CHAPTER SIX

I was alone in the viewing room with Seraphine, though her presence didn't soothe the storm of emotions swirling inside me. After the service had ended, Pandora and Keres had been whisked away by their servitors, leaving me to brood in oppressive silence.

Seraphine tried to engage me, her voice soft and probing, but I had nothing to say. I couldn't form the words even if I wanted to. My eyes were drawn back to the Chapel below, specifically to the statue that loomed over the altar like a dark omen.

The Devil, carved in menacing detail, stood tall and dominating, its blackened stone casting long shadows across the room. His wings stretched wide as if poised to take flight or descend into hell, while his head tilted downward, watching over the congregation with an expression that was both cruel and knowing. From the very first time I'd seen it, what disturbed me most was the woman at the Devil's feet, kneeling in submissive reverence.

Her hands were clasped in prayer, her face turned upward. Her expression wasn't one of worship—it was one of pain, her stone lips frozen in a silent scream. Blood seemed to weep from her eyes, staining her marble skin as if she had been crying for centuries. His hand rested gently on her head, almost tender, as though he was comforting her. But there was no comfort in that touch. It was control. Dominance.

It was Impío.

The way the candlelight flickered across the statue made it seem alive, like they were trapped in an eternal dance of power and submission. It was both mesmerizing and horrifying. Beautiful in a way that made me sick to my stomach because I was so drawn to it.

"Stunning work of art, isn't it?"

The voice startled me, snapping me out of my trance. I blinked, tearing my gaze from the statue. Seraphine was no longer in the armchair where she'd been moments ago. A man sat there now, tall and poised, his hands casually resting in his pockets. As I took in his features, realization hit me with a cold wave of recognition.

Alexander's father.

He was a mirror image of his son, only without the scar that marred Alexander's otherwise flawless face. His features were sharp and aristocratic, but his eyes—a brilliant shade of imperial topaz, just like Alexander's—were cold and calculating, holding a depth of authority that sent a shiver down my spine.

There was something about the way he watched me, calm and composed, that made me feel utterly exposed. Like the woman in the statue below, kneeling at the feet of the Devil, waiting for whatever judgment or fate would befall her. The man's gaze shifted back to the statue.

"It speaks volumes, doesn't it?" he said, his tone deceptively conversational, as if we were simply discussing a piece of art in a gallery, and not a grotesque symbol of the power dynamic that dominated my every waking moment.

I didn't answer. Instead, I forced myself to look away from him, my pulse quickening under his penetrating stare as it returned to me.

"Lolita," he stated my name as if testing it out. "You're quite beautiful too. Much prettier than your mother."

My mother? The woman I had never known, whose face was a blank page in my life.

I turned sharply to face him, the question burning on my tongue, but it died the moment I met his gaze. His smile was thin, humorless, and full of knowledge I wasn't sure I wanted to uncover.

"She wasn't the brightest of women, pretty enough for her purpose though," he continued "But you… you were always meant for more."

My heart pounded in my chest. If he truly knew my mother, that confirmed my earlier suspicion. She was linked to this goddamn Isle.

"I— I don't know who my mother is." I felt like a fool as soon as I said it. Of course, he would know that. He already knew far more than I did.

The way his lips curled into a sly, almost pitying smile sent a wave of unease through me.

"Of course, you don't," he replied, his voice low, almost soothing. "She wasn't meant to leave her mark on your life. Motherhood was never her role."

His words twisted something inside me. I clenched my fists. "What do you mean?"

He chuckled softly, as though the answer was so obvious. "Her sole purpose was to bring you here, Lolita. To be the vessel for something far greater." He glanced at the statue again, his eyes lingering on the figure of the woman at the Devil's feet. "And now, you're here to fulfill the role you were born for."

I swallowed; my throat dry. The pieces were coming together, but I hated the picture they were forming. "And my father?" I asked, my voice barely steady.

He smiled faintly this time, eyes reflecting a distant memory. "Ah, he was a good man. One of my closest confidants."

Was , I noted. Past tense. My mind raced. Were both my parents dead then? If that was the case, how had I ended up in the system, so far away from the Isle?

"This isn't my story nor my place to tell you," he added, a hint of finality in his voice, "but you'll be hearing it soon."

I didn't respond, unsure whether I even wanted to hear the truth. His gaze swept over me, assessing as if weighing my worth. "Do you know who I am?"

I was a bit taken aback by the switch-up. Shouldn't he have started with that? "I know more of who your son is."

His smile broadened, a flash of geniality cutting through the tension for the first time. "That's a good answer," he said, clearly pleased by my reply.

"Still," he continued, his tone carrying that unsettling edge, "you'd do well to understand that knowing my son means you're only scratching the surface." His eyes bore into mine, a reminder that beneath every layer of this place, there was something darker. Something yet to be revealed.

"What more is there I need to know?"

He stood and moved closer; his gaze unyielding. "Everything, Lolita. And in time, you'll know it all."

I swallowed hard. I didn't know if I had spoken out of defiance or instinct, but something told me he already knew the answer to my rhetorical question. He had watched me, seen me grapple with this world, with Alexander. I realized he wasn't looking for any kind of confession, ignorance, or knowledge. He was measuring something deeper.

"It goes without saying," he began to speak again, "I am very protective of my children—especially my son. His position comes with a heavy burden, but he carries it with ease. I could not be prouder of him." He paused, his expression softening slightly. "The Isle chose Alexander. My daughter tells me it has chosen you too."

I recalled Esther's words: " When someone is chosen, it's not just by the people, or by our Carnalis Dominus. It's by the very land we stand on." The weight of them pressed down on me now, heavier, and more ominous than before.

He watched me closely, waiting. "What do you think?"

I hesitated, unsure of how to respond. "I suppose... your daughter could have been right."

Another slow, genuine smile crept across his face, and something about it unsettled me even more.

"I think she's right about most things," he replied, satisfaction evident in his tone.

Suddenly, he was right there, his frame towering over me. My heart pounded in my chest, my pulse quickening.

"It was very nice to see you again, Lolita." His hands found my shoulders, a light but undeniably possessive touch. Then, without warning, he leaned down, brushing his lips against my cheek in a gesture that felt far too intimate.

"Our family can't wait to do the same."

The moment he stepped back, the air between us felt charged with unspoken tension. He left the room, but his presence clung to me like a shadow, refusing to let go. I was left alone, my mind racing in the silence that followed his departure. The weight of his words lingered, heavy and suffocating, wrapping around me like a noose.

I didn't know how much time passed as I stood there, the events of the evening running through my mind in a loop. How was I supposed to manage all of this? The truth about my parents, the rituals, the man I was meant to marry.

When Alexander finally came for me, it felt like an eternity had passed. But there he was, just as he had been the first time we met—no mask, no ceremonial robes. Just the gorgeous man I had stumbled upon by accident in that hotel suite.

" Deliciae ," he murmured, his voice rich and affectionate, as if nothing had happened. He walked straight to me, his aura commanding as always, and without hesitation, he drew me into his arms, enveloping me in the warmth I was so conflicted by. "It's been too long without you."

I couldn't find words to reply.

Alexander, always attuned to my silence, cupped my face gently, tilting it up to meet his gaze. His eyes were filled with something intense as he leaned down to kiss me. His lips were soft but insistent, possessive, pulling me under the same way he always did. I found myself melting into his kiss. But then, memories of Nicolette's screams flooded my mind. Her bloodied mouth and broken figure were carried away like a lifeless doll.

"Nicolette," I gasped, pulling away from him.

Alexander's eyes darkened, his expression unreadable as he gazed at me.

His thumb gently brushed over my cheek in a comforting gesture, though his words were anything but. "She got what she deserved, Lolita."

"But what did she say that was so wrong? That warranted... that?"

He stroked my cheek again, his touch tender. "Come with me," he demanded after a moment, his voice soft yet firm.

He took my hand and led me out of the room. We walked down the staircase toward the massive doors that led into the heart of the Chapel. On our way, I noticed the pregnant woman from earlier passing through a doorway with a man by her side. They were both unmasked now that the service had ended. They looked like the perfect couple, both stunningly attractive, dressed down in muted gold and soft grays that clearly reflected their elevated station on the Isle.

There was a familial resemblance between them, as though they could have been siblings rather than spouses. Alexander greeted them, his tone surprisingly casual. "You're still here, Jamison?" he addressed the man.

Jamison grinned and held up a manila envelope. "I needed to grab a file from my office."

"I thought you'd stay in tonight," Alexander replied, tightening his arm around me. "The baby could come at any time."

"All the more reason to get everything done now, right?"

"That's one way to look at it," Alexander mused.

Throughout the entire interaction, the woman kept her eyes downcast, not once meeting mine. Jamison barely glanced my way either, not until Alexander wrapped his arm around me a bit tighter and said, "Lolita, this is one of our most esteemed disciples, Jamison Delacroix, and his wife, Cassandra."

Finally, Cassandra lifted her gaze to meet mine, and Jamison looked at me as well, both greeting me with a slight bow of their heads, displaying the reverence fitting of my station.

I felt a wave of uncertainty wash over me. I had no idea what I was supposed to say. The doctrine hadn't covered how to handle introductions like this and neither had Matron Seraphine. So, I winged it, offering a hesitant nod and murmuring, "It's nice to meet you."

They seemed more than satisfied with that, but I couldn't shake the feeling of embarrassment.

Cassandra's voice was soft and reverent. "We are so glad you're home, Diaboli."

Before I could muster a response, Alexander interjected smoothly, saving me from having to address her statement. I was grateful, but I knew it wasn't just for my benefit—it was for his as well. The conversation between them continued, their tone easy and familiar. They spoke of mundane things—chores, responsibilities, a future gathering.

I felt myself drifting, trying to hold onto the fragments of normalcy while trapped in a world that felt anything but. Alexander finally told them to head home and for Cassandra to get some rest. "You both should," he added, his voice taking on a gentler edge. "The baby will need both of you in your best shape."

With nods and more polite smiles, Jamison and Cassandra bid us farewell. Alexander's grip on my hand tightened as he led me forward once again, guiding me through the massive Chapel doors. Two figures stood on either side of the entrance, still masked, their silent presence a reminder of the ever-watchful eyes in this place. The heavy doors closed behind us with a resounding thud, sealing us inside.

We moved deeper into the heart of the Chapel, the vast space looming around us.

The dim light cast eerie shadows across the stone floor, and the air was thick with the lingering energy of the earlier service.

My feet faltered as we approached the altar, the statue of the Devil looming above us, a haunting reminder of my place here. I couldn't help but glance at the statue, its imposing figure towering over the room, the woman at its feet forever bound to its power.

This was the very spot where I had knelt, trembling as the searing heat of the branding iron had burned its mark on my skin. The memory surged up from the depths of my mind—the pain, the heat, the sickening smell of flesh burning, followed by the cold reality of what it signified. I shifted uncomfortably, feeling a phantom sting from my back, a constant reminder of what had been done to me, of the claim Alexander made.

And here I was again, with him beside me, as if nothing had changed, yet everything had.

The blood that had stained the floor earlier—the horrifying remnants of Nicolette's punishment was now gone, scrubbed away as if it had never existed.

The Chapel felt larger, more cavernous without the congregation filling the pews, their eerie masked faces long departed at this point. It was almost peaceful in its stillness, though I knew better than to be fooled by it. I let my gaze wander further, taking in the details that I hadn't noticed before. The dark wooden beams crisscrossing high above, the intricate carvings along the walls, all of it meant to invoke reverence, submission, and fear. Even the flickering candles along the altar seemed to cast shadows with purpose, playing tricks on my mind.

Alexander stood beside me, his presence commanding even in silence. I could feel his eyes on me, studying my every move, every breath. He always knew what I was thinking before I did. I turned slowly, meeting his gaze.

"What do you think?" His voice was low, the smooth cadence of his words cutting through the quiet like a blade.

I hesitated. What was I supposed to think?

That this place, this Chapel soaked in ritual and blood, was beautiful? That it was grand and imposing, fitting for a man who ruled over an island like a god? Because the truth was, I did think that. I also saw it for what it truly was—a gilded cage, one that held me as surely as the brand burned into my skin.

"It's…" I searched for the right words, ones that wouldn't betray the turmoil raging inside me. "It's... overwhelming," I finally managed, the understatement almost choking me.

A small smile played on his lips, but his eyes didn't soften. They gleamed, a mixture of pride and something darker. "Overwhelming can be good." His hand reached out to gently touch the small of my back. "It reminds you of your place. Your importance."

"My place..." I echoed. "Everyone keeps saying that. Your dad too."

Alexander's expression didn't change, but there was a flicker of acknowledgment in his eyes.

"Ah, yes. He did mention he was going to speak with you. He's been waiting, patiently, like all of us. We've all been waiting for you." His voice was calm, the smoothness of it almost eerie in the vastness of the Chapel.

I turned toward him, my eyes narrowing. "But I can't say the same about any of you."

The bitterness in my voice surprised even me, but I didn't care.

He raised an eyebrow, slightly amused, but there was a glint of warning beneath his calm exterior. "And why is that, Lola?" He asked, the nickname dripping from his lips like honey.

"I had a life, you know?" I shot back, my voice rising with frustration, sharp and raw as it echoed through the vast space of the chapel. "Before all of this—before you and your Isle." I gestured wildly, my hand sweeping across the room, from the cold altar to the towering statue.

Alexander sighed, the faintest hint of amusement still tugging at the corners of his mouth, but his eyes had darkened, the condescension there subtle but unmistakable. "Ah, Delicia, not this again," he murmured, the tone almost dismissive.

His hand slipped from my back as he began to circle me, his movements slow, deliberate, each footstep tapping against the marble floor, filling the silence I'd created. "We've discussed this before," he continued, his voice calm and steady, almost soothing in its rhythm. "That life you speak of... it wasn't truly yours. It was borrowed temporarily, like a disguise. You wore it, but it never really fit, did it?"

I opened my mouth to protest, to tell him he was wrong, but no words came. My memories—of the factory, the hotel, the endless cycle of mundane tasks and doing all I could just to eat and keep a roof over my head—seemed to flicker and dim in the face of his quiet certainty.

"You hated that life," he pressed gently, his voice softening as though he were offering me some hidden truth. "Those people out there looked down on you, every day. You were expendable and unnoticed. Invisible, really. Always beneath them, always judged. But now..." He paused, stepping closer. His eyes held mine, unwavering. "Now, those same people would fall to their knees before you."

My breath caught in my throat. The weight of his words hung in the air between us, impossible to ignore. I hadn't thought of it like that, but there was something undeniable in what he said. Something that made me pause.

"You were chosen, Lolita," his voice weaved around me, pulling me closer. "Not just by me, but by the Isle itself. Stygian, this life—it's in your blood, something for which you were born. You've spent so long being unseen, and overlooked, but here you are revered. You'll never be cast aside, never be beneath anyone—except me, of course." His hand slid down my arm, fingers grazing my skin like a brand.

"You have power now. Those who once thought themselves above you would be brought to their knees if you wished it. This is your place, where you belong—by my side."

I swallowed, the ache of something unspoken tightening in my chest. It was as if he were giving me a gift, not just telling me something. There was no malice in his words, no threat—only a kind of certainty, an offer of something more. I wanted to argue, but the words caught, choked by the weight of everything that had happened. The blood. The rituals. The power he held over everyone here. Over me. I wasn't ready to surrender, but how much longer could I resist the inevitable? We were going in circles, an endless loop where he always had the upper hand. As things stood, I couldn't win.

"Is the only reason I'm here, the reason you took me, because of two people I've never even met?"

He knew who I was talking about without needing more explanation. "That's not the whole reason, but it definitely played a part in it," he openly admitted. "The blood that flows through your veins is the same that flows through mine."

My heart dropped. "W-what do you mean by that?"

He took a step closer, his chest nearly pressing against mine. "Jamison and Cassandra," he began, his eyes gleaming in the dim light. "Did you notice anything about them?"

I blinked, feigning ignorance, trying to delay as my mind raced. "She's pregnant," I offered lamely.

He smiled, that knowing grin that made my stomach flip.

"You're adorable when you try to be naive," he teased. "What else?"

I felt my chest tighten. There was no way to pretend long term that I didn't understand what he was hinting at even if I didn't want to admit it.

"No, no..." I stammered, taking a step away from him. "How old are you?"

He chuckled. "Still in my prime. Close to thirty-one."

"So almost eleven years on me." I stared at him, and he stepped closer, eliminating the space I'd just created. I tilted my head up, forced to look into the eyes that seemed to see through everything.

"You didn't answer me."

"They...look like siblings," I murmured. "But you said that was his wife."

He grinned. "On the Isle, you'll find that's common."

"But she's pregnant." The words stumbled out of my mouth.

I wasn't even sure why I said it, why that fact stood out to me in the midst of all this. He laughed lightly; his amusement clear as he closed the remaining space between us and wrapped an arm around my waist. "Yes, that generally happens when two people sleep with one another," he teased. "But there's more to it than that."

I exhaled heavily, trying to keep it together, but my mind was racing, searching for a way out of this conversation. I wasn't ready to face it, I couldn't.

"We're not brother and sister," he said softly, his tone smooth and deliberate, as if he could sense the direction of my thoughts before I could even voice them.

"But we are something ." The words came out of me reflexively, my mind trying to make sense of this twisted reality.

"Indeed, we are," he confirmed.

My heart pounded harder, and I tried to rationalize his words.

He wasn't talking about actual blood ties.

He couldn't be.

The Isle had its own ways of connecting people, binding them through lineage, through the beliefs of this place, but that didn't mean we were actually related by blood, right? My thoughts spun, clinging to that logic. He must've meant we were tied together by some ancient tradition or ritual, not by genetics.

It had to be that.

"You could've just left me alone," I said suddenly. I needed to deflect, to steer this conversation away from the disturbing implications of what he was saying. "You have others here, right? Other fam—women. Aren't you still mar—?"

Before I could finish, his hand was in my hair, his fingers tightening as he yanked my head back, forcing me to meet his eyes. The suddenness of it made me gasp. His grip was harsh and possessive, his lips hovering dangerously close to mine.

"I will have one wife," he stated calmly, each word dripping with finality, "and that is you ."

The intensity in his gaze made my pulse quicken, but not out of fear. It was something else entirely. His words, his touch—they left no room for doubt. He wasn't just claiming me; he was stating a fact, one that I couldn't argue. His grip on my hair tightened, pulling me closer until our faces were inches apart.

"You were meant for me in every way that matters."

I suppressed a whimper as his grip tightened further.

"You've been doing so well," he murmured, his lips brushing lightly against mine.

To anyone else, it might have seemed caring, gentle even, but I felt the warning beneath his words, a dangerous undertone that sent a chill through me.

"I'd hate for us to have to start back at square one."

"Let me go," I whispered, my heart racing. The shift in his demeanor was tangible, and every instinct I had screamed for me to put distance between us.

His grip loosened just a fraction but didn't release me. I was still trapped against him. He enjoyed watching me struggle.

"I can't do that," he replied softly. "We haven't gotten to the reason I brought you in here yet."

"Why am I here then?"

"Acolyte Selena informed me that you and another Electi thought to interrupt our service earlier."

Selena. Of course, it was her. I was sure Seraphine would've done the same, but the other woman beat her to it.

"Careful, Lolita," he murmured, his voice a quiet threat. "It's not wise to speak ill of those who serve me, especially not in a place as sacred as this."

I hadn't realized I'd said her name aloud. "I wasn't speaking ill of her," I countered evenly.

"Wait." His head tilted slightly, the faintest smirk touching his lips. "Are you jealous, Lola?"

I bristled at the question and the way he used that name. "What would I gain from being jealous of your ex?"

He laughed, and it was an actual laugh, dark and full of amusement. "Ex?" he repeated, as though the idea was absurd. "She was my whore in a lavish whorehouse—nothing more. Now, she serves me differently, though I suppose she does still do so on her knees."

My pulse quickened, anger bubbling up inside me. "Then maybe this is the place for her," I shot back, shoving against him, desperate to put some distance between us.

His grin widened, that dark gleam returning to his eyes. "Ah, you are jealous. And a little possessive too. I like that."

"I am not—." I started, but his hand slid to the back of my neck, holding me firmly.

"I want you to answer me now," he demanded.

For a second, I was confused, then I remembered the question he had asked. "I was the one who wanted to stop it," I replied, my voice steady despite the turmoil in my chest. There was no way I was going to implicate Keres, though I was sure he already knew exactly what had happened. He always seemed to know more than he let on. His next words confirmed it.

"It's nice that you've become close with another Electi," he murmured, his fingers gently massaging the back of my neck where he held me. "But never try to spare them if they've done wrong." His voice lowered, carrying a dark warning beneath the surface.

"Osiris will be handling her tonight."

My mind immediately went to Keres, and the thought of what might be done to her. I didn't know much about the man who had claimed Keres, but I knew he was close to Alexander. Too close for comfort.

"As for you..." his words trailed off, drawing my attention back to him. His gaze had sharpened, the intensity making my breath catch. The possessive way he held me, sent a ripple of unease and... something else entirely, through me. "I think you need a reminder of who I am, and your place."

"What does that mean?" I forced the question out, my voice softer than I intended, barely more than a whisper.

His eyes locked onto mine. "Do you know what I expect of you, Deliciae ?" he asked, his voice smooth, but beneath that surface was the unmistakable authority he always carried.

I didn't respond. There was no point.

My throat felt tight, and his grip on me, while not forceful, was commanding enough to make me feel completely under his control. His hand, which had been massaging the back of my neck, slowly shifted, grazing down my spine with deliberate precision.

"You're mine, and I will not tolerate disobedience. Not from you. I've given you leeway because I understand this is all new to you. But make no mistake, Lolita, you were chosen by me for a reason." His hand slid lower. "I expect you to follow my lead without question."

I swallowed, trying to keep my emotions from showing, but my heart was racing, and I had no doubt he could feel it.

His lips brushed against my ear as he spoke the next words, sending a shudder through me. "You are here to submit. To obey," he continued, his voice dropping lower, more deliberate. "In return, you will find safety, comfort, and privilege—things others could only hope for." He drew back, watching me closely as if gauging my reaction. "As my Electi, you represent more than just yourself. You will be my legacy."

Every syllable felt like another link in the chain, binding me tighter to this place, to him.

"So, my job is to be the prop for your ideologies?" The words slipped out, bitter and raw.

"I see what you're trying to do," he murmured lowly, almost amused. He released my ass and touched my face, tracing the outline of my lips with his thumb. "But all you have to do is ask."

I furrowed my brow in confusion. "Ask? Ask what?"

"You'll figure it out. You catch on quickly." His hand fell to my throat, and he pulled me closer. "You have one avocation beyond falling madly in love with me. Are you curious as to what it is?"

I searched his eyes for any hint of what he meant, the voice in my head warning me of the danger lurking beneath his charismatic facade. "I... I don't know."

A sadistic grin stretched across his gorgeous face, his touch burning like fire against my skin as he gripped my hair tighter, pulling me even closer to him. "Your purpose," he intoned, his lips tantalizingly close to mine, "Your sole duty is to fuck me like a desperate whore and beg me to do the same. To obey without question. When I tell you to kneel before me, you drop to the ground without hesitation. When I tell you to spread your legs and open your mouth, you spread your fucking legs and open wide."

I stiffened, fear churning violently in my stomach. Yet, underneath it all, something else stirred. Something I hated—an unsettling pull toward his twisted desires, a part of me I despised but couldn't fully deny.

His grip tightened around my throat. I whimpered, my body instinctively tensing as my hand pressed against his chest, hoping for some space—some air to breathe.

"Do you understand?"

I hesitated for a second, my mind screaming at me to resist, to fight back, but my body knew better. I tried to nod, desperate to relieve some of the tension, but he held me in place, waiting.

"Say it," he commanded, his voice soft but ironclad.

"I... I understand. I do," I whispered, barely able to push the words past my lips.

His grip softened just slightly, and his smile was one of quiet victory. "Good," he acknowledged, his voice almost gentle. Still gripping me by the throat, he walked me backward a few paces and then stopped. "Now kneel."

My heart thudded painfully in my chest and my legs trembled as I sank slowly, reluctantly, to the floor.

The weight of his command was heavier than any physical force, pushing me down until my knees pressed against the cold, hard marble. As I knelt, the space around us seemed to shrink, his presence enveloping me like a shadow I couldn't escape. It was only then, in that agonizing moment of submission, that I realized where he had placed me. Close to the towering statue of the Devil, where the weeping woman knelt.

Still, he held onto me, his gaze traveling over my body I clenched my fists, fighting to maintain my composure.

His dominance filled the space between us, suffocating yet inescapable. With a deliberate slowness, he reached down, undoing his slacks. He lowered them just enough to free his cock, and the size of him, so close to my lips, left me breathless.

He was massive in every sense—thick and long.

"Open your mouth," he commanded, his voice low.

Heart racing, I hesitated for a split second before parting my lips. I felt the heat of him, the power behind his control. His grin widened, satisfied. He positioned himself, his control never wavering. Releasing the grip on my throat, he tangled his hand in my hair, guiding me forward, filling my mouth even when I gagged, my throat constricting around him.

He held me in place, his grip unyielding. He watched my face as I struggled to accommodate the size of him, devouring my every reaction.

His grip on my body was unyielding and suffocating. I could feel his eyes boring into my face, relishing every tremor and gasp as he forced himself deeper.

Panic and pain surged through me as I struggled against his hold, tears streaming down my cheeks. "Wider," he commanded.

Desperate to escape, I tried to pull away, but his fingers dug into my scalp, keeping me in place. My resistance only fueled his desire as he continued to fuck my mouth with brutal force. The taste of him filled my senses, a bitter reminder of how powerless I was in his grasp. His cock pulsed with each aggressive thrust while I choked and whimpered beneath him, saliva running down my chin.

I knew the only way out was to make him come. When he thrust again, I took him in as fully as I could, hollowing my cheeks.

"That's it," he praised, his tone still so controlled.

I licked and sucked, wrapping my fingers around the slick base of him as much as I could, reaching into his dark boxer briefs with my other hand.

I cupped his balls in my hand, massaging them with a firm grip as I continued to suck and lick every inch of him. Anya had once told me the guys she was with usually loved this. He groaned, and I could feel his cock twitch in my mouth I gave it my all, stroking and sucking harder, determined to push him over the edge. Alexander grunted, his topaz eyes half-lidded and intense.

"Fuck, deliciae ," he growled huskily. "You're so good."

His thrusts grew more forceful, hitting the back of my throat and choking me. But I didn't pull away - I needed this to be over.

With each swallow, I could feel his cock swelling inside me, pulsing with impending release. The fear and pain mixed with an intoxicating sense of submission and sickening arousal. I struggled to keep up with his relentless pace.

His eyes remained locked onto mine, his gaze intense and unyielding.

My name escaped his lips, and I felt the tension in his body increase. The ferocity of his hips intensified, causing me to let out a choked whimper as he tightened his grip on my hair. With each stroke of his cock, I sucked harder, desperate to please him. Suddenly, he released himself into my mouth, filling it with his salty release that strangely reminded me of fruit. It was a welcome relief. He held onto my head as he thrust until there was nothing left.

I gasped for air when he finally slipped his cock out of my mouth, feeling the remnants of his orgasm drip down my throat. My face was wet with saliva, and I swallowed hard, trying to maintain some sense of dignity.

My body still trembled as he pulled me up with a commanding grip, adjusting himself and tucking away the evidence of our illicit encounter. I stood on shaky legs, my hand instinctively rising to wipe my mouth, but his fingers gripped my wrist like a vice.

"That stays," he stated quietly.

I nodded frantically, too terrified to argue. He released me and brought his hand to the back of my head, pulling me close. He leaned in, his lips barely brushing against mine in a soft, possessive kiss. "Turn around," he ordered me.

I complied slowly, every fiber of my being on edge. Inch by inch, he guided me until my middle was pressed against the cold stone altar. My heart pounded in my chest as he leaned me forward, bending me over until I lay flat against the unforgiving surface. Panic seeped into my thoughts as I questioned what was happening.

"W-what are you doing?" I stammered, unable to keep the fear out of my voice.

"Refreshing your memory," he replied with chilling calmness.

The sound of metal scraping made my blood run cold. His hand left my hair, and I heard him reach for something hidden under the rear rim of the altar.

With practiced efficiency, he pulled up two small metal hoops and locked them into place on either side of the altar.

"Don't move," he commanded, his voice soft yet heavy with authority.

I stayed still, frozen against the cold stone as his footsteps receded, the echo of his boots bouncing off the walls. My breath hitched as I watched him move through the shadows. From the corner of my eye, I saw him pass by, his figure dark and imposing. He slipped through a door toward the back of the room, leaving me there, bound in place, alone with the eerie silence of the Chapel. When Alexander returned, I heard the quiet shuffle of additional footsteps. Two women followed behind him, both masked, dressed in the dark, modest robes of the nuns I had seen before. One of them was pushing a metal cart, and for a fleeting second, it reminded me of the cleaning trolley I used to push around at work. Except this one was different—ominously different.

On top of it sat a lantern with a larger, flickering flame, chains neatly coiled beside it, and a bowl filled with some kind of liquid. The nuns stopped abruptly, standing eerily still until Alexander's voice broke the silence.

"Bind her," he commanded.

In perfect sync, the nuns moved towards me like puppets on strings. I struggled to get up, but Alexander's hand pressed firmly on my back, forcing me back onto the altar.

"Stay," he whispered softly as the nuns approached.

My heart pounded in my chest as they threaded the cold steel chains through metal hoops and tightened them around my wrists. Each chain pulled taut until I was stretched out, completely immobilized against the altar. Fear and disbelief consumed me as I realized there was no escape from this twisted ritual. Alexander's voice dripped with command as he switched to the Isle's native tongue.

The two women bowed low in perfect unison and intoned, "Our honor, Diabolus ," before retreating into the shadows with haunting silence.

My heart raced as Alexander's hand stroked my spine in a disturbingly soothing manner. Without warning, he moved towards the cart and retrieved something. Fear shuddered through me as I heard the clink of metal. My mind raced with dread as I tried to prepare myself for whatever was about to unfold. The nearby flame cast eerie shadows on the walls as Alexander approached me from behind. I could feel his presence looming, yet unseen. With each step he took, my body became more tense, and my mind filled with terror. Suddenly, his hands were on me again, but this time they weren't holding me down - they were tying something around my eyes.

A blindfold.

My vision was engulfed in darkness, amplifying every other sense. I was completely at his mercy.

I heard his footsteps retreating, the soft click of his shoes on the stone floor, leaving me momentarily alone in this vulnerable state. My heart hammered in my chest as the seconds stretched on, and I strained to hear where he had gone. With a swift return, he stood close once more, his hands gathering my hair and exposing the nape of my neck. A cold rush of air hit my skin as I heard the unmistakable sound of fabric tearing.

His blade sliced through the back of my dress, leaving it in tattered shreds and exposing my bare back to the room. His fingers grazed the tender mark beneath my shoulder blade, his touch almost reverent as he traced the symbol that bound me to him. The pain was still fresh, still healing, but he seemed to relish it. As the quiet sounds of the cart being pushed filled the Chapel once more, voices joined in.

"That's a beautiful sight," Bishop's deep voice broke through.

"It's healing nicely," an unfamiliar male chimed in.

"But not too healed yet," Alexander's dark voice cut through the air with intent. "Perfect for what I need to do."

I bit down hard on my lip, suppressing a whimper. They were talking about the mark— the one that bound me to him in ways I still couldn't comprehend. My breath quickened, every inch of me acutely aware of their eyes, of what they had planned. And there I was, exposed and bound, a living canvas for their twisted rituals. "Where do you want us?" the unfamiliar voice asked, a trace of curiosity in his tone. "Either side, just as a precaution," Alexander's voice was smooth, as though this was routine for him, a well-practiced art. I tensed instinctively as I felt their approach, one on each side of me.

Their silent, watchful presence was a dark shadow that hovered over me, making my skin crawl. The unfamiliar voice spoke again. "Do you remember Dad telling us the story of Mom?" "Of course." Alexander's reply was sharp and to the point. "This isn't remotely the same."

I shuddered as the words sunk in. The other voice was his brother—Emilio. Footsteps sounded again, heavy in the oppressive silence. I flinched as the sensation of cold liquid ran down my back. It felt like ice, coating the raised lines of his brand on my skin, dripping down along my spine. The chains rattled again as I jolted forward against the altar, trying to brace myself for what was coming next. The bowl was set back on the cart with a soft clink, and then I felt the heat. A surge of panic shot through me as I realized what was about to happen.

"Please," I whispered, my voice trembling.

Alexander leaned in, his voice low and deliberate. "You've been so obedient thus far, Lolita. Don't ruin it now."

I whimpered, the sound catching in my throat, as the heated blade hovered just above my skin. The warmth radiated against me before the sharp edge made contact, searing a path through the numbing cold. The heat wasn't enough to burn me completely, but it left behind a lingering sting that sent waves of agony through my body. I bit down hard on my lip, the metallic taste of blood filling my mouth.

"Shh," Alexander's voice was strangely calm and gentle as he pressed down, dragging the blade over the already-marked skin. "Just let it happen."

I couldn't hold back a gasp as the heat intensified. The blade moved with precision, tracing every curve and line of his mark like an artist perfecting their masterpiece.

My entire body felt like it was engulfed in flames as the sensation shifted from dull heat to searing pain. I could feel blood trickling down my back. It was like a symphony composed by a sadistic maestro, with each note building upon the last until it reached a crescendo of anguish. His hand held me steady, his fingers like a comforting anchor as he tilted my head to the side. The two men flanking me tightened their grips on my arms, working with the chains to ensure I stayed still. Alexander's voice was both soothing and unnervingly dark as he worked, his movements precise and calculated.

"Almost done, my sweet deliciae ," he murmured. I tried to fight the instinct to thrash against the pain. My eyes squeezed shut, desperate to block out the searing heat of the blade against my flesh, but it was futile. Each cut felt like a fiery brand.

Alexander's voice was a soft command in my ear. "You can handle this. You're mine, remember? You've always been stronger than you think." I whimpered again, tears streaming down my cheeks from beneath the blindfold that covered my eyes. I clung to his words, trying to find strength in them. He removed the blade and ran his hand over the new mark, tracing its lines with reverence. The fresh wound stung beneath his touch, reminding me that it was now a part of me forever.

"It's beautiful," he said, to himself. "You bear it well."

I could feel blood still dripping down my back, hot and sticky as it trailed in thin lines over my skin. The wound throbbed, a stinging sensation that flared with every shallow breath I took. My body trembled, and the chains rattled softly as I fought to keep still. A cool liquid was poured over the mark again, and I hissed as it hit the raw flesh, making the pain even worse. The sudden cold contrasted violently with the heat of the burn, sending waves of sharp discomfort through me.

"Easy now," Alexander soothed from behind me.

I felt the soft dabbing of a cloth against the wound, wiping away the blood with slow, careful motions. The pain dulled slightly, but it was still unbearable. My back felt as though it had been torn open, the stinging intensifying with every movement. Then, something cool and gel-like was smeared over the mark. It burned at first, making me flinch under the gentle pressure of his hand. As the gel spread, the sting faded slightly, replaced by a numbing sensation that soothed the worst of the pain. The men continued to converse behind me, their voices a low murmur, as if I wasn't there.

"You did well, brother," Emilio commented. "The lines are perfect."

"I wouldn't allow anything less on her body," Alexander replied casually, his tone filled with pride.

Bishop let out a soft chuckle. "We'll be seeing her again soon, right?"

"Very soon," Alexander replied.

"We look forward to it."

My breath hitched as they moved closer, their presence lingering for a moment longer before one of them gently brushed their fingers over my shoulder, as if to test the fresh mark. "Until next time," Emilio stated, his tone laced with amusement.

"Until next time," Bishop echoed, his voice cheerful.

They bid their final farewells to Alexander and left me there, bound, and exposed, as the door creaked shut behind them. I was alone with Alexander once again. His fingers brushed lightly over my spine, tracing a path up to just above the mark he had re-branded onto me. His other hand trailed down my body, causing my breath to hitch in anticipation. I swallowed hard, trying to hold back the fresh wave of tears that threatened to spill over as he reached beneath my dress.

There was no escape from his touch, not with the blindfold covering my eyes and chains binding me in place. His fingertips grazed along the hem of my underwear, teasing and torturing me with their feather-light touch.

"Please, don't," I begged, my voice barely above a whisper. "Please, Alexander, don't..."

My pleas were ignored. He tugged down my underwear and let them fall to the ground around my ankles. The room felt smaller, suffocating even, as he traced the sensitive skin of my inner thighs. It was like he was etching a map onto my skin, each touch a secret message meant only for him to decipher.

"I will never hurt you more than what is necessary," he promised softly, his tone both comforting and threatening at the same time. "This is just a part of it all. We must establish our bond," he reasoned, his voice steady but with an underlying dark certainty. "You remember what I told you about the mark? It's a symbol of our union and my claim over you. It's the only comfort I have until our last Rite."

A sob caught in my throat as the reality of it all sunk in. The forced marriage. The complete surrender to him. The unbreakable future he had planned for me. He spread my legs apart and placed one hand between my shoulder blades, bringing his fingers back to my center and teasing my opening. With deliberate slowness, he pushed a finger inside me, then another, filling me up in ways that felt both foreign and familiar. The sensation of having something inside me while I bled both inside and out was a cruel paradox. He showed no mercy as he continued to slide his fingers in and out, finding a rhythm that sent shockwaves through my body.

I tried to resist, to fight back against the sensations, but my own body betrayed me. The more he moved, the more pleasure surged through me, overwhelming any sense of fear or disgust I had.

My heart pounded in unison with his movements, my arousal building despite my attempts to suppress it. As his fingers delved even deeper into me, I could feel my period mixing with my arousal, creating a messy mixture between my legs. He took notice and pushed himself even further inside, eliciting a soft moan from deep within me. I clenched my fists, trying to control the conflicting emotions raging within me.

"You see?" he purred, his voice low and seductive. "Even in your pain, your body responds to me."

His fingers suddenly vanished, leaving a trail of blood and wetness in their wake. I shuddered, feeling the warm liquid seeping down my legs. He positioned himself at my entrance, his cock poised to enter me, already hard again. His breath fanned against my neck as he whispered. "You're going to take me deep and hard."

He hesitated for a moment, relishing the power of the moment, before slowly thrusting forward. I let out a muffled cry, my body tensing and trembling as he filled me. I clenched my fists, trying to maintain some semblance of control, but knowing that it was slipping away. I was forced onto my tiptoes as he began to thrust.

His movements were calculated and precise, a well-choreographed dance that left me breathless. His hands guided my body up and down, leading me to the peak of pleasure. The rough stone altar pressed into my stomach as I arched up on my toes. The sound of my moans echoed through the dimly lit chapel, mixing with the scent of blood, and sweat. Every thrust brought a new wave of both pain and pleasure, fueling my reluctant arousal. I could feel myself losing touch with reality, consumed by whatever this was between us. Despite the intense pain and violation, there was also a sense of exhilaration, of being pushed to the brink of my limits. I fought against it, clawing at the unforgiving stone beneath me, but it was no use. His touch, his control over me, was absolute. As he gripped my shoulders and increased his pace, I could feel his dominance over me in every bruise he left behind. The pain only served to remind me that I was at his mercy.

"You belong to me," he growled, his voice dripping with possessiveness. "Mine to take, mine to use however I please. Your body, your soul, they are all mine." My responding whimper only seemed to fuel his desire. "This altar is your throne," he continued, punctuating each word with a deep thrust that caused me to cry out. The metal chains that bound me bit into my skin further marking me. "You are my queen," he declared before claiming me once again with an intensity that left me panting.

My mind was a raging storm of conflicting emotions, teetering on the edge of something dark and unnamable.

I wanted to fight back, to scream at him to stop, but his dirty words slithered into my ear like poison, infecting me with a twisted desire that made my core clench and my hips writhe uncontrollably against his every thrust. He claimed ownership over me, whispering that he could do whatever he pleased with my body, how wet and tight my pussy felt around him. And in the deepest corners of my mind, I started to believe him.

With a rough jerk, he ripped off the blindfold. Grabbing a fistful of my hair, he forced me to take him deeper, causing a sharp cry to escape from my lips as I lifted off the altar, the chains around my wrists taut and unforgiving. He turned my head to face him, his eyes filled with hunger and possession as he continued to ravage me. The room echoed with the sounds of our bodies colliding, skin slapping against skin, and my stifled moans that were a mix of both agony and ecstasy.

The chains dug into my flesh, adding an element of pain that only heightened the intense emotions swirling inside me. Fear mingled with rage and disgust, but beneath it all was a sickening craving for more.

He sensed the shift in me immediately. "You want this, don't you?" His question was punctuated by a brutal thrust that sent shockwaves coursing through me. I couldn't deny it any longer- there was a part of me that reveled in this twisted game of domination and submission. He pulled me forcefully against his body, his lips leaving a searing trail of heat along my neck. I couldn't help but push back against him.

"Fuck, just like that. You feel so good," he groaned, his voice laced with primal desire.

I moaned in response, barely able to form words as he tightened his grip on my hair and wrapped his other hand around my throat.

I found a twisted sense of power in my submission to him.

The more he took, the more I wanted. He continued to tighten his hold on me, his words dripping with malice. "I could take this from you too," he taunted. "Make you beg for your life while I continue to take what's mine."

My fear and arousal mingled together into a potent cocktail as he kissed me, hitting a spot inside me that had fresh tears pricking at the corners of my eyes. His tongue invaded my mouth with a savage hunger. He released my hair but kept his grip on my throat as he reached around with his free hand, finding my clit and rubbing it vigorously, heightening the pleasure and pain coursing through me.

I couldn't help but whimper into his mouth as I clung to the altar for support. He deepened the kiss even further, grazing my bottom lip with his teeth before pulling away and exposing it to the frigid air. His fingers continued their relentless rhythm, making me moan uncontrollably as he squeezed my throat harder.

The head of his cock continued to hit that perfect spot inside me, causing my body to convulse with pleasure. His fingers on my clit intensified their movements, igniting a fiery inferno within me.

"Alex," I rasped, my voice barely a whisper as the pressure inside me built to a dizzying climax. My vision blurred, my moans rising in volume, uncontrollable, raw. His grip tightened, possessive and unyielding. Through the haze of pleasure and pain, I blinked, trying to focus—only to find my gaze fixated on the statue above, looming in the dim light. The Devil. Cold, lifeless eyes stared down at me, almost mocking my helpless state, their eyes unblinking as if they were giving approval of our actions.

"Do you feel it watching?" Alex rasped, his voice a seductive groan.

"Yes," I managed to reply, my voice barely audible over the sound of my ragged breathing. "I feel it."

He tightened his grip on my throat, making me gasp for air. His eyes locked with mine, their golden intensity piercing through me. "You belong to the Devil, Lolita," he ground out. "And I am his vessel. You will submit to me, to him, with every ounce of your being, willingly or not."

My lungs began to burn, and I found myself nodding slightly, unable to resist the pull of his gaze.

"Then submit to me completely."

A strange sense of clarity washed over me. With newfound determination, I arched my back and spread my legs wider, feeling his cock thrust deeper into me as the chains dug deeper into my flesh, the mark on my back stinging as my body jostled against the stone altar.

"Fuck," he cursed harshly, "Your pussy is so fucking wet. You love this, don't you?"

His accusation sent a ripple of shame and desire coursing through me. "Yes," I gasped, "I do."

He smirked, a wicked glint in his eyes. "That's my girl. Now let's see if the Devil approves."

My entire body trembled as the pleasure grew to an unbearable peak. I moaned, my voice rising in pitch.

"Are you ready?" he questioned, his voice a low rumble in my ear.

My heart raced with anticipation as I nodded, feeling a surge of adrenaline coursing through my veins.

"Then surrender to me," he commanded, his words dripping with raw desire and domination.

In that instant, I gave myself over completely to him, feeling a dark and primal energy pulsating within me. My back arched in pleasure and pain as I pressed against the unyielding stone, the chains cutting into my skin. My climax hit me like a wave crashing against the shore, and I couldn't hold back the cry that tore from my throat.

My body shook, my hands instinctively gripping the altar as I tried to steady myself, but even in the release, the suffocating weight of the Devil's gaze remained, grounding me in the dark reality of what I'd done. My vision tunneled, the statue and the man, all merging into one. The other Devil, the one beneath the skin of the gorgeous, twisted man that had me at his mercy. His eyes were dark and predatory, as he continued to fuck me, choking me, teasing me.

As my orgasm receded, I felt him tense further, his cock throbbing inside me, his grip on my throat like a vise.

"Fuck, Lolita," he rasped, followed by a string of words in his foreign tongue. His lips pulled away from my ear as he let out a guttural groan and he came, filling me with his darkness. I could feel the power of his release, an affirmation of our twisted union.

He kissed my cheek and then pulled away from me, bracing himself with one hand on the altar for support. His eyes seemed different when they met mine, darker somehow. A flicker of a smile crossed his lips as he slowly withdrew his cock, leaving behind a mess of blood and come between my legs.

In the silence that followed, I could hear the distant sound of rain tapping against the Chapel windows, a soft, rhythmic reminder of the world outside.

He undid the chains around my wrists with slow, deliberate movements, each clink of the metal against the altar echoing in the empty room.

As I stood there, trembling, and vulnerable, I realized I felt no freer than I had before I was bound. The weight of his presence still pressed against me; his claim still burned into my skin. Freedom was an illusion, and chains or not I was still captive—by him, by this place, by everything I could never escape.