Page 89 of Semper
“I’m not mad,” I added, leaning closer, brushing her hair back from her face. “But you will never leave my side or the estate again alone, do you understand?”
I felt her tense under my touch until slowly, she nodded. I had been in the middle of reviewing the final details for the upcoming Rite when the first alert came through. At first, I brushed it off. It wasn’t unusual for the Isle to send constant updates about movement, surveillance, or minor incidents. When the second, third, and fourth messages followed in rapidsuccession, I froze. My gut twisted as I saw Lolita’s name flash on the screen. It wasn’t a feeling I had ever experienced before. Fucking panic that quickly turned to rage.
Bishop and Jamison were at my side in an instant, their reactions as sharp as mine.
They got a rundown of what was happening and without me having to say a word, they were on damage control along with the rest of my Magistri moving swiftly to secure the situation. They all knew what to do, but I was the one who needed to be there. I was the one who had to fix this.
Now, sitting in the back of the car, my heart still racing from getting her off that fucking cliffside, I lifted Lolita’s hand to examine the cut. The jagged slice across her palm made my blood boil. She’d been hurt. Because of another man. It took actual effort not to show her the rage simmering just below the surface. William was already broken, and Nicolette would pay for this betrayal with her life—but not before I had my own say. My thumb brushed over her wound gently, and I wrapped the towel around it with careful precision, keeping my movements deliberate, and controlled.
Her body still trembled slightly from the shock of everything that had happened, but I could feel the way she relaxed into me, as if being near me soothed the fear that had gripped her. She instinctively sought comfort in my arms. It was telling of how far she’d come.
As the car pulled up to the estate, I told Isaac to keep the engine running, and then gathered Lolita into my arms, not wanting her to walk without shoes in the cold rain. She pressed against me, still trembling, her soaked dress clinging to her body. Esther was already at the door, her expression calm but her eyes sharp as she opened it for us.
Inside, the warmth of the estate wrapped around us, but I didn’t stop. I took her straight back to the room where I’dfirst brought her—the room she’d woken up in, confused and chained, what seemed like a lifetime ago now.
She noticed immediately, her body tensing in my arms as her eyes darted around the familiar space. I had no intentions of chaining her up again, this was simply the nearest room to get her situated in. I made a mental note to have it turned into a playroom. It had a spectacular view, after all.
“Shh,” I soothed her, sitting her gently on the bed. I could feel her fingers gripping my shirt with her good hand, refusing to let go. I didn’t push her away, though the part of me that needed to storm out and handle the mess out there was clawing at me.
"Esther and Verity will tend to you now," I told her softly, brushing her hair back from her face. “I’ll be back soon to deal with… this.”
Her hand tightened; the fabric of my shirt bunched in her fist. Her eyes, wide with fear, held mine, pleading for something I couldn’t give her at that moment.
I cupped her face, and kissed her—rough, demanding. I needed to ground her. To remind her of what was ours, what we shared. I couldn’t comfort her with promises, not now. Not when the fury was still burning in my veins. She melted into me, her trembling fading as the kiss deepened, her grip loosening just slightly. That was all I needed.
“I’ll come back to you,” I assured her, the words deliberate. I knew exactly what I was doing, keeping my voice steady, making sure she felt it. Every word was calculated because I knew how much power I held over her now. As I stood, she watched me, her eyes still holding a mix of relief and fear. I turned, brushing past my sister in the doorway. “Make sure you clean her hand,” I ordered.
Esther nodded, stepping aside as Verity followed her into the room.
I knew they’d comfort her in ways I couldn’t. I headed back outside, the rain still coming down hard. My clothes were soaked through, but I didn’t care. The Isle’s anger had calmed some, but it wouldn’t be satisfied until I handled what had been set into motion.
Isaac didn’t say a word as I got into the car, but the look on his face told me everything I needed to know. He knew what had to be done, just like I did. The ride back to Carcerem was silent, the rain still coming down hard against the windshield, creating a steady rhythm. As I arrived at the stone fortress for the second time that day, I told him, “It’ll be a while.”
Isaac cut the engine but didn’t move to leave. Instead, he looked at me with steady resolve. “I’m coming with you.”
I nodded once. There was no point arguing with him, not when I knew he had just as much of a stake in this as I did.
He wasn’t just my driver—he was loyal, and he understood the gravity of what was about to unfold. We stepped out of the car together, the rain soaking us through as we crossed the stone courtyard toward the looming structure. Carcerem’s walls towered above us, dark and foreboding, but that didn’t faze me. The air was thick with the Isle’s fury, and I was ready to soothe it.
Inside, the stone floors echoed beneath our boots as we made our way to the elevator. I pressed the button for level 4, the worst place in the prison. The air shifted as we descended—thicker, darker, more suffocating. The screams and wails of those contained here had long since faded into the background, replaced by the oppressive silence of the damned. Level 4 wasn’t for the weak. It was for those beyond redemption, those who had crossed the lines so far that there was no coming back. And today, I would be dealing with two such people.
The elevator doors opened with a low groan, revealing the dimly lit corridor ahead. The walls here were made of cold stone, damp and cracked from years of holding prisoners who had lostall hope. It smelled like rot, shit, and despair, the kind of place that sucked the soul out of a man before he even set foot inside. I didn’t have enough of one to be at risk.
Isaac fell in step beside me as we walked toward the containment cells. The sound of our footsteps echoed down the long hallway, growing louder with each step. Ahead, the dim glow of wall lights illuminated the path, casting long, twisted shadows on the walls.
“Diabolus,” the guard at the checkpoint greeted me with a low bow, his masked face lowering in respect.
I acknowledged him with a curt nod, not wasting time on pleasantries, heading straight to where the others already waited.
The chamber was not a place meant for redemption—it was built for judgment, for punishment. The walls were smooth stone, illuminated by the dim glow of torches that lined the perimeter. Chains and restraints dangled from the ceiling like grim reminders of what awaited those who dared cross the Isle’s boundaries. The floor was stained in places, the remnants of past sentences meted out to those who had failed the faith or, more importantly, failed me.
As I entered, the scent of damp stone and iron filled the air, thick and suffocating. In the center of the room, a large stone table dominated the space, its surface worn from years of use. Around it, my Magistri stood waiting—Bishop, Emilio, my father, Uncle Corbin, Jamison, and Phoenix. Each man represented a different aspect of our power, our dominion over the Isle.
Osiris wasn’t there; he was handling matters above ground, making sure everything was contained outside the estate. He knew better than anyone the upheaval Nicolette’s actions had almost unleashed.
On one side of the chamber, William hung from the ceiling, stripped of his clothes and dignity. His injuries were grotesque, bones jutting out at unnatural angles, his skin bruised and torn. He’d survived the fall, but just barely. His breathing was ragged, each rise and fall of his chest a labored struggle.
Nicolette, on the other hand, was seated in a heavy iron chair, bound but still, her head hung low. Her face was a mess of scars and mutilation, her lips sewn shut once but now ragged, half-missing. Her father, Theron, stood over her, his expression a mixture of anger and immense disappointment. He hadn’t said a word yet, but his presence alone weighed heavily on the room.