept with our cousin or anything else surrounding the situation. She was moving on, as promised. I'd be more ecstatic about it if it weren't because she was trying to keep Anya safe.

Jamison let out a low whistle. "You really are a piece of work."

I chuckled. "I'm thorough."

The end goal was Lolita. Everything was for her. I would move hell itself to have that woman by my side.

We continued down the corridor and exited into the prison's parking lot, the early afternoon sun glaring down at us. I glanced over at Bishop, who leaned against his car, still grinning like a kid who had just pulled off a prank.

"So, where to next?" he asked, looking between me and Jamison.

I glanced at my watch, then at the both of them. "I have one more stop to make. You're both coming with me."

Jamison shrugged, adjusting his jacket. "Lead the way."

Bishop pushed off his car, a devilish glint in his eye. "You know I'm in."

We all piled into our cars, engines roaring to life as we prepared to head to my next destination—another necessary step in securing the future I had planned.