Page 82 of Semper
I’d taken her home after that and had come up with some excuse to make her read in my office while I finished working just so that she was close. Bishop hadn’t stopped joking about it since. He’d get it someday and I would pay him back tenfold. Phoenix and Osiris both understood. Keres was one of the very rare exceptions of women brought to the Isle as an Electi with a low-level family.
Her father had an entire life off of the Isle with children. It was unacceptable, but we only learned about it when she tookone of Osiris’ classes at a university. He’d made the connection almost immediately and a few short months later, decided she would be his. And Phoenix was just as obsessed with his sister, Pandora.
Her story mirrored Lolita’s, only with twice the trauma and half the hope. Or was the case until Nix grew tired of fucking their stepmother, and then killed her so that Pandora had to come back home. He’d finally disposed of the woman’s corpse a few weeks ago, having grown tired of fucking it too.
We were all pushing for the Electi to be close, to stay connected, and it was working. The bonds were tightening, the web of power and loyalty growing stronger by the day. But even in the midst of all that, all I could think about was Lolita.MyLolita.
I would handle my business today, and take care of what needed to be done, but I couldn’t deny the pull to get back to her. To see her face, to hear her voice, to remind her that she was mine in every way. We’d have our final Rite soon, and the timing couldn’t have been more perfect. Lolita hadn’t brought it up yet—I wasn’t sure if she even understood the subtle shifts happening within her—but I knew. I could sense it in the way she moved, the way her body responded to mine.
She was changing, even if she hadn’t realized it yet. It was only a matter of time before she would understand what that meant. We’d be putting the nursery to use sooner than later, though I wasn’t going to spoil that surprise for her just yet. I’d let her come to that conclusion herself, in time. For now, the Rite was my focus. The ceremony that would seal everything, that would bind her even deeper to me, to the Isle, to our faith. It was the final step, and she was more ready than she knew. I’d made sure of that.
I pulled into the parking lot, sliding my car into the spot beside Jamison’s, his black SUV gleaming under the earlymorning sun. To my right, Bishop pulled in, and his ridiculous music vibrated through the windows of his car, shaking the glass and rattling my patience.
He always had a talent for making an entrance. As I stepped out, the bass thumped in the air. I could see my cousin leaning back in the driver’s seat, his sunglasses on and a smug grin on his face. He cut the engine, but the music didn’t shut off until he opened the door and got out.
“Nice choice of music again today,” I commented, my voice laced with sarcasm.
“Gotta keep things lively, dear cousin,” he quipped, his tone all amusement.
I sighed, but the smirk was already tugging at my lips. He had a way of making everything seem lighter, no matter how dark the situation. It was one of the things I respected about him, even if he did drive me crazy half the time. “Who needs torture for our prisoners when we can just have you play your playlist in the parking lot?”
He laughed. “Don’t tempt me with a good time.”
We fell into step together. Jamison stood by the entrance; his expression unreadable but I knew he was focused. He glanced from me to Bishop, saying nothing as we approached. This was business, after all, and we all understood what was at stake today. I let the thoughts of Lolita and the future fade for now. There was work to be done and part of it was keeping my word to her.
Two masked disciples stood by the heavy double doors of Carcerem, their silent, watchful presence a reminder of the power we wielded. Without a word, they opened the doors as we approached, and I stepped inside with Jamison and Bishop beside me. The cool air hit my skin, thick with the weight of the place, and I welcomed it.
We entered the lobby, a place of dark elegance, where every detail was carefully crafted to create an atmosphere of control, dominance, and quiet fear.
The opulence masked the brutality beneath, but that was exactly how we wanted it. For those who understood, the tension was palpable—there was no mistaking what happened behind these walls.
The reception desk loomed in front of us, and as I expected, Seth was there. The man seemed to live at the prison, always working the desk, always keeping things running smoothly. I was half convinced he never left, though I didn’t mind. Seth was exceptional at what he did. His efficiency and dedication were exactly what we needed in a place like this.
"Acolyte Seth," I greeted as we passed, my voice cutting through the quiet hum of the prison.
"Diabolus," he replied, his head tilting in acknowledgment, his face hidden behind the mask of our order.
We moved past the desk and down the corridor toward the viewing room. The walls were lined with dark, intricately woven tapestries that depicted scenes from the myths of our faith.
“Diabolus, Magistri,” the disciple greeted, his masked face lowering in a deferential bow. His voice was measured, and respectful. Just as it should be.
The three of us took our seats, the heavy chairs arranged in front of the one-way glass window. The room felt colder than usual, though that may have just been the weight of what was about to unfold. The air hung thick with anticipation. I leaned back slightly, glancing toward the disciple who stood waiting for our orders.
“Is she ready?” I asked, my voice calm, though the anticipation simmered beneath the surface.
“She is leashed and waiting,Diabolus.”
“Bring her out.”
The command slipped easily from my lips, and as soon as the words left my mouth, a door on the other side of the glass slid open with a soft click. Two masked disciples entered the room, their movements practiced and deliberate, the leash in one of their hands leading to the figure at the end of it.
Whore Anya.
Her wrists were bound behind her back, her posture rigid as she was led into the center of the room, the cold metal of the collar gleaming in the harsh light. The chain leash rattled softly with every hesitant step she took. There was no fight left in her—there hadn’t been for a long time now—but the tension in her body was palpable, like a woman on the edge of her own destruction. Her eyes, filled with a mixture of anger and resignation, flicked toward the one-way glass.
She couldn’t see us, but I knew she could feel our eyes on her. The weight of judgment hung over her like a noose. Jamison leaned forward slightly; his eyes fixed on her. Bishop let out a soft chuckle beside me, clearly amused by the situation. I remained silent, studying her, watching the slow unraveling of a woman who had once dared to challenge me. Now she was nothing more than a lesson, a cautionary tale of what happened when someone forgot their place.
"She's healthy?" Jamison asked, his voice casual, though my eyes remained fixed on her.