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)
CHAPTER SIX
I was alone in the viewing room with Seraphine, though her presence didn't soothe the storm of emotions swirling inside me. After the service had ended, Pandora and Keres had been whisked away by their servitors, leaving me to brood in oppressive silence.
Seraphine tried to engage me, her voice soft and probing, but I had nothing to say. I couldn’t form the words even if I wanted to. My eyes were drawn back to the Chapel below, specifically to the statue that loomed over the altar like a dark omen.
The Devil, carved in menacing detail, stood tall and dominating, its blackened stone casting long shadows across the room. His wings stretched wide as if poised to take flight or descend into hell, while his head tilted downward, watching over the congregation with an expression that was both cruel and knowing. From the very first time I’d seen it, what disturbed me most was the woman at the Devil’s feet, kneeling in submissive reverence.
Her hands were clasped in prayer, her face turned upward. Her expression wasn’t one of worship—it was one of pain, her stone lips frozen in a silent scream. Blood seemed to weep from her eyes, staining her marble skin as if she had been crying for centuries. His hand rested gently on her head, almost tender, as though he was comforting her. But there was no comfort in that touch. It was control. Dominance.
It was Impío.
The way the candlelight flickered across the statue made it seem alive, like they were trapped in an eternal dance of power and submission. It was both mesmerizing and horrifying. Beautiful in a way that made me sick to my stomach because I was so drawn to it.
“Stunning work of art, isn’t it?”
The voice startled me, snapping me out of my trance. I blinked, tearing my gaze from the statue. Seraphine was no longer in the armchair where she’d been moments ago. A man sat there now, tall and poised, his hands casually resting in his pockets. As I took in his features, realization hit me with a cold wave of recognition.
Alexander’s father.
He was a mirror image of his son, only without the scar that marred Alexander’s otherwise flawless face. His features were sharp and aristocratic, but his eyes—a brilliant shade of imperial topaz, just like Alexander’s—were cold and calculating, holding a depth of authority that sent a shiver down my spine.
There was something about the way he watched me, calm and composed, that made me feel utterly exposed. Like the woman in the statue below, kneeling at the feet of the Devil, waiting for whatever judgment or fate would befall her. The man's gaze shifted back to the statue.
“It speaks volumes, doesn’t it?” he said, his tone deceptively conversational, as if we were simply discussing a piece of art in a gallery, and not a grotesque symbol of the power dynamic that dominated my every waking moment.
I didn’t answer. Instead, I forced myself to look away from him, my pulse quickening under his penetrating stare as it returned to me.
"Lolita," he stated my name as if testing it out. "You’re quite beautiful too. Much prettier than your mother."
My mother? The woman I had never known, whose face was a blank page in my life.
I turned sharply to face him, the question burning on my tongue, but it died the moment I met his gaze. His smile was thin, humorless, and full of knowledge I wasn’t sure I wanted to uncover.
“She wasn’t the brightest of women, pretty enough for her purpose though,” he continued “But you… you were always meant for more.”
My heart pounded in my chest. If he truly knew my mother, that confirmed my earlier suspicion. She was linked to this goddamn Isle.
“I— I don't know who my mother is." I felt like a fool as soon as I said it. Of course, he would know that. He already knew far more than I did.
The way his lips curled into a sly, almost pitying smile sent a wave of unease through me.
"Of course, you don’t," he replied, his voice low, almost soothing. "She wasn’t meant to leave her mark on your life. Motherhood was never her role."
His words twisted something inside me. I clenched my fists. "What do you mean?"
He chuckled softly, as though the answer was so obvious. "Her sole purpose was to bring you here, Lolita. To be the vessel for something far greater." He glanced at the statue again, his eyes lingering on the figure of the woman at the Devil’s feet. "And now, you’re here to fulfill the role you were born for."
I swallowed; my throat dry. The pieces were coming together, but I hated the picture they were forming. "And my father?" I asked, my voice barely steady.
He smiled faintly this time, eyes reflecting a distant memory. "Ah, he was a good man. One of my closest confidants."