Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 127933 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 426(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127933 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 426(@300wpm)
"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.
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 her progenitor duties.”
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 mean anything.” 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 going through 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.