CHAPTER TWENTY

I sat in the backseat with Lolita, the rain pounding against the car windows in a relentless rhythm. She was soaked through, her clothes clinging to her skin, her hair plastered to her face, trembling in the aftermath of what had just happened. Without a word, I took the towel the driver had handed me and began drying her off. The silence between us was thick.

I didn't speak, and neither did she, but I didn't need her to explain. I already knew everything. The moment she left the estate, the Isle had eyes on her. I wasn't angry at her.

She wasn't leaving me.

She didn't want to go.

That much was obvious. She was scared and anxious—but still mine.

As I gently wiped the water from her face and from her arms, I thought of how close she could have come to making a mistake she could never undo. I knew what drove her wasn't rebellion. It was fear. Uncertainty. She didn't fully realize how deeply rooted she was in this life— our life.

Each time the towel moved over her skin; I felt my own frustration simmer. Not at her. Never at her. But at the idea of losing what I had worked so damn hard to mold, to shape, to make perfect. Lolita wasn't like the others. She hadn't been brought up here, but it didn't matter. She was adjusting, close to thriving. The thought of her being dragged away by a traitor like Nicolette made my jaw clench.

My fingers tightened around the towel for a second, and I had to force myself to relax. Lolita was safe now. With me. That's all that mattered. I glanced at her, at the way she avoided my gaze, her bottom lip trembling slightly. She thought I'd be furious. That wasn't what she needed right now. She didn't run because she wanted to leave me. She ran because she thought she had to. Because part of her still feared what and who I was.

That would need to be fixed.

Gently, I brought the towel up to her hair, dabbing it dry. She let out a shaky breath but didn't pull away. She never did anymore. "You shouldn't have done that, deliciae ," I murmured, my voice calm, almost soothing as I continued to dry her off. "But we'll deal with it. Together."

She looked up at me then, her pretty brown eyes wide, searching.

For what, I wasn't sure—reassurance, forgiveness, perhaps both.

"I'm not mad," I added, leaning closer, brushing her hair back from her face. "But you will never leave my side or the estate again alone, do you understand?"

I felt her tense under my touch until slowly, she nodded. I had been in the middle of reviewing the final details for the upcoming Rite when the first alert came through. At first, I brushed it off. It wasn't unusual for the Isle to send constant updates about movement, surveillance, or minor incidents. When the second, third, and fourth messages followed in rapid succession, I froze. My gut twisted as I saw Lolita's name flash on the screen. It wasn't a feeling I had ever experienced before. Fucking panic that quickly turned to rage.

Bishop and Jamison were at my side in an instant, their reactions as sharp as mine.

They got a rundown of what was happening and without me having to say a word, they were on damage control along with the rest of my Magistri moving swiftly to secure the situation. They all knew what to do, but I was the one who needed to be there. I was the one who had to fix this.

Now, sitting in the back of the car, my heart still racing from getting her off that fucking cliffside, I lifted Lolita's hand to examine the cut. The jagged slice across her palm made my blood boil. She'd been hurt. Because of another man. It took actual effort not to show her the rage simmering just below the surface. William was already broken, and Nicolette would pay for this betrayal with her life—but not before I had my own say. My thumb brushed over her wound gently, and I wrapped the towel around it with careful precision, keeping my movements deliberate, and controlled.

Her body still trembled slightly from the shock of everything that had happened, but I could feel the way she relaxed into me, as if being near me soothed the fear that had gripped her. She instinctively sought comfort in my arms. It was telling of how far she'd come.

As the car pulled up to the estate, I told Isaac to keep the engine running, and then gathered Lolita into my arms, not wanting her to walk without shoes in the cold rain. She pressed against me, still trembling, her soaked dress clinging to her body. Esther was already at the door, her expression calm but her eyes sharp as she opened it for us.

Inside, the warmth of the estate wrapped around us, but I didn't stop. I took her straight back to the room where I'd first brought her—the room she'd woken up in, confused and chained, what seemed like a lifetime ago now.

She noticed immediately, her body tensing in my arms as her eyes darted around the familiar space. I had no intentions of chaining her up again, this was simply the nearest room to get her situated in. I made a mental note to have it turned into a playroom. It had a spectacular view, after all.

"Shh," I soothed her, sitting her gently on the bed. I could feel her fingers gripping my shirt with her good hand, refusing to let go. I didn't push her away, though the part of me that needed to storm out and handle the mess out there was clawing at me.

"Esther and Verity will tend to you now," I told her softly, brushing her hair back from her face. "I'll be back soon to deal with… this."

Her hand tightened; the fabric of my shirt bunched in her fist. Her eyes, wide with fear, held mine, pleading for something I couldn't give her at that moment.

I cupped her face, and kissed her—rough, demanding. I needed to ground her. To remind her of what was ours, what we shared. I couldn't comfort her with promises, not now. Not when the fury was still burning in my veins. She melted into me, her trembling fading as the kiss deepened, her grip loosening just slightly. That was all I needed.

"I'll come back to you," I assured her, the words deliberate. I knew exactly what I was doing, keeping my voice steady, making sure she felt it. Every word was calculated because I knew how much power I held over her now. As I stood, she watched me, her eyes still holding a mix of relief and fear. I turned, brushing past my sister in the doorway. "Make sure you clean her hand," I ordered.

Esther nodded, stepping aside as Verity followed her into the room.

I knew they'd comfort her in ways I couldn't. I headed back outside, the rain still coming down hard. My clothes were soaked through, but I didn't care. The Isle's anger had calmed some, but it wouldn't be satisfied until I handled what had been set into motion.

Isaac didn't say a word as I got into the car, but the look on his face told me everything I needed to know. He knew what had to be done, just like I did. The ride back to Carcerem was silent, the rain still coming down hard against the windshield, creating a steady rhythm. As I arrived at the stone fortress for the second time that day, I told him, "It'll be a while."

Isaac cut the engine but didn't move to leave. Instead, he looked at me with steady resolve. "I'm coming with you."

I nodded once. There was no point arguing with him, not when I knew he had just as much of a stake in this as I did.

He wasn't just my driver—he was loyal, and he understood the gravity of what was about to unfold. We stepped out of the car together, the rain soaking us through as we crossed the stone courtyard toward the looming structure. Carcerem's walls towered above us, dark and foreboding, but that didn't faze me. The air was thick with the Isle's fury, and I was ready to soothe it.

Inside, the stone floors echoed beneath our boots as we made our way to the elevator. I pressed the button for level 4, the worst place in the prison. The air shifted as we descended—thicker, darker, more suffocating. The screams and wails of those contained here had long since faded into the background, replaced by the oppressive silence of the damned. Level 4 wasn't for the weak. It was for those beyond redemption, those who had crossed the lines so far that there was no coming back. And today, I would be dealing with two such people.

The elevator doors opened with a low groan, revealing the dimly lit corridor ahead. The walls here were made of cold stone, damp and cracked from years of holding prisoners who had lost all hope. It smelled like rot, shit, and despair, the kind of place that sucked the soul out of a man before he even set foot inside. I didn't have enough of one to be at risk.

Isaac fell in step beside me as we walked toward the containment cells. The sound of our footsteps echoed down the long hallway, growing louder with each step. Ahead, the dim glow of wall lights illuminated the path, casting long, twisted shadows on the walls.

" Diabolus, " the guard at the checkpoint greeted me with a low bow, his masked face lowering in respect.

I acknowledged him with a curt nod, not wasting time on pleasantries, heading straight to where the others already waited.

The chamber was not a place meant for redemption—it was built for judgment, for punishment. The walls were smooth stone, illuminated by the dim glow of torches that lined the perimeter. Chains and restraints dangled from the ceiling like grim reminders of what awaited those who dared cross the Isle's boundaries. The floor was stained in places, the remnants of past sentences meted out to those who had failed the faith or, more importantly, failed me.

As I entered, the scent of damp stone and iron filled the air, thick and suffocating. In the center of the room, a large stone table dominated the space, its surface worn from years of use. Around it, my Magistri stood waiting—Bishop, Emilio, my father, Uncle Corbin, Jamison, and Phoenix. Each man represented a different aspect of our power, our dominion over the Isle.

Osiris wasn't there; he was handling matters above ground, making sure everything was contained outside the estate. He knew better than anyone the upheaval Nicolette's actions had almost unleashed.

On one side of the chamber, William hung from the ceiling, stripped of his clothes and dignity. His injuries were grotesque, bones jutting out at unnatural angles, his skin bruised and torn. He'd survived the fall, but just barely. His breathing was ragged, each rise and fall of his chest a labored struggle.

Nicolette, on the other hand, was seated in a heavy iron chair, bound but still, her head hung low. Her face was a mess of scars and mutilation, her lips sewn shut once but now ragged, half-missing. Her father, Theron, stood over her, his expression a mixture of anger and immense disappointment. He hadn't said a word yet, but his presence alone weighed heavily on the room.

He wasn't here to beg for leniency. He had three other daughters who had turned out exactly as they should have and embraced the Impío faith with grace and devotion. Nicolette's betrayal was a stain on his family name, much like Isabel had been a stain on ours. That was something we were only now moving past—thanks to my Lolita.

As I approached, he gave me a single nod of acknowledgment, a silent acceptance of what had to be done. Nicolette had crossed the line, and there was no turning back. This wasn't just about punishing her—it was about restoring order, and balance.

" Diabolus, " Theron greeted me, his tone cold and distant.

As I studied the two failures before me, I noticed the subtle exchange of glances—desperate, fleeting. A shared moment of connection between the condemned. I looked toward my father, who stood silent but alert.

Our eyes met briefly, and I knew he had picked up on it too. This was more than a servant and a disobedient mistress. This was another Clarice, another foolish woman who would've never learned her lesson.

"It's almost like Clarice 2.0," I said aloud, my voice cutting through the silence. "But she isn't nearly as pretty, and her husband's just an unfortunate fool that now has to pay for her being a whore."

Nicolette gasped, her body tensing as she realized I had discovered the full extent of her treachery. She tried to stifle it, but there was no hiding her fear now.

Bishop, ever the instigator, chuckled darkly. "I thought she was sending him heart eyes. How boring, Nikki. You could've aimed higher."

Emilio shook his head with mock disappointment.

"You know what this means. You have to start with him." He motioned to William's broken form. "The driver goes first."

I turned toward William, who was barely holding onto consciousness, his head lolling forward. He wouldn't be of much use for long, but there were plenty of ways to extend his suffering if I chose. I crossed my arms, considering my options.

"What should I do with him?" I asked, looking toward my Magistri. "Suggestions?"

A few ideas were tossed out, each one darker and more brutal than the last, but Phoenix's quiet voice cut through the noise, catching my attention.

"I can make him a centerpiece for your Rite," he said, his tone casual.

The room fell silent, his words sinking in. The Rite was a sacred ceremony, essentially my wedding.

William was no longer useful as a man, but as a symbol of the Isle's judgment?

I tilted my head, considering. "A centerpiece, you say?" I glanced back at William, imagining the twisted display Phoenix could create. It was fitting, poetic even. Nicolette's betrayal had destroyed him, and now, he could serve one final purpose—an example of what happened to those who failed the Isle.

I turned to Nicolette, whose eyes were wide with terror. She was shaking now, the reality of her situation finally sinking in.

"Do you hear that, Nicolette?" I asked, playfully. "Your lover gets to be part of something far greater than himself. He'll be remembered for one final act of service."

"No," she whimpered, her body trembling.

"And as for you…" I trailed off, letting the silence hang heavy in the air.

"I'd say you're getting off easy, Nikki. Just a little punishment. Nothing compared to your boy toy," Bishop commented.

My father remained silent, watching me closely, but I knew he approved. A balance had to be restored, and this was the first step. I gave Phoenix the nod, granting him full control over William's fate. I could practically see the excitement in his eyes as they gleamed with a dark joy. Phoenix lived for moments like this—where the line between brutality and artistry blurred. I knew he'd make William's suffering a masterpiece.

Emilio, never one to let a grim moment pass without a joke, smirked. "Careful, Phoenix. Don't make it too pretty. We don't want to inspire anyone else."

Phoenix chuckled; already lost in whatever twisted vision he was forming in his mind. My father, ever the tactician, turned his attention to Theron, whose demeanor was weighed down by his daughter's failure.

"What are you thinking, Theron?" he asked, his voice calm but probing. He knew the older man well, far better than I did and was the one who gave him his position.

All I knew about Theron was that he was exceptional at his role as the Isle's chief financial architect, overseeing the intricate flow of wealth and resources that kept our secluded society thriving. His knowledge of numbers was unparalleled, and his attention to detail had saved us from more than one economic pitfall. Outside of that? His wife baked some of the best chocolate chip cookies the bakery had ever sold. A man like him didn't seem fit for the hell his daughter had thrust him into.

Theron sighed heavily, running a hand through his graying hair. He looked like he wanted to be anywhere else, his eyes distant, filled with regret. I couldn't blame him for that. If I had a daughter—and I realized in that moment I soon would—she wouldn't be able to so much as breathe on this Isle without me knowing where she was. The very thought of some low-level scumbag like William even looking at her had my blood boiling.

My son, too.

I clenched my fists as the idea of a woman like Nicolette near my boy made me want to rip her apart with my bare hands. No. I would burn the Isle down before I let something like this filth touch him. A bitter resolve settled in me as I thought of my unborn child. Being a father was an entirely new reality, one I hadn't shared with anyone yet or wholly come to terms with. Now clearly wasn't the time for such an announcement, but I'd never been more eager to share something in my life.

Theron, still watching his daughter with barely restrained disgust, shook his head as if trying to shake the burden of his thoughts.

His voice was quiet when he finally spoke. "What will become of Henry?"

Ah, Henry. Nicolette's husband. A man as dull as he was uninspiring. Like a Fleshlight. Loyal, yes, but to a fault. He had no idea what was brewing in his wife's mind. Perhaps that was his greatest failure—his blindness to the rot growing in his own home.

"He'll be handled separately," I said, my tone even. "He'll answer for his failures differently. His ignorance won't spare him from responsibility."

Theron nodded slowly, resigned to the fact that his family's name would be forever tainted by this disaster. "If you seek to spare her," he began, his voice still as cold as the chamber around us, "do it so that only her holes remain. If she has a child, I can take it and raise it within our family, away from this disgrace."

The room went still again.

Isaac was the first to break the silence, his brow furrowing in disbelief. "Her holes remain?" he repeated, almost as if testing the absurdity of it.

Bishop let out a bark of laughter. "Now that's a solution."

"That's quite brilliant, actually," Phoenix chimed in, his voice full of admiration.

He glanced at my Uncle Corbin, who shot him a look of disapproval, but Phoenix didn't seem to care. This was exactly the kind of twisted challenge he thrived on. "To be clear," he said, turning to Theron, "you want me to remove everything but the only part of her that's… useful?"

"Is it really, though?" Emilio quipped, a smirk tugging at his lips as laughter rippled through the room.

I fought to suppress my own grin, the sheer brutality of the situation not lost on me, but Theron's pragmatic approach was, in its own way, fitting.

He only was here to preserve what little he could of his family's future, even if it meant sacrificing his daughter's dignity in the most horrific way imaginable. His face as stoic as ever, nodded once. "Precisely."

"Brutal and genius," I agreed. By leaving her stripped of anything but her body's basest function, she would be reduced to the lowest form of existence on the Isle. A fate worse than death for someone who had once held the status of an Impío woman from a decent household. She'd be nothing more than an actual vessel—if she bore a child, that child would be taken from her, raised in the family, while she faded into oblivion.

Phoenix, clearly pleased with the task ahead, turned his attention back to Nicolette, who remained frozen in the chair, her eyes wide with terror, unable to speak or even plead for mercy. It didn't matter. Mercy wasn't something anyone in this room had to offer.

"You heard the man," I said, my voice low and commanding. "Do what needs to be done."

Theron's request wasn't just a sentence for his daughter—it was a reminder to everyone in the room that loyalty, blood, and duty came before anything else on Stygian Isle.

"You may leave."

Theron nodded in quiet acceptance, his face unreadable as he turned away. The room fell eerily silent as Nicolette's soft, desperate whimpers filled the space. She looked to her father, her eyes pleading for some last-minute reprieve.

"Dad… please," she croaked, her voice muffled by fear and desperation.

But Theron didn't slow. He didn't even spare her a glance. The heavy door creaked open, and without a word, he exited the chamber, leaving his daughter to face the consequences alone.

"Cold as ice," Bishop muttered under his breath, his gaze shifting from Theron's retreating figure back to Nicolette. "I almost feel bad for her."

Jamison scoffed quietly. "Almost."

Phoenix moved toward the far wall where an array of tools and protective gear awaited him. He slipped into a black apron, his fingers tracing the edges of the blades and instruments hanging on the wall as if choosing a palette for an artist's canvas.

"Don't take too long," I said evenly, knowing Phoenix tended to lose himself in his work.

He flashed me a grin, his eyes alight with a sadistic glint. "Don't worry, Diabolus . I'll be quick but thorough." He selected a sharp, gleaming blade, its edge catching the dim light of the chamber.

I turned my gaze back to Nicolette. Her body trembled as Phoenix approached, his footsteps slow and deliberate.

She tried to move, tried to twist away from the chair, but her restraints held her firmly in place. Her eyes darted from me to Phoenix, panic clouding her features.

"Please," she whimpered, her voice cracking. "I'll do anything. Don't… please, don't."

I stepped closer, crouching slightly so that I was at eye level with her. I wanted her to see that this wasn't something I'd do lightly. "You made your choices, Nicolette," I said calmly, watching her flinch at the coldness in my tone. "Now, you face the consequences. Phoenix will take care of what's left of you."

Her breath hitched, a sob breaking free as she tugged against the restraints. "No, no, no—."

Ignoring her, I straightened and stepped back to watch as my friend stepped up beside me.

Her breathing quickened as he crouched beside her, his gloved hand reaching out to tilt her face upward. He had done this many times before, and to him, it was just another canvas to work on.

"Let's begin," Phoenix said softly, his voice betraying none of the coldness behind his actions. His free hand traced along her skin, savoring the last untouched part of her before he started. Then, with a swift, precise motion, he made the first cut—clean and deliberate—just below her collarbone. Nicolette's body convulsed, a scream tearing from her throat, an animalistic cry of pain.

Her head thrashed side to side, hair damp with sweat and tears, but Phoenix remained unfazed. His movements were precise, detached, as if he had already distanced himself from the carnage. He was turning her body into something far less than human, a twisted form that her father could use to redeem his family's honor.

I stepped closer, watching as Phoenix moved down her arm.

He traced the curve of her bone beneath the skin, pressing the tip of the scalpel into her flesh. Nicolette screamed again, a high-pitched wail that echoed off the chamber walls. Her body jerked violently against the restraints, trying to pull away from the blade, but it was useless. The sound of her agony filled the room, but it didn't faze any of us.

With a quick, deliberate motion, Phoenix dislocated her shoulder, the pop of bone snapping out of place causing her to scream louder, hoarse now, her voice nearly breaking. He continued his work, severing her arm with a few swift, deep strokes, cutting through muscle. The limb hit the ground with a dull thud, and her cries turned into gasping, ragged breaths, punctuated by sobs of pure agony.

"Please... please," she whimpered, barely coherent, her voice strangled by pain.

He shifted to her other arm, repeating the process with the same brutal efficiency. Each cut was deliberate, each motion perfectly executed. Blood soaked the floor beneath her, pooling in thick, dark puddles, Phoenix worked with clinical precision, knowing exactly how far he could push the human body without allowing it to give in to the sweet relief of unconsciousness or death.

He swiftly reached for a cauterizing tool—a compact, handheld device designed for just this purpose. The end glowed red-hot, and without hesitation, he pressed it to the exposed flesh where her limbs once were. A sickening sizzle filled the air, followed by the acrid scent of burning skin. Nicolette let out another agonized scream, her body jerking violently as the heat sealed the wounds.

Phoenix held the cauterizer in place long enough to stop the bleeding, ensuring that no major arteries were left open. Her skin bubbled and blackened beneath the device, but the blood stopped flowing.

"Don't worry, Nicolette," Phoenix said, his voice unnervingly calm as he worked. "We wouldn't want you to die too soon. You still have a purpose to serve."

He moved down to her legs, repeating the process with cold efficiency. Each cut was followed by the same cauterizing procedure, the searing heat closing the wounds as quickly as he opened them. He was methodical, ensuring she remained conscious and aware of every moment of her suffering. Her screams had turned to low, pitiful moans, her body trembling uncontrollably as she teetered on the edge of shock, but Phoenix kept her just this side of death.

He looked up briefly, his eyes meeting mine, his expression one of complete focus. "Almost done," he assured me, his tone almost bored.

The room smelled of charred flesh and blood, the metallic tang thick in the air, but the bleeding had stopped. Nicolette's body was reduced to a grotesque, mutilated form—limbs gone, her torso a patchwork of burns and open wounds. And yet, she lived.

Emilio chuckled, shaking his head as Phoenix leaned over Nicolette's limp form, the scalpel hovering near her eye. "I don't mean to be that guy," he said, pausing dramatically and tilting his head, "but who's sticking their dick in that after this?"

There was a beat of silence, and then our father spoke up. "I was wondering the same thing."

Corbin chimed in, grinning. "You never know. You could always leave her at the Pleasure House."

A chorus of "no's" followed, punctuated by laughter. The thought was enough to break the grim atmosphere, a dark joke to lighten the brutality of the scene.

"I could do it," Phoenix voiced nonchalantly, never pausing his meticulous work. He pressed the scalpel delicately, popping out the first eye, blood mixing with the wetness of her tears as Nicolette's muffled screams echoed through the room.

"No," Bishop told him flatly.

"You've got to have some standards, Nix," Jamison added.

"If you want someone to play with, choose a higher woman," Corbin agreed, still grinning. "At least someone with all their limbs attached."

I glanced around the room, the absurdity of the conversation not lost on me. "Could you imagine toting that through the front door?" I asked.

"Pandora may be blind, but she has uncanny senses. She'd pick up on that faster than you could say Diabolus ."

Phoenix chuckled, not missing a beat as he continued, his gloved hand working with the same precision he always displayed. "Guess I'll have to find something else to amuse myself with," he said, his tone light.

"If you put a bag over her head…" Bishop began.

"Don't even think about it," I cut him off.

Silence descended over the chamber as Phoenix continued his meticulous work. The only sound in the room was the low, rhythmic muttering from Phoenix about the flowers and clips he'd need for his next masterpiece—William. Unlike Nicolette, William wouldn't be a one-day project. If that were the case, he would have gone first.

One by one, the rest of us filed out of the room, leaving Phoenix in his element.

We had all learned to give him his due when it came to tasks like this. As we walked down the dimly lit hallway toward the elevator, I mulled over the situation and how to spin this with Lolita. As we exited Carcerem and stepped into the twilight, I felt a shift within me. It wasn't just about what had transpired in that chamber. It was something more… something that had been weighing on me for days now, and I was finally ready to speak it out loud.

We gathered outside near the vehicles, my Magistri still buzzing from the day's events. My clothes, still damp from earlier, clung to my skin, but the storm had passed. The Isle, once again, was content. But for me, the night wasn't over yet. As I stood there, surrounded by my family, I knew it was time to share what had been weighing on me for days. The Rite was one thing, but this—this was something that would change everything.

Before we could part ways, I spoke, my voice low but carrying the gravity of my next words. "There's something I want you all to know."

The conversation around us halted, all eyes turning to me. My father, always perceptive, cocked an eyebrow. Emilio and Bishop exchanged a glance, both waiting for whatever revelation was about to drop. Uncle Corbin leaned against my father's car, arms crossed, and Isaac paused a few paces to our vehicle.

"I'm going to be a father," I said simply, my words dropping like a bomb between us.

For a moment, there was nothing but silence. The kind of silence that wraps around you and amplifies every heartbeat. Then Emilio's grin split wide across his face, his hand slapping my shoulder with enthusiasm. "No shit?"

I nodded, feeling the weight lift off me, though the seriousness of the situation remained. "Lolita's pregnant."

Bishop let out a low whistle, shaking his head. "Well, fuck me. And you've been holding out on us?"

"I haven't known long and there were other matters to attend to."

My father's expression softened in a way I hadn't expected. There was pride there, but it was more than that—satisfaction. His voice, when it came, was steady, filled with approval. "Move your Rite up," he said, his eyes locking with mine. "Make it official."

I didn't need to ask what he meant. The Isle would be expecting it. Hell, they'd demand it once they knew Lolita was carrying my child.

"And do a cleanse," Isaac added, his tone more thoughtful. "It'll reset everything, a fresh start. Perfect timing with the pregnancy."

Jamison, who had been unusually quiet, nodded slowly, his face serious. "That's a good idea. Especially with the Clarice angle. Removing all the bad—it'll show that you're moving forward. That she's your future now."

The weight of their words settled in my chest. They were right. This was the perfect opportunity to solidify everything. A cleansing, our Rite, a ceremony to make her truly mine in the eyes of the Isle. There would be no more lingering doubts, no more ghosts of the past. I glanced at Bishop, who was already on his phone.

"How quickly can this come together without it feeling too abrupt?" I asked, thinking through the logistics. We'd need to move fast, but it still had to look seamless, like it had all been planned from the start.

Bishop's grin widened as he tapped away. "You're Diabolus , it's never too abrupt. The Isle is going to rejoice, and so will our people. I'm already on it." He held up his phone, the screen lighting up with whatever he was working on.

My father nodded, crossing his arms, satisfaction rolling off him. "He's right. The Isle will celebrate this. Your heir, your legacy—it's coming full circle."

Uncle Corbin chimed in, "And your aunt and mother have nearly everything in place. Lolita just needs to show up."

I felt a strange warmth settle in my chest. Not the obsessive hunger I usually carried for her, but something deeper. Something that only grew when I thought of the life she carried. Our child. My heir.

"Four days," I said, my voice firm. "We'll do it in four days."

My father clapped me on the back, his approval solid. Emilio gave me a knowing smile, and Bishop looked like he was ready to burn the Isle down with his excitement.

I may not have expressed it the same, but I was just as excited. I could recall only a few other times I felt like that. When my siblings were born, the Isle chose me, and anything to do with Lolita coming into my life. It wasn't just about having her physically. It was deeper than that, more consuming. Lolita was more than a possession to be claimed, more than a body to take. She was the answer to every hollow space inside me.

I craved her not just in the way a man craves a woman, but in the way a drowning man craves air. She filled a void that had festered for years, the void that came with the weight of leadership, the darkness of my role as Diabolus. There was something in her I couldn't let go of. She had a fragility masked by tender strength. Some of what she endured would have broken someone's mind, but she proved she was always meant to be here by overcoming it all.

Lolita was mine in ways she didn't even understand yet. It was more than lust, more than love. It was a compulsion, a burning need to own her completely. Not just her body, but her mind, her soul. She'd become the center of my universe without even trying, and it terrified me as much as it thrilled me. Every moment I spent with her, I was unraveling the layers that made her, crafting her into something that would belong to me and only me. The more I learned about her, the more I realized how deep I wanted to sink my claws in.

I was no fool.

I knew this obsession was a dangerous game, one I had to control. It wasn't enough to simply have her. I needed to break her apart gently, to remake her into the perfect partner—a woman who wouldn't just stand by me, but who would fall willingly into the darkness I ruled.

Lolita was meant to be a queen. And I was the king who would never let her go.

But I had to push her just a little further before our ceremony. She was close—so close to fully surrendering to me, body and soul. After this little incident, she needed to feel the weight of my absence. She had to realize how much she needed me. How much of her identity now revolved around being mine.

Two days. That's all it would take. I would vanish—no contact, no presence. She would feel the distance, the silence, and it would eat at her. She would crave me, miss me in ways she hadn't yet allowed herself to admit. By the time I returned, she'd be aching for me, desperate to be in my arms, to feel the security only I could provide. It was manipulation, yes. And it was necessary. She needed to understand that I was her everything, as much as she was mine.

The storm in her head had to match the calm of the Isle. When I came back to her, when I reminded her that I would never leave, she'd fall completely. She'd give herself to me entirely.

As we started to disperse, each of us with a task to complete, the sky began to clear. The Isle, always watching, always knowing, seemed to settle further. The storm had passed, and now it was time to prepare for the future. In four days, Lolita would stand beside me, not just as my Sponsa Diaboli, but as the mother of my child—the future of Stygian Isle. She would know without question that there was no world in which she didn't belong to me.