CHAPTER SEVEN

The rain hadn't let up when we finally returned to the estate. Lolita's small frame was wrapped in one of the suit jackets I kept at the Chapel. I had placed it around her before I carried her outside, secure in my arms like the precious doll she was.

Raindrops had soaked her hair slightly, droplets clinging to the dark and gold strands as we made our way inside. She'd been quiet the entire ride back, her thoughts elsewhere, perhaps on the mark I'd left on her back or the events that transpired afterward.

I wondered how she'd feel if she knew my father and brother had watched every second of me fucking her from the viewing room.

Dad had probably returned home and done the same to my mother—Emilio would be at the pleasure house, fucking the woman that resembled Esther. I glanced down at Lolita. Her head was lowered, eyes focused on the floor, but even like this, with wet hair and my oversized jacket draped over her shoulders, she was stunning. Too beautiful for her own good.

She was fortunate I'd come for her when I did—men went crazy over her and it was only by my grace and that of the close friend that owned the resort she worked at, she'd been left alone. If Anya would've had her way Lolita would've been being fucked by a dozen men a month—that stupid slut.

Now, locked inside the estate, the rain drummed against the windows like a beautiful sound wave.

I led Lolita towards the grand staircase, her footsteps barely audible over the steady pitter-patter. She was so much smaller than I was. I slowed my pace, and she followed suit, a submissive gesture that thrilled me to no end. I didn't want to part from her for even a second. I'd already been away too long since this morning. Unfortunately, as much as I wanted to explore our newfound connection, I had unfinished business before we could fully indulge in one another.

Once everything was settled and I could officially work from home, I would spend every spare moment inside her, seducing her deeper into my grasp, and molding her into the perfect partner for our new life together.

"I have a few things to wrap up before dinner," I told her, watching as she finally looked up, her gaze catching mine. She didn't say anything for a moment, but I could tell something was stirring behind those beautiful eyes of hers.

I couldn't tell if it was defiance or something else entirely, but I enjoyed watching her internal struggle all the same.

"Can I take a shower?" she asked softly, her voice barely breaking the silence.

I stared at her for a beat too long. Does she really think she needs to ask? "You don't have to get permission for that. This is your home," I replied, amused.

She nodded, her movements slow and uncertain as she turned to shuffle off. I knew she was sore from being fucked against the altar, but I wasn't done with her yet. Before she could take more than a step, I wrapped my arm around her waist and pulled her back against me, catching her off guard. I tilted her chin up, pressing my lips against hers, savoring the way her body tensed, and then relaxed into mine.

My obsession with her was bordering addictive, and that in itself was a thrilling addiction.

No woman had ever had this effect on me, and I had known countless women. Disciplined, obedient, eager to please women.

Lolita was different. She was fire and resistance wrapped in beauty. She was in my blood, and I had no intention of ever letting her slip through my fingers. When I pulled away, her lips were slightly parted, her breath uneven. I so badly wanted to fuck her again right then—spend all night buried in that perfect fucking pussy of hers and claim her once more as mine. I wanted to carve my familial blade deeper into her soft, supple flesh until every inch of her bore my name and crest.

But no, I had to be the better man, the one who would control his urges and play this game of desire slowly, exquisitely. She'd come to love me—I wasn't giving her a choice. She was already on her way.

"Go take your shower," I told her, my voice low and firm.

Watching her turn and walk away, my lips curved into a subtle smile. It was so nice having her home. As soon as she disappeared upstairs, I headed toward the kitchen. I needed a drink—something to unwind the sharp edge of adrenaline that still pulsed in my veins.

There was work to be done, but for now, I wanted to savor the mess of her that lingered on my skin. I didn't mind it, not one bit. It reminded me of her surrender, her submission, and how deep our connection was becoming. I poured myself a glass of bourbon, the amber liquid glinting under the low light of the kitchen, and took a slow sip. The burn as it slid down my throat was welcome, grounding me.

I needed more than just the drink.

I needed to see her.

Glass in hand, I made my way upstairs to my office. There was still business to wrap up before dinner.

We needed to talk—about her, about us, and about everything she was still resisting and how she'd spent the day exploring our home.

Once inside my office, I shut the door behind me with a quiet click. The first thing I did was power on the large monitor on the wall, the glow from the screen illuminating the room. I crossed to the desk and unlocked the drawer where I kept my laptop, booting it up with a sense of anticipation building inside me.

It didn't take long to pull up the estate's surveillance feed. The house, the grounds— every inch was covered, as it should be. I zoomed in on one particular camera, the one placed inside our bathroom.

Lolita.

She had just stepped into the shower.

The sight of her, even through the screen stirred something deep inside me. Vulnerable, unguarded, the water cascading over her bare skin—I felt my cock twitch, hardening with the relentless need for her.

It didn't matter that I'd just fucked her. This need never waned. It went beyond the physical. I needed her on every level—body, mind, and soul. Every part of her was bound to me, fused together until there was no distinction between who she had been and who she would become under my dominion. That was the ultimate goal. It wasn't about the carnal pleasure, though that was undeniable. It was about control. It was about devotion.

She had to become one with me in every way that mattered. In the tenets of Impío, we believed in the sanctity of power and submission. The flesh was just a vessel for deeper connection, a way to bend the will, to shape it. It was written in the oldest doctrines—her role was to serve, to yield completely to the chosen Dominus Carnalis. I was her Carnalis. And she would learn to give in willingly. Her resistance only made it sweeter. The fight she gave, those small bursts of defiance, would be burned away like impurities in a fire.

By the time we completed our final Rite, she would be fully mine. My hand clenched the armrest of the chair as I watched the steam swirl around her in the shower. She stood under the showerheads, her dark hair dripping water down her back, and it made me imagine the way our bodies would intertwine again. I could almost feel the warmth of her skin. I envisioned myself pressing her against the tiled wall, the sound of the water mingling with her moans and her pleas to stop.

I closed my eyes, the image of her pliant body consuming me.

I could feel the slickness of her pussy, the way she dug her nails into my back, and how she clenched around me. My erection grew harder, the need to have her again overwhelmed me. There was a darker part of me, a part that wanted to break her. To push her past the point of no return. To see the fire in her eyes as she begged for mercy, only to have me pour more pain and pleasure upon her.

I opened my eyes just as she turned and the mark I had freshly carved stood out like a beacon.

Fuck.

I undid the button on my slacks and slipped my hand inside, freeing my cock from the restricting fabric of my boxers. It was still covered in her dried blood and come; the sight alone made me groan. I stroked myself, watching her wash herself, the way her breasts bobbed with the motion of her hands. She was oblivious to my desires and that I was watching, lost in her own world of lathering soap and scrubbing away the remnants of the day—of me.

I'd put it all back.

My hand tightened around my throbbing cock, the blood surging through it in time with my racing heart. With each stroke, I focused solely on her - her lithe form, the way she moved, the scent of her hair as it cascaded down her back.

My grip on my dick grew tighter, my imagination conjuring vivid images of her submitting to me willingly and eagerly. The thought alone was enough to make me groan. As I watched her rinse off in the shower, water streaming down her glistening body, I could feel myself reaching the brink. A single bead of water formed on her navel and trailed downwards, tracing the path of another kind of wetness that I couldn't get enough of. The sight was too much for me to handle, and I almost groaned again.

Her soft humming filled the air as she remained completely unaware of the effect she had on me. That I was watching. Clutching my dick even tighter, feeling the veins pulsating beneath my skin, I stroked myself with a fierce hunger. The mere thought of bending her over that sink and fucking her right then and there had pre-come forming on my tip.

As she turned off the water and stepped out of the shower, all I could think about was her naked body dried off and waiting for me.

"Lolita," I growled her name like a dark prayer on my lips. "You're mine." My cock throbbed in my hand as I pictured her spread open and waiting for me. My eyes squeezed shut against the overwhelming pleasure spreading through every inch of my body like wildfire. And then finally, with one final squeeze of my balls, I groaned as I came hard, my orgasm so intense it was almost painful. My come splattered against my desk and the floor.

"Fuck," I swore softly, reaching for the tissue box on the edge of my desk. I cleaned the head of my cock, and then wiped off my desk and the bit of come from the hardwood, tossing the tissue in the trash can beneath the desk before I reached for my drink and took another sip.

I finally turned my attention to the work that was waiting, though my eyes kept drifting to the screen.

Lolita had padded through the bathroom and went into our closet, searching for clothes. I switched between the cameras, tracking her every move as she wandered around the room. There was something endlessly satisfying about watching her, even when she thought she was alone. The way she moved, unaware of my gaze—vulnerable, yet resilient. With a deep breath, I forced myself to focus. Running the Isle required more than just devotion, it demanded precision and ruthlessness.

The system had to be maintained at every level, from the coordination of our supplies and suppliers to the rituals that kept the people in line. Everything had to be accounted for. Every resource, every life on the Isle, and every booking granted to tourists. I scanned over a set of documents—mundane reports, logistical details, and requests.

Among the emails was one from Ryker, who owned the resort Lolita was employed at as well as his own more exclusive establishment. He'd requested a larger order from my butcher. I leaned back in my chair, calculating silently in my head.

The math was simple enough. How many humans would it take to fulfill the request? It wasn't just about meeting the numbers. It was about ensuring the balance remained—too much and the tourists might start asking questions. I also had to ensure my Isle natives got their personal orders fulfilled.

I forwarded the email to my brother, along with a note to check the inventory. I paused for a moment, leaning back in my chair again when a thought crossed my mind. Without a second's hesitation, I pulled up Lolita's ovulation chart, my eyes narrowing as I studied it. Tomorrow would be day 2 of her cycle. I had about a week before she'd reach her most fertile window, somewhere between days 10 and 14.

It wasn't much time, but it was enough to keep her close and ensure everything fell into place when I needed it to. I'd told her I wanted her all to myself before I made sure she was pregnant, and I meant that, but I was factoring those nine months into the equation. Motherhood would be good for her. It would give her a purpose outside of me, that was still an extension of myself. I leaned back in my chair, a slow grin spreading across my face the more I thought about it.

A week to set the stage for what was to come. Timing. Patience. Control. These were all things I excelled at, and I had every intention of making sure this was no different. I checked her schedule, clearing a few things away. In the process, I recalled her tone and expression when I mentioned Selena. While I found immense delight in Lolita being jealous and possessive over me, I would never truly allow another woman to make her uncomfortable.

I pulled up the footage from the viewing room and began to review it. Nothing stood out at first. She sat with Osiris and Phoenix Electi, speaking to Pandora at one point to describe the service. I watched her distress as Nicolette and the others were punished, finding that harder to get through. She had to get to the point where she understood the punishments were for everyone's benefit. The Chapel was part of her life now and all the services that came with it.

Just when I began to wonder if whatever happened with Selena was during an education lesson, I caught it. I dragged the cursor back on the video timeline and then slowed things down.

I was used to reverence; I'd been revered since the age of eight. I never failed to acknowledge it, letting my disciples know they were vital pieces of the Isle and Impío. Naturally, that included women. The look on Selena's face, however, was something different.

I wasn't expecting to see it.

There once was a time when I used her frequently. There weren't any emotional stakes in the act. She was good at what she trained for, but I hadn't touched her in years. Certainly not since she was taken from the Pleasure House to be an Acolyte at my order. The way she was watching me in front of my Lolita, my Electi, and the others, was unacceptable. It was not something to be taken lightly. As Diabolus , I prided myself on maintaining control over every aspect of religion, including the loyalty and submission of my followers.

I knew firsthand how power bred envy in even the most devoted followers. Selena had been there from the beginning, but I had chosen someone else to be my Electi. I was meant for Lolita and always would be. I understood her longing, wanting to be fucked by me again but I couldn't allow it. Just as I couldn't allow her to get away with this disrespect to my Lolita.

If a man had dared to look at her like this, I'd have his eyes. Selena would have to be punished.

I glanced up when I heard the knock on the door. "Enter," I called out.

Ambrose stepped forward, stopping at my desk to place a photograph carefully on top of the papers scattered across its surface. I recognized it instantly—the one Lolita had taken from the lower level of the estate. I had watched her do it when I pulled up the cameras at the Chapel earlier.

"Is that the only one?" I asked, already knowing the answer but seeking confirmation.

"Yes. She left it in the library," he replied.

I leaned forward, picking up the photograph. It was of Clarice and Melanie, standing side by side. Two women—best friends, each connected to me in quite different ways. Clarice, with her flowing platinum blonde hair, and eyes like piercing blue ice, always had a way of commanding a room without saying a word. Beside her, Melanie was the complete opposite—dark-haired, her almond-shaped eyes soft and full of warmth, reflecting her quiet, submissive nature.

Clarice had always looked at me with want, much in the same way Selena just had, even when Melanie was still alive. The subtle glances, the way her lips curved into a smile whenever I was near—there had been no mistaking her desire. And Melanie. Melanie was my first wife, the one who believed in loyalty and devotion to the Impío faith without question.

Even she hadn't been enough.

I stared at the picture for a long moment, the memories rising to the surface. Melanie had been soft, too soft for this world, for me. Her submission had never felt complete and never met the expectations I had of her. When I carved her open I did so with the genuine belief whatever was missing from her would slide into place.

Clarice, on the other hand, was different. She was sharp, knowing, and ambitious. She had wanted to be my wife even when her friend held that title. She thought she could use her charm, her beauty, to manipulate me around her finger.

She thought wrong.

"They were a pair," Ambrose commented quietly, his eyes flicking toward the photograph.

"Indeed," I replied "She can keep it. I'll make sure Lolita knows who they were, and what place Clarice still holds."

Ambrose nodded.

He knew well enough not to ask questions, but I wouldn't have cared if he did. Ambrose was more than just a servant; he was a fixture in the family's history. A man with wisdom beyond most, his understanding of the Impío faith ran deeper than even some of the higher-ranking members of the Isle.

He and Isaac had both watched over me from an early age, guiding me through the complexities of the estate and traditions along with my father. I trusted him implicitly.

"How is dinner coming along?"

"Chef Benedicte is finishing up now," Ambrose replied smoothly, his voice steady as always.

I nodded, checking the time. "Tell Lolita to head down to the dining room in—," I paused, tapping my fingers against the desk. "Ten minutes."

He gave a polite bow of his head. "As you wish."

He lingered for a moment, and I leaned back, half-focused on the movement around the estate. "Anything else to report?"

"Only that preparations for tomorrow's meeting are on schedule. I've spoken with your brother. He'll ensure that all the necessary arrangements are made."

I gave a short nod. "Good. Everything needs to go perfectly."

"It always does," Ambrose replied, his tone respectful yet confident. He had been with my family long enough to know the unspoken demand for precision.

Once he left the room, my thoughts settled on a past I seldom reminisced about. Clarice and Melanie. It seemed an age ago now. Time had dulled the memories, but not the lessons they had taught me about myself. There were no lingering attachments or sentimental values associated with them. Had I known of Lolita's existence back then, they never would have been anything other than fleeting amusements.

Lolita was always meant to be mine.

The one and only.

I recalled the moment I learned of her—when my aunt Beatrice, a prominent figure on the Isle with an unparalleled intelligence network, informed me of the girl.

She'd been searching for her for years, ensuring that when the time came, I would know exactly where to find her. That I would act??and I had. Without hesitation, I made immediate plans, and now she was here where she belonged. Everything was falling into place as it was always meant to.

I finished my work, scanning through the last of the documents. Once everything was in order, I shut down the computer, locking it away in the drawer. The anticipation of seeing her again pushed me to move swiftly, my steps echoing down the hallway as I made my way toward the dining room. When I entered, Lolita was already seated. She was dressed in a simple pair of soft pajamas—nothing extravagant, just something comfortable. I couldn't help but smirk, feeling a rush of satisfaction She was beginning to settle in, to feel at home.

That was exactly what I wanted for her, to be at complete ease within my presence and wherever she went on the Isle.

I approached the table, taking my seat across from her. "Feeling better?" I asked, my eyes catching the slight flush in her cheeks. She smiled, a little embarrassed, her dimples making an appearance, which delighted me even more.

"Yes," she replied, her voice soft but genuine.

"No cramps?"

She paused for a moment as if truly considering it. "No, actually."

I leaned back, pleased. "It's the smoothie," I explained. "We worked to make sure you would have relief during this time."

Her eyes widened slightly in surprise, and she gave me a nod of gratitude. "Thank you."

I waved it off. "No need to thank me. I'm going to take care of you, in every way, deliciae ."

She didn't reply, but I could see her internal conflict play out for a moment as her gaze softened.

The servants had already set the table with a spread of food—an elaborate feast, as was customary in the household. The dishes were traditional for the Isle: a roasted lamb marinated with rare herbs only found here, grilled vegetables with a hint of smoky essence, a rich stew made from fresh slow-cooked meats, human and animal, and freshly baked bread that steamed when broken apart.

Alongside these was a fresh salad of exotic fruits, drizzled with a tangy, sweet sauce. For drinks, there was a deep red wine, made from the local vineyards that thrived in the isolated environment of Stygian Isle. The table was adorned with smaller bowls of olives, pickled roots, and dried fruits as well.

When I was alone on this estate waiting for her to be brought home, I never had a reason for such spreads, but now that she was here, I wanted a variety of options at her disposal. The leftovers would be sent down to the children we took in, which reminded me I needed to check on Arielle, the daughter of the man who had been foolish enough to try and sneak onto the butcher's land, as well as her brother.

We began eating, the sound of silverware gently clinking against the fine China. I waited until she had taken a few bites, visibly more relaxed, before I reached into my pocket. With deliberate care, I withdrew the photograph Ambrose had brought earlier and placed it on the table between us. Lolita paused, her fork hovering in mid-air as her eyes dropped to the photo. It took her a moment, but then recognition flashed across her face.

Clarice and Melanie were captured together, smiling, blissfully unaware of everything that would come after. I said nothing, simply watching her as she processed the image before her. They must have felt like ghosts—figures from a past she didn't understand but somehow knew she was connected to.

"You're still curious about them," I stated, breaking the silence.

She glanced up at me, her expression carefully guarded. "Does that upset you?"

Her question was soft, almost tentative as if she feared the answer. I took a sip of my drink, letting the silence hang between us for a moment longer than necessary. "Upset me?" I set the glass down, my eyes locking onto hers. "No, Lolita. It doesn't upset me. They were part of my life, but that's all they are now—a part of the past." I leaned forward, folding my hands under my chin as I watched her closely. "But you... you are my present and my future."

She held my gaze for a moment, clearly processing my words. I could see the questions swirling behind her eyes, but she was hesitant to voice them. I gestured toward the photo. "Clarice and Melanie were important to me once. They played their roles." I softened my tone for her. "Their place was meant to be temporary. You, on the other hand, were never meant to be anything but permanent."

Lolita's lips parted; her brow furrowed. "They seemed like they were close."

"They were friends," I confirmed, watching the flicker of discomfort cross her face. She wasn't asking what she genuinely wanted to know.

The silence between us stretched, and then, finally, her voice came, quieter, more fragile. "Did... did you really do what you said to Melanie?"

There was no hesitation in my answer. "Yes."

Her expression froze, lips tightening as she processed the weight of my admission. I could almost feel the unease stirring beneath her surface, her mind struggling to reconcile what she knew of me with the brutal truth she'd just heard. "And Clarice still married you?"

I laughed. "Clarice is far from an innocent, deliciae . She was one of the most vicious women on this Isle."

She blinked, her long lashes folding down, confusion mixing with discomfort. "Why did you two... split up?"

"That isn't exactly how I would word it," I replied, leaning back in my chair, and watching her closely. "She slept with a male servitor." I let that sink in, not offering any further details. The truth was much more exciting, but she didn't need to know everything—not yet.

"She cheated on you?" Her disbelief rang clear in her voice.

"I'm glad you find that so hard to believe. That certainly helps my pride," I replied with a grin. "But yes, she did," I continued, my tone shifting, "You'll find that our people, our family, have very strong opinions on that sort of betrayal. Disloyalty, especially from someone like her has severe consequences."

"You didn't...?"

"I didn't kill her if that's what you're wondering, but her time on this Isle has been limited. She'll do what's necessary soon enough."

Lolita was silent, her eyes fixated on the place where the photo had been. I expected hesitation, maybe a small nod or a meek acknowledgment of my words, but then, she surprised me.

"I'm not sure how to feel about being third," she confessed softly, her voice tinged with vulnerability, yet her gaze was steady, challenging in a way I hadn't anticipated.

For a moment, I was caught off guard—something that rarely happened. I didn't respond immediately. Her words hung in the air between us, a delicate balance of uncertainty and defiance.

"Third?" I echoed, my lips curling into a slow, calculated smile. "Is that what you think? That you're just following in their footsteps?"

Her expression hardened, the internal battle playing out in her pretty brown eyes. She was struggling, torn between what she believed and the truths I was slowly unraveling for her. I stood from my chair, moving around the table with deliberate slowness, like a predator closing in on prey. My eyes never left hers.

"Clarice and Melanie were part of the journey that led me to you," I began, my voice low, the cadence of it weaving through the dimly lit room like a dark melody. "They were steppingstones, if you will. Pieces of a path that was always meant to end here, with us." I paused before her, tilting her chin up with my fingers, forcing her to meet my gaze.

"You, Lolita, are exactly where I needed to be led," I murmured, my thumb tracing the edge of her jaw, the touch a gentle contradiction to the weight of my words. Her breath hitched, and for a fleeting moment, I saw the armor she was trying so hard to keep whole, begin to crack.

She exhaled sharply, her brows knitting in thought. I could see the turmoil—the part of her that wanted to reject everything, and the part that was dangerously close to believing me. The room around us felt like something out of an old, twisted fairytale—an ornate, gothic space drenched in shadows and history. The weight of the Isle itself seemed to press in on us, as though its dark pulse mirrored my own intentions. The flickering candlelight cast long, distorted shadows that danced along the walls, amplifying the gravity of the moment.

"If I had known you were out there," I continued, my voice deepening with sincerity and possession, "you would have been as you are now—the sole other half of me. There is no third, no second. You're not in line behind anyone. You are it."

The words sank into her like a binding spell, twisting their way through her conflicted emotions.

"I don't need anyone else," I added, my fingers tightening slightly on her chin, pulling her closer. "You, Lolita. Just you."

Her silence was deafening. I let my thumb brush over her lips, the contact sending a jolt through both of us, as though the Isle itself approved of the claim I had just laid down.

There was no escaping it.

I leaned down and kissed her, tasting the sweet residue of the fruit she'd started nibbling on. It was a brief kiss at first, just the soft brush of my mouth against hers, but then I deepened it, savoring her taste, the lingering essence of peaches, and the warm comfort of her presence. I felt her stiffen, just for a second, before she softened under my touch, yielding to me, a sign of her growing comfort, her slow surrender. The progress wasn't lost on me. She was becoming more accustomed to the rhythm of our life here. Each day, she gave me a little more of herself, even if she didn't realize it. I tightened my grip, and her breath hitched.

I forced myself to break away, though the temptation to linger was strong. I grazed her lips with mine one last time before returning to my seat. "Finish up," I said softly, my voice carrying more authority than affection. She nodded, her gaze returning to the food before her, lost in her thoughts. She was still wary, still navigating the treacherous waters of our relationship, but there was no denying the pull between us.

As I watched her, my own mind drifted. She hadn't mentioned Anya at all. Not once had she brought up her friend, nor had she asked for more details about the nature of our connection—the bloodlines that tied us together. It was only a matter of time before she did. I knew her too well. Lolita would first immerse herself in denial, to distance herself from what I'd revealed. That was in her nature, to resist until she could no longer pretend it wasn't real.

As for Anya, she wouldn't let that go. She was likely already planning how to address it, waiting for the right moment to bring it up. I was prepared for that. I'd been working on it for weeks, carefully curating every move, every word. I had what I needed now—the recording from Carcerem. That conversation had gone precisely as I'd hoped. The pieces were falling into place. She'd have no choice but to listen when the time came.

I watched her, waiting, taking in the way her fingers twitched slightly, and her jaw tightened as she stared at her wrists. She was thinking about what happened in the Chapel, about the pain, the surrender, and the pleasure that had come with it. She was still battling herself, clinging to that last bit of resistance, but that too was slipping.

"How does your back feel?" I asked, knowing the answer but wanting her to say it aloud.

She glanced at me briefly before dropping her gaze back to her wrists. "Whatever gel you use works well. It only stings a little."

I nodded, pleased. "Good. I'll apply more tonight. What do you think of the estate?" I asked next, casually picking up my glass, and taking a sip while keeping my gaze fixed on her.

She blinked as if startled by the sudden shift in conversation. "It's beautiful," she began, her voice soft but steady. "Large, though. Bigger than I imagined."

I smiled. "It has to be. We'll need space for the family we're going to have."

Her expression tightened; the subtle deflection obvious as she shifted in her seat. "Some of the doors stayed locked even with my key," she said hesitantly, avoiding the subject of the future I had laid out for us.

"Some doors are meant to remain locked until the right time. You'll have access to everything eventually. Patience, deliciae ."

She hesitated again, her fingers fidgeting with the edge of her napkin. Then, as if the words were drawn out of her against her will, she said, "I saw the nursery."

"Ah," I murmured, smiling as I set my glass down. "Yes, the nursery. It's beautiful, isn't it? My mother helped with the design."

Her eyes flickered with something I couldn't quite place—fear or denial. Both.

"I wasn't sure if…" she trailed off, her voice shaky. "If that was for—."

"For us?" I finished; "It is."

Her unease was palpable as the reality of what I had just confirmed sank in. A future that involved not just her, but our children—the legacy of the Isle itself.

"Don't worry," I added. "You'll grow into your role. It's in your blood."

Silence stretched between us, but I could tell something was weighing on her. I waited for her to speak.

"Can I ask you something?"

I didn't respond immediately, letting the tension build before nodding. "Of course."

She shifted in her seat, uncomfortable. "You talk about my role here... about what I'm supposed to become. What about you?" She paused, as though gathering courage. "What made you like this? Why do you want this life?"

A smile tugged at my lips. She was always searching for answers, trying to rationalize something beyond logic and the ordinary. I leaned forward, my fingers drumming lightly on the table. "I never wanted anything else. From the time I was a child, everyone knew I would become Diabolus , just as my father was before me. There was no question of what my life would be, and I never desired anything different. I've always fully embraced who and what I am."

Her brows furrowed slightly as she tried to absorb what I was telling her.

"This," I gestured to the room around us, "isn't just a choice. It's in my blood, in my bones. It's who I was always meant to be."

I watched her closely, letting the silence stretch between us, watching my words take root. Her eyes flicked up to meet mine, still clouded with uncertainty, that flicker of defiance she clung to like a lifeline. She still viewed me as her captor, the man who had taken everything from her. She hadn't yet grasped that I was offering her more than captivity. I was offering her the world—as long as she knelt down in mine .

"And if you never found me?" she asked, her voice soft, searching, forever grasping at straws, looking for some other path, a reality where she wasn't bound to me.

"I don't waste time entertaining fantasies that will never happen, Lolita," I replied flippantly. "Do you like the idea of me making another woman my obsession? Wrapping another woman's legs around me? Making her scream my name?"

Her lips parted, a faint tremor running through her hands. She hated it. She didn't want to admit it, but I saw it in her eyes—the way the thought made her unravel. She slowly brought her glass to her pretty lips, the movement betraying the calm she was trying to maintain. I let her drink, knowing full well what she didn't: the sleep aid I'd had added to it. She needed rest, and I knew her mind wouldn't quiet easily on its own after all we had discussed.

"And what about her wearing your clothes?" I pressed on. "Sleeping in your bed? Lying next to me at night while you're... elsewhere? Wiping piss from toilets and cleaning up after us once we've made a mess in those big beds you used to make, for example?"

I could see it in her eyes, the resentment, the anger, the jealousy .

She hated the thought, and that was exactly what I wanted. She could deny it to herself all she wanted, but I knew the truth. The idea of another woman taking her place was unbearable to her. No matter what she thought of me now—whether as her captor or something darker—she couldn't stand the thought of losing me to someone else.

I almost smirked but kept my expression even. "Rest assured," I promised, "there will never be another woman. No one else will ever have what you do. Not while I breathe."

She exhaled softly, clearly fighting the conflicting emotions roiling inside her.

"I think we're done for now," I said, my fingers brushing along her jaw, feeling the quickened pulse under her skin. "No need to overwhelm you tonight. You'll understand everything... in time."

The glass clinked softly as she set it down, and I let the silence linger once more, the tension between us thick, almost tangible.

I watched her closely before finally breaking the quiet with a casual, almost offhand remark. "I think now would be the right time to mention that I added something to your drink. A sleep aid to help you rest."

Her reaction was immediate. Her eyes widened in shock, a flash of betrayal flickering across her face. "You drugged me again?" Her voice wavered between disbelief and indignation.

I tilted my head, barely suppressing a smirk. "I told you I would, didn't I? I'm simply keeping my word, carissima. " I let the words sink in, my tone almost playful.

She blinked, staring at me as though trying to process what I'd just said.

"Don't look at me like that," I continued softly. "It's for your own good. You need rest. You've been through enough."

Her gaze faltered, her expression torn between resistance and reluctant acceptance. I could already see the change—the subtle drop of her eyelids, the way her breathing began to slow, muscles loosening as the sedative took effect. She tried to fight it, her hands gripping the edge of the table as though that would anchor her, but it was useless. Slowly, inevitably, the tension melted away from her body, her fight fading like a dimming flame.

Satisfied, I stood, walking around the table to help her up. My arm wrapped tightly around her waist, holding her steady as her legs wobbled beneath her. When we reached the bottom of the stairs, I didn't bother letting her try to make it on her own. I lifted her into my arms, cradling her against my chest. She didn't protest, her head resting against my shoulder as I carried her up the stairs, her body light as a cloud.

When we entered the bedroom, her eyes lazily scanned the room. She blinked slowly, her voice light and already slurring slightly. "You prefer the left, don't you?"

"I do." She had picked up on that rather quickly. Before her, I never cared about which side I slept on—sleeping alone had its own rhythm. Now, everything had shifted. I needed to be closest to the door. It was natural, protective even. One day, when we had children, it would matter even more. I set her gently onto the bed, brushing a strand of hair from her face as she blinked up at me, her eyes heavy with exhaustion. "Relax," I told her, my tone soft but commanding. "I'm going to shower."

She murmured something unintelligible, her lips barely moving as the sedative took full hold. I turned on the fireplace, its soft glow filling the room, then dimmed the rest of the lights, leaving just the small bedside lamp on. I watched her for a moment longer, her body sinking into the sheets, completely under my control. I turned and walked toward the bathroom, leaving her to rest. I took my time showering, reluctantly scrubbing her off of me.

When I returned to the bedroom, the steam from the shower followed. All I wore were my boxer briefs, the salve for her mark in hand. I paused, watching her for a moment. She was lying on her side, facing the balcony doors, already asleep. She was more beautiful than ever, her delicate features framed by her long, dark hair fanned across the pillows. Now that it was close to dry, the golden undertones were visible again. Her light pink sleep shirt was slightly rumpled, and her breathing was soft and steady.

I climbed up onto the bed, careful not to disturb her too much. Slowly, I lifted her shirt, exposing the mark beneath her shoulder blade. I could see that the skin around it was still tender, the edges already healing but sensitive. She stirred slightly under my touch but didn't wake. I applied the salve with gentle fingers, tracing the outline of my refreshed crest etched into her flesh. It was more than a mark—it was a symbol of our bond, our connection.

It was the first of many steps to ensure she'd always be mine. As I held myself over her, I set the salve on the nightstand, sweeping my gaze from my mark to the curve of her ass. I leaned in closer, unable to resist the allure of her soft skin beneath me. I ran my hands down her back, gently rolling her onto her stomach with a hand on her hip. Carefully, I eased down her pajama pants.

She began to wake, and I stopped until her breathing evened out again. I didn't want her up until I was inside her. Her underwear was the same shade as her pajamas, she'd done that on purpose. Removing it proved a tad more difficult. I had to pull the pad away from her body in the process, revealing the folds of her pussy. My heart raced as I took in the sight before me.

She was impossibly gorgeous, and I felt an overwhelming need to possess her fully. I traced the lines of her body with my fingertips, committing them to memory all over again.

With care, I eased her legs apart, her knees bending naturally as she unconsciously surrendered to me. I knew this was her way of submitting to the lust that we both felt, even if she wasn't completely aware of it. Slowly, I positioned myself above her, my body hovering over her like a shadow in the night.

"Are you awake, Lolita?"

No response came.

"Perfect," I murmured. I tugged my briefs down and gripped my cock tightly, teasing her pussy with the head. With deliberate slowness, I pushed inside her, relishing the resistance that greeted me. She was so tight I had to pause for a moment. Her breathing hitched and I could feel her muscles clench around me, but she remained asleep, responding to my touch like a puppet on strings. As I continued to push deeper, her body undulated beneath me. It was as if she was welcoming me, inviting me to take her fully. She wanted this as badly as I did.

I savored the feeling of her walls clenching around me, trying to pull me further in. In a moment of pure dominance, I gripped her hair and claimed her lips with my own as I thrust into her again and again. Another telltale hitch in her breath signaled that she was close to waking, the sleep aide already having done most of its job.

"So good," I whispered against her ear. I thrust harder, feeling her resistance slowly dissipate as she accommodated me. Her breath hitched again, and I knew it wouldn't be long now. My balls slapped against her as I lost myself inside her.

Lolita's body began to respond in earnest, her pussy clenched and unclenched around me, milking me with a strength that belied her small stature. A low growl escaped my lips as I felt the familiar building tension coiling deep within me. I couldn't help but wonder how much longer it would be before she truly woke up.

I wanted to see the fear in her eyes when she realized what she'd done, what she'd allowed me to do. I wanted to see the moment her fear turned to desire, and she screamed my name. My mind was engulfed in a dark and twisted lust as I fucked the innocent, sleeping beauty before me.

"Lolita," I called her name and thrust harder. When she didn't wake, I fully gathered her hair into one hand and wrapped the silky strands around my fist. I pulled her head back, exposing her delicate neck to my hungry gaze. I leaned down and bit lightly at the tender skin, forcing my cock as deep into her pussy as I could.

Her eyes flickered open, and I knew this was the moment I'd been waiting for. "A-Alex?"

She took in the scene—me, naked and on top of her, my cock between her legs. Her eyes welled with tears, but I could see the fear in them was quickly turning to something else.

I held her tight and thrust harder.

"Stop, Alex!" she pleaded.

I couldn't stop.

Each word from her only fueled the fire burning within me, driving me deeper into madness. I thrust with primal aggression, feeling her body tremble beneath me as I claimed what was rightfully mine. Her fingers dug into the sheets, leaving deep marks in the fabric. I leaned down and kissed her, groaning with pleasure at her growing arousal. Her lips quivered as she tried to speak, to protest, but all that escaped were small gasps of surrender.

"Alex," she managed, her voice barely audible above the sound of our bodies colliding. I clamped my hand over her mouth, silencing her protests. With each thrust, I felt like I was tearing her apart and rebuilding her in my image. And she welcomed it, her cries of protest turning into muffled moans of pleasure as she arched beneath me.

The bed rocked violently beneath us, slick with a mixture of blood and sweat. I removed my hand from her mouth, placing it down on the mattress to better brace myself while wrapping her long hair tighter around my other hand.

"Oh god," she panted,. "Alex, please..." she pleaded, her hands gripping the sheets so tightly they turned white.

"God?" I growled between thrusts, relishing the way her moans escalated into desperate screams of pleasure. "There is no longer a God in your world, deliciae . Only the Devil and he's already inside of you."

Her body began to shake as I punctuated each word with a deep thrust. My eyes fell to the mark I had carved into her back, and I nearly came right then like an inexperienced fucking teenager. I increased my pace, my body slamming into hers until we were both lost in a frenzy of carnal release.

"Fuck. I need to come." I smacked her ass hard, leaving a handprint and adding another layer of sensation to the overwhelming pleasure coursing through us. She mewled, and her pussy clenched around my cock. "So beautifully responsive," I groaned, feeling her body yield to me. Another swift strike, this time on the opposite cheek, and she whimpered, her breath catching as she arched beneath me, offering herself up like a perfect sacrifice.

Her cries echoed through the room, growing louder, and more desperate, as though she were caught between pleasure and torment. Each sound she made was a hymn to the Devil, a tribute to the power I held over her. The tension in my body tightened, coiling like a viper ready to strike. My control frayed, the familiar pull of release on the horizon. "That's it, deliciae ," I ground out, driving her into the mattress.

Her gaze found mine—wild, unfocused, her pupils blown wide with desire and submission.

I could feel her walls tightening around me, pulling me deeper into her. She clawed at the sheets as if trying to tether herself to reality, but I wouldn't allow it. There was no reality outside of me, outside of us.

"Alex!" she screamed, her voice raw and frantic as she came.

The force of her release pushed me closer to the edge, driving me into that sweet abyss. My hands gripped her, holding her in place as I kissed her savagely, claiming her mouth as I had claimed her body. I thrust into her one final time, deep and hard before I stilled, the tension snapping as I emptied myself inside her pussy with a low moan and soft curse.

For a few moments, we lay entwined, continuing to kiss as I softened inside her. I reluctantly pulled out, wanting to hold onto this feeling for just a little longer.

As I gazed upon her face, I saw sweat and tears mingling together as she caught her breath, her eyes still wild with a mixture of lust and dread. She looked both elated and lost, a reflection of her internal struggle. I looked down at the mess we had made, remnants scattered across the sheets and clinging to our skin. I couldn't help but feel a sense of satisfaction and pride. I kissed her once more, this time with tenderness and affection. She didn't push me away or protest.

"Another shower," I muttered, my voice low as I pulled away. She lay still beneath me, too exhausted to protest, too drained to even form a thought. The tension that had coiled through her moments ago had dissipated. I stood, offering her my hand. "Come on," I urged softly. "Let's get cleaned up."

She blinked slowly, eyes unfocused, as if searching for the energy to move. For a moment, I thought she might refuse, but then she reached out and placed her hand in mine.

Her fingers were delicate in my grasp, her skin soft and warm beneath my palm. I squeezed just enough to remind her of my power, how easily I could break her if I ever chose to. She stumbled as I pulled her to her feet, her legs trembling with exhaustion. Instinctively, I steadied her, drawing her closer. For a brief moment, her head rested against my chest, and I breathed in the familiar scent of her—sweat and the faint trace of the shampoo I had chosen.

I looked down at her and kissed the top of her head. Mentally, I wanted her again. Physically, I couldn't force my dick to rise on command after coming so soon—three times for the night already. Maybe I needed to look into what men took down at the Pleasure House to keep themselves hard for hours. My Lolita wouldn't be able to handle that, but it would be a dream for me. I held her closer, leading her toward our bathroom.

There was a raw intimacy in this silence, a vulnerability she only allowed in the aftermath. When the tension between us settled, when her resistance ebbed away, this was the version of her I craved most. The one that let herself be weak in my presence.

Each time she stopped fighting, even for just a moment, I could feel it—her growing dependence, her need for me outweighed her sense of self. I knew it wouldn't be long before she stopped battling her inner war, before she surrendered fully, accepting that I was her reality.

And when that day came, when she didn't hold back, when she reached for me instead of pulling away, that's when I would truly own her. Every piece of her soul, every beat of her heart.