Page 52 of Semper

I cried out his name as another orgasm shook through me like a violent storm, my entire being consumed by the pleasure he was bestowing upon me. I clung to him, my nails digging into his shoulder as I rode the waves of ecstasy that crashed over me.

He held me close, his embrace unwavering. When the intensity subsided and I remained trembling in his arms, he slowly withdrew his hand from between my legs. His fingers glistened with our combined arousal.

They traced a tantalizing path over my lips, leaving behind a slick trail that I couldn't resist. With eager anticipation, I opened my mouth, reveling in the taste of us that I had grown accustomed to. It was an intimacy that should have repulsed me, but instead, it only drew me deeper into his spell. A victory he took with quiet satisfaction. Just as quickly as it began, he pulled his fingers away and replaced them with his lips. When he finally pulled back, he checked the sleek watch on his wrist. It was the same kind I remembered from the very first time I saw him. Back then, I didn't even know his name or what kind of man he was, but I knew wealth when I saw it.

So did Anya.

Anya.

Her name echoed in my mind as her face flashed before my eyes - haunting me like she often did whenever I closed my eyes. My best friend had disappeared without a trace since the day we were both taken.

I imagined her trapped somewhere dark while I lived in this feverish dream of a life, always in a state of limbo. But things had changed for me now, hadn't they? The guilt nagged at me, reminding me that I had no right to be in this moment, to forget even for a second the danger that still loomed over us. It was no match for the pull I felt towards him - Alexander. And that was the most terrifying part of it all, how I was slipping into this life with him as if it were where I belonged all along.

As much as I needed to, I couldn't bring myself to hate him as much as I should. Maybe I didn't hate him at all. Every time his hands were on me, each time he kissed me like I was the air he needed to breathe, I forgot. I forgot about Anya, aboutthe twisted reality of this place. I forgot about the looming consequences of whatever it was that bound us together.

All I could think about was him—the way he moved, the way he touched me, the way he made me feel like I was his entire world.

Whatever this was, it was dangerous.

Reckless, even.

But I couldn’t stop.

His lips brushed against mine again, softer this time, as if he could sense the inner turmoil in which I was drowning. Knowing him, he did. He could read me so effortlessly. His thumb stroked the side of my face, luring me back to him and the place where nothing existed but the two of us. "How do you always do that?" I asked quietly. The question wasn’t about the kiss or the touch. It was about everything. How he always seemed to know—how he always managed to pull me back when I was teetering on the edge of doubt.

He grinned at me, that maddeningly confident smile spreading across his face. "What kind of man would I be if I didn't notice how your moods change?" His hand slid down from my jaw to my collarbone, his thumb tracing circles over the pulse point there as he continued, "Your sadness, happiness, anger - they all belong to me as much as you do."

My breath caught in my throat at his words. It wasn't just the possessiveness in his tone or the way he spoke with such conviction; it was the underlying truth behind them. In this place, in his world, I wasn't just Lolita - I was his. Every emotion I felt, every thought that crossed my mind, belonged to him just as much as my body did. I searched his eyes for some sign of weakness or doubt, but all I found was that unrelenting focus and certainty.

“You can’t hide anything from me, Lolita. I’ll always know. Always feel it.”

There was no denying what I thought to myself. He could feel every crack in the armor I tried to wear around him, every inch of me that he’d broken through. I was losing this fight, and part of me didn’t even want to win.

“Like now, you’re still fighting. Still clinging to some piece of yourself that believes it can stay free.”

I swallowed, a knot tightening in my throat. I wanted to push back, to summon whatever strength I had left and deny him, but the truth clawed at me. He was right. Every day I fought to keep something of myself intact, convinced I could still protect my mind, my soul. He could claim my body, I gave him that willingly, but those deeper parts—they were mine. At least, they should have been.

He was chipping away at my defenses, piece by piece. Each moment with him, each surrender, left me with fewer remnants of who I used to be. In their place, I could sense him, creeping in, filling the spaces with fragments of his darkness.

“I have to get back to work,” he said softly, pulling me from my thoughts. His hand slid from my waist, his touch lingering possessively before finally releasing me.

“My sister will be here soon to help you prepare for tonight.”

I nodded, but my mind was already spiraling. The sun was already setting over the Isle, casting a warm glow on everything in its path. The looming anticipation of what night would bring—the Isle's Muerte—weighed heavily on my shoulders. It was a celebration in honor of Jamison's son, the one who hadn’t made it, but it wasn’t a funeral, not in the traditional sense anyway.

The Isle didn’t mourn like the rest of the world did. Esther had explained that much, and Matron Seraphine had hinted at the ritual, though neither of them shared specific details. Their reluctance, the way their eyes flickered with unspoken knowledge, told me all I needed to know: this gathering wouldn’t be something I could easily forget. Since the incident withNicolette, there had been no more brutal punishments, but that didn’t mean I had escaped the sinister nature of the Isle.

It was always there, bubbling just beneath the surface, waiting for an opportunity to rear its ugly head once again. The services I had attended since that night were more than enough to leave me unsettled, though they weren’t outright violent. Hymns filled the air, woven in the ancient tongue of Impio, the words like shadows slithering through the congregation, coiling around each person like chains. There was a weight to them, a gravity that pulled me in even as I fought to stay grounded and no matter how hard I tried to keep them away, my eyes were always drawn to the Devil that dominated the Chapel and the statue that knelt at his feet.

There was a beauty in its horror, a strange allure that I couldn’t shake no matter how much I wanted to. What unnerved me the most was the growing realization that the statue wasn’t just some abstract representation. The more I studied it, the more I came to understand—it was him.

TheirDiabolus. My Alexander.

Every detail, from the sharpness of his jaw to the cruel smirk on his lips, mirrored the man who held me captive in every sense of the word. I hadn’t noticed it at first, but now it was undeniable. That statue wasn’t merely a symbol of the Isle’s devotion to their dark lord. It was a tribute to the embodiment of the Devil himself. As for the woman kneeling at his feet, she was every Electi who had come before me and every woman bound to the Isle.

She was me.

That’s how I knew the Isle’s Muerte wasn’t going to be a typical celebration. It would be another reminder of my place, another test of how much I could endure. I wasn’t sure if I was ready for it. His perceptive gaze sharpened, narrowing slightly asif he could see right through me. I couldn't hide my distress from him; it was like a spotlight shining on all of my vulnerabilities.

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