CHAPTER FOUR

As I wandered through the opulent estate, my insatiable curiosity led me to the lower level. Descending another grand staircase for what I initially assumed was a basement, I found myself in a long hall adorned with elegant wall sconces casting a soft, flickering light. The hallway was lined with a few mahogany doors on either side, leading off to various rooms, but my eyes were drawn to the end, where a single step down led to a larger ornate door. Ignoring the overwhelming sense of foreboding that filled me, I strode towards it.

My hand reached for the cold brass knob.

With a twist, the door swung open effortlessly, revealing a dark, alluring room beyond its threshold. It was like stepping into another world – one filled with luxury and indulgence. This room perfectly embodied the Impío faith and Alexander's enigmatic persona.

The sleek bar, with its polished obsidian surface, caught my eye first. Behind it stood a wine fridge filled with gleaming bottles that seemed to glimmer sinisterly in the dim light. In the center of the room was a pool table, its deep maroon feel adding a touch of sophistication to the otherwise debauched space. Mounted diagonally on opposite walls were two large flat-screen televisions, both powered off. The walls of the room were adorned with artwork that ranged from delicately framed depictions of ritualistic scenes to chaotic abstract representations of sin and temptation. Each piece exuded a sinister energy, a celebration of darkness and depravity.

The sitting area, lavishly furnished with plush leather couches and armchairs, was nestled in the shadows cast by a chandelier resembling twisted, blackened branches. The dim lights emitted an eerie glow that danced across the room, creating unsettling shapes and figures on the walls. I avoided looking towards the corner where chains hung ominously, unsure of what they were used for. The concrete floor directly under them stood as a stark contrast to the polished wood surrounding it. I turned my attention to the large portrait hanging between two Alistair pentagram crests, trying to push aside the unsettling feeling in my stomach. The painting depicted Alexander as more sinister and twisted than I had ever seen him.

He exuded both regalness and danger, holding a bloody heart in his grasp. The symbolism was a grim reminder of his power and potential for merciless dominance. Behind him stood two figures, each adding to the ominous tableau.

On one side was the man in the deer mask I had come to associate with Phoenix. He was oddly beautiful. Shirtless, his muscular torso is a canvas of intricate tattoos, each mark telling a tale of darkness and devotion. His presence in the portrait was like a silent, menacing guardian. On Alexander's other side stood a figure draped in a blood-red hooded robe, their face concealed by a smooth, jet-black demonic mask. The anonymity only added to their sinister appearance. Spread out on a raised, dais-like altar, lay a woman's lifeless body. Her bare form was both serene and sorrowful, her chest marked by a deep cavity where her heart once pumped.

There were red stains smeared across her lower half and between her thighs. Who was the woman in this painting? Could it have been one of Alexander's wives? It was a haunting depiction of sacrifice, whether literal or symbolic I couldn't decipher. The scene was shrouded in darkness, the figures cloaked by their protective embrace as they carried out their macabre ritual. In the distance, the looming silhouette of the Chapel could be seen against the starry night sky, its gothic spires reaching upwards like skeletal fingers.

I couldn't help but focus on Alexander's eyes, which were depicted with such realistic detail that I felt a chill run down my spine. It was as if he was staring straight at me through the canvas. His gaze followed my every move, making the room feel confined and intimidating. I tore my eyes away and quickly left the room, eager to escape the unsettling portrait.

As I stepped into the hallway, I impulsively opened the door on the left. I came face to face with rows of metal shelves holding carefully organized boxes. Something about the dated labels caught my attention, and I couldn't resist my curiosity. What could possibly be inside these?

With gentle care, I extracted a random box from the shelf, its weight hinting at the secrets it held within. I unfolded the flaps and knelt. Inside, the box was filled with photo albums and photographs. It didn't surprise me to see this tradition still alive and well on the Isle; it seemed like exactly the kind of place that would value timeless memories captured in images. Running my fingers over the worn covers of the albums, I felt a sense of nostalgia for a time before digital cameras and social media took over. As I sifted through the photos on top, my eyes fell upon the face of an unfamiliar woman.

She was stunningly beautiful, with delicate features and a sweet expression, but there was a haunting sadness in her eyes that added depth to her beauty. As I continued to sort through the old photographs. Her image was a recurring theme. Sometimes she was with Alexander and his friends, other times she was all alone.

Strangely I only saw one or two of them together with his family. Each picture captured a different facet of her. In some, she was full of life and laughter. In others, there was a subtler expression, a shadow of something more complex. It was like watching the gradual transformation of a person through the lens of a camera. My fingers gently grazed over the glossy surface of a Polaroid, lingering on the image of her and another woman I didn't recognize. She was just as stunningly beautiful, with features that almost seemed otherworldly.

Her intense gaze seemed to bore right through the photograph as if she could see into my very soul. Flipping the picture, I saw two names written in elegant cursive: Clarice . Melanie . I traced my fingers over the names, and a sudden recognition washed over me. Nicolette had mentioned them when we went into town. These were Alexander's wives, one of whom had met a cruel fate according to Nicolette's, and his own, admission.

I scrutinized the photograph once more. My eyes were immediately drawn to their outfits - a perfect representation of the Isle's distinct fashion, blending modesty with allure. Their pose exuded a sense of familiarity, their shoulders barely touching as they smiled at the camera. It was as if they shared a close friendship or a deeper understanding between them. The thought unsettled me more than I cared to admit. Could Alexander have been involved with both of these women at the same time?

The idea seemed incongruous with the man I was beginning to know. For all his complexities, Alexander did not strike me as someone who would entertain such an arrangement. His faith and ideologies, as well as his possessiveness and intense focus, all pointed toward a man who valued exclusivity in his relationships. Still, I couldn't help but wonder about the intricate dynamics between these three individuals.

Was there a deep-rooted story of rivalry or was it simply an agreeable arrangement? The discovery of these photographs brought forth a tidal wave of new questions, each one crashing upon me with overwhelming force. There were so many inquiries flooding my mind that I feared being consumed by them. My growing curiosity could not be suppressed—and not just concerning these women. I wanted to unravel the mystery behind the enigmatic man who had claimed me so completely. It was easier said than done. I carefully returned the photographs to their rightful place, keeping one of Clarice and Melanie for myself. These women had once been an integral part of Alexander's life, and now both were gone.

One was dead from his own hands.

The other was somewhere on the Isle.

I held the faded photograph of Melanie and Clarice tenderly in my hands as I slowly made my way up the stairs. Lost in my thoughts, I wandered into the quiet kitchen to pour myself a glass of cool water. Unbeknownst to me, Verity had silently entered the room and stood beside me like a ghost, her presence barely noticeable.

"Can I get you anything?" she asked in an almost ethereal voice.

My heart jumped at the sudden sound. I turned to find her poised with a graceful readiness to serve. The lessons from Nicolette and Esther flashed through my mind, reminding me to be polite.

"Just some water, please," I managed to say.

Her head bobbed once in understanding before she glided over to the fridge and filled a glass with ice and water. Her movements were smooth and practiced, almost ritualistic. For a brief moment, I found myself wondering about her story and what secrets may be hidden beneath her veil.

"Thank you," I murmured gratefully, taking the glass offered to me. A chilled, refreshing sensation flooded my mouth and throat as I drank, providing a small respite from the overwhelming thoughts swirling in my mind. Verity remained close, her unwavering presence an odd source of comfort. After a moment, I decided.

"I'm going to the library," I announced, hoping she would join me. Her companionship was something I craved at that moment, more than any assistance she could offer.

There was a fleeting pause in Verity's demeanor, betraying her surprise at my invitation. "If it pleases you, it will please me as well," she replied softly. With a smile, I beckoned for her to follow, and we made our way upstairs. We entered the library, and I was enveloped by its familiar grandeur.

My eyes immediately sought out the sacred Impío doctrine, its heavy tome beckoning to me with both intimidation and fascination. I unlocked its chains, recalling the location of the key that Esther had shown me what felt like a lifetime ago. Settling onto the plush sofa, I placed the photograph of Melanie and Clarice on the side table, a silent witness to my quest for understanding. As I gingerly opened the tome, its pages creaked with the weight of history and secrets.

Verity's presence was a quiet comfort as she took a seat adjacent to me. "Is there anything I can do to help?" she asked.

I noticed her gaze, veiled though it was, lingering on the photograph.

"I'm not sure," I admitted, my fingers tracing the ancient pages. "I'm looking for... answers. About everything," I gestured vaguely at the book and then at the photograph.

Honestly, this was a wild guess and a case of grasping at straws, but within these pages maybe was something that would help me. I started with the first passage that I was able to read. The Impío faith was a topic entirely woven through the lives of its followers like a binding thread. There were many roles and duties assigned, each with a clear place in the dark system of control. The Electi—like me—were at the center of it all, chosen women whose purpose ran deeper than I'd first realized. Further into the book, the passages grew more fragmented, as if certain parts were purposely concealed. Some of the text was written in another language.

There were ancient symbols and scripts that I couldn't understand, but what I did make out chilled me. My attention was caught by the mention of something, or someone called a Progenitor . I read the section with a mixture of curiosity and revulsion, the concept feeling alien and unsettling.

The Progenitor—she who bears the sacred burden. A vessel, a mother, and the cradle of the future. Her role is to bring forth the next generation, bound to the will of the Impío Order. The Progenitor's body is not her own but is dedicated to the continuance of the Isle bloodline.

I felt my stomach turn as the words sunk in, the implications becoming painfully clear. The Progenitor —it was a term for Breeder, for someone chosen not for power or prestige but for their ability to give birth, to perpetuate the twisted legacy of this Isle.

The chosen Progenitors are sacred, yet their fate is sealed. They will birth the next generation of the faithful, bound to the darkness and the blood. There can be no defiance. The Progenitor exists only for this purpose .

I glanced at Verity; I could feel her eyes now watching me closely from beneath the lace veil. I could barely keep the disgust from my voice as I spoke, seeking confirmation. "The Progenitor … it's just another name for Breeder?"

"Yes," she said quietly. "It's... a position of honor."

Even she didn't seem convinced by the hollow words she just spoke. "You will never know such a life. You are a true bride."

She'd practically whispered that last part. I turned towards her, confused. "Sorry, what did you say?"

She hesitated, then repeated a bit louder, "You are the one and only true bride of Diabolus . There will be no others and there has never been a first." Now her words were a mix of reverence and conviction.

My eyes shifted to the photo on the side table. "What do you mean the true bride?"

She stood and added quickly, "I apologize, I should not have spoken out of turn," and hurried out of the room, leaving me alone to decipher her Isle talk.

I hadn't meant to scare her away. The room immediately felt larger and emptier in her absence. I'd been spending my time all alone until Alexander returned in the evenings. I wasn't used to such solitude. It had been worse all the days leading up to this one—there'd been no staff—just guards I spotted patrolling the property. Thanks to that the library had become my sanctuary of sorts.

I sighed and repeated Verity's words.

"The one and only true bride of Diabolus.."

The picture beside me proved otherwise. I stayed in the library, losing myself in the doctrine, its pages filled with passages that were both fascinating and unnerving.

The more I read, the better I began to understand the Isle's intricate hierarchy. Impío faith was another topic entirely. There were many roles and duties assigned to its followers. The back of the book provided fewer formal transcriptions—some in another language.

Ambrose's voice eventually broke through my concentration, pulling me away from the words on the page and back into the present. He suggested a light lunch and I readily agreed, grateful for the break. After satisfying my hunger and taking care of my personal hygiene, I returned to the library, eager to continue my reading. There were other positions in this twisted society, those who pledged themselves entirely to serve the hierarchy. Their lives were governed by strict rituals, punishments, and devotion, constantly proving their worth to the men who held power.

The concept of obedience was a constant; it wasn't just expected—it was law. Those who defied it were met with consequences I didn't want to imagine based on their descriptions alone. When Ambrose returned for a second time, I realized the day had flown by without me even noticing.

"It's time to proceed to the evening service, Mistress," he informed me.

"Oh, right." I mentally marked my place in the book and reluctantly closed it.

"I can secure the doctrine for you if you wish," Ambrose offered.

"Thank you," I replied gratefully, passing off the responsibility to him. As I stood and straightened my dress, I quickly changed from a comfortable bookworm to a formal attendee, slipping back into the heels I'd kicked off to curl up on the sofa. "I'm already ready to go," I announced to Ambrose. He gave me a respectful nod, and we made our way out of the library.

The descent down the stairs fully immersed me back into the reality of the Isle. We made our way towards the entrance of the vast estate, and a sudden pang of realization hit me. "I forgot the picture," I murmured under my breath, more to myself than to Ambrose.

He paused, turning to look at me with a quizzical expression in his piercing blue eyes. "The photograph from the library," I clarified, my cheeks burning with embarrassment.

"Ah. Don't worry, I'll make sure it's taken care of," he reassured.

"I appreciate that," I replied. I might not have trusted him, but Alexander wouldn't keep someone around who wasn't fiercely loyal and capable. Kennedy aside. We stepped outside into the cool evening air, where a classic dark blue sedan was waiting. Its elegant design and vintage charm were a stark contrast to the modern luxury vehicles I had seen on and around the estate.

For a moment, I hesitated, reminiscing about my old Hyundai and the freedom of driving on open roads through the city.

Ambrose opened the rear door for me, and I slid in, still not used to the whole chauffeur thing. He took the wheel and started for the Chapel, the setting sun casting shadows over the foliage. As the car glided smoothly along the well-maintained roads of the Isle, Ambrose's soft hum filled the silence. The sound was oddly comforting. It surprised me how at ease I was around him given the circumstances.

"He thought you might want to look through those boxes," he said after a lapse in his tune, breaking the quiet. "That's why he didn't have them burned."

"He was going to burn them?" I echoed; my voice laced with confusion.

"He was," he confirmed. "They aren't mementos with any sentimental value. Those photographs serve as reminders of his evolution as a person and as Diabolus . His prior…relationships imparted valuable lessons upon him. He is adamant that the mistakes of the past are not repeated in his future, especially with you."

So, he wanted me to see them for whatever reason. I hadn't considered any sentimentality in his reasoning for having the boxes. I didn't get any warm and fuzzy feelings when I thought of Alexander and his wives, especially Melanie. When I thought of her, a chilling sensation crawled up my spine as I considered her fate. I now had a face to pair with what he'd done. The photographs had captured her beauty and vitality, but behind her bright eyes, I wondered if there were signs of impending doom.

How had she felt in those last moments?

Did she regret her marriage to Alexander, or had she accepted her end with him? The reality that such a fate could be mine made me want to vomit.

He claimed he'd never do that, but at one point wouldn't that have been the case with her too?

"Why did he do it? Did he grow to hate her that much?" The question slipped out before I could catch it.

Ambrose chuckled softly, a sound that seemed to carry more knowledge than he let on. "Hate had nothing to do with it, Mistress. Hate is a strong emotion, often confused with love and to say he loved them... that couldn't be further from the truth."

"Really?" I looked out the window, staring at the tourists as we passed them.

"I'm not at liberty to divulge everything, but I can assure you this, you mean a great deal to Alexander than any other. More than you might realize."

"Is that your way of saying he loves me?" I replied, unable to mask my skepticism.

Ambrose's caught my eye in the rearview mirror, and his expression softened. "What he feels for you is stronger than mere love."

"Do you really believe that?"

"I do," he replied without delay. "It's a true Stygian fairytale."

Knowing what that entailed, for my sake I hoped that wasn't the case. They were nothing like the romantic stories I had grown up with. Then again, our story would be seen as some epic love saga by the women on this Isle. A woman of low standing being pursued by the Devil himself, and then promised his undying devotion in exchange for her soul? It was the stuff of legends and fantasies for those immersed in this world.

"I suppose I should feel special then?" I replied, my voice dripping with sarcasm.

I couldn't stop myself. Ambrose, however, didn't seem the least bit bothered by my tone. In fact, he almost looked amused.

"You are special, Lolita," he replied, his voice lowering, taking on an unsettling calmness. "More than special." He glanced at me briefly. "You're everything to him. His favorite." He paused again, a smile curling his lips, but there was nothing warm in it. "He chose you. Once the Devil sets his sights on something, it's his forever."

His gaze flickered back to the road, the weight of his words hanging over me like a dark cloud.