Page 83 of Semper
I could tell he liked what he saw. I didn’t begrudge him for that. Despite Anya being a whore’s whore, she was still beautiful. “As a goat,” I joked, causing him to let out a dry laugh beside me.
The disciple holding her leash led Anya from one side of the room to the other like a prized show dog—one that had been sent to a kill shelter. Her naked body was on full display, nothing left to the imagination. She had been washed and meticulously plucked for the occasion, her skin smooth and gleaming and her long hair like silk.
She followed obediently, every movement measured, knowing full well what would happen if she didn’t.
“She, of course, needs to gain some of her weight back,” the disciple commented, his tone clinical, “but that won’t prevent her from fulfilling herprogenitorduties.”
Jamison nodded, his eyes still following her for a moment before turning to Bishop. “You slept with her, didn’t you?”
Bishop grimaced, and I couldn’t help but laugh. The bastard always managed to get himself into these situations. “She was drunk off her ass and wanted Emilio,” he admitted with a scowl. “I essentially saved the kid from being traumatized. I got the cameras installed inside her and Lolita’s apartment, though, so it was worth the headache.”
I laughed lightly. “And?”
Bishop shrugged, leaning back in his chair with a lazy grin.
“She’s got a tight body and she’s game for anything. And I do meananything.” His tone was casual, but there was no missing the amusement in his voice.
The conversation hung in the air, cold and matter-of-fact, as if we were discussing livestock rather than a human being. That’s what Anya had become—an asset, a tool to be used for the Isle’s purposes. She moved across the room with her head bowed, her compliance expected, her role clearly defined. There was no defiance left in her, only the slow surrender of a woman who knew her place. I watched her, detached, wondering if she truly understood the gravity of what was coming.
"You're free to test her out," I said, my voice flat, almost dismissive. "Don't make this choice without at least doing that."
Jamison nodded, his gaze lingering on Anya as she stood there, obedient, collared, and silent. I knew what he was thinking—another breeder under his roof, another woman to carry the next generation of his line. It was a practical decision, one I couldn’t fault him for. The alternative would be goingthrough the entire application process again, submitting himself to the bureaucratic maze of our faith with at least a dozen men ahead of him. This way, he’d bypass all of that. Of course, it also meant he’d be taking on the responsibility of training Anya himself and extracting what he needed in exchange.
Bishop, ever the instigator, leaned around me, his grin never wavering. “So, how does Cass feel about this now?” he asked, his tone carrying a playful edge.
I could feel Jamison’s tension rise at the mention of his wife, Cassandra. She’d stayed quiet through most of this ordeal, but I knew she wouldn’t be thrilled with the arrangement. Not that it mattered in the grand scheme of things. Cass had her role, and she’d play it, whether she liked it or not. That’s how things worked on the Isle.
Jamison’s eyes flickered with something darker, but he kept his response measured. “She’ll do what’s expected of her,” he said, his voice a touch too controlled.
Bishop chuckled softly. "Of course, she will. But you know she's not gonna be happy about it."
Jamison didn’t respond, but I could see the flicker of irritation in his expression. It didn’t matter. This was about the future of the Isle, about maintaining our bloodlines. Cassandra knew that better than anyone. Emilio and I had a running bet that he would eventually do away with Cassandra.
Her death would, of course, be framed as an accident. It was only a matter of time. Probably why she was keeping so quiet about him bringing in another breeder, especially after Emilia, the woman he’d been closer to loving than any of the others. If I could take that pain away from him, I would, but for now, this was the best I could offer—Anya. And while it didn’t seem like much, at least I could keep my promise to Lolita.
Jamison’s gaze lingered on Anya a moment longer before he shook his head. “I need to think on it some more,” he said, his voice low. "Before I make any decisions."
“Take your time,” I replied, leaning back in my chair, knowing full well he’d come around eventually. “She’s not going anywhere.” My lips twisted into a smirk before I added, “But while you’re deciding… how about we pay Clarice a visit?”
Both Jamison and Bishop perked up at the mention of my biggest mistake, their expressions shifting from neutral to something far more enthusiastic. The two of them hated her with a passion. Clarice had a way of getting under people’s skin—especially theirs.
“Hell yes,” Bishop said, leaning forward with a glint in his eye. “I could use a little excitement.”
Jamison nodded, his mood shifting instantly. “Count me in.
I gave the disciple a curt nod, offering my final words before leaving the room. “Move her to a better-equipped cell,” I instructed, glancing back at Anya, who stood in her restrained obedience. “But keep her collared. She’s not ready to be without it.” The disciple bowed slightly, accepting my orders without question, and I turned to leave, the decision no longer weighing on my mind.
The three of us—me, Jamison, and Bishop—left the viewing room and headed for the elevators, the hum of the prison’s cold, mechanical systems droning in the background.
We rode silently to Level 3, where Clarice had recently been moved. She had been shifted from Level 4 in preparation for the upcoming Rite, one she would partake in unwillingly, of course, but that hardly mattered. The Isle always got what it wanted.
When we reached her cell, I couldn’t help but note how much further into isolation she was than Anya. It was a cell within a cell, really—layers of barriers and locks, a testament to her fall from grace. I entered one door, and there behind the bars of herenclosure was the former beauty of Stygian Isle. Even the air felt thicker here, heavier with the weight of time and confinement. As soon as I stepped inside, Clarice turned to look at me, her azure eyes narrowing as they landed on me and the men beside me.
Her once ethereal beauty was still there, but over a year in this place had left its mark. Her thick, platinum blonde waves were tangled, though they still fell just past her shoulders, as if clinging to the last vestiges of her former life. Her porcelain skin had lost some of its sheen, but it remained pale, an almost ghostly contrast to the dark, stone walls that surrounded her.
She stood tall, her slender yet curvaceous figure exuding the same regal grace she’d always possessed, though now it was laced with a defiant tension. She still had that presence, that aura that could captivate anyone foolish enough to be taken in by her, but I was long past that. I knew better.
Jamison and Bishop stood on either side of me, both of them watching her with a mixture of disdain and amusement. The hatred they harbored for her was palpable.