by Mason, V. F.
The man might be old, but he couldn’t be this delusional and think I would accept all this shit like they do?
And why does Lucian want to put me in a dress anyway? Or does he crave an illusion of a willing bride who loves the monster within him and chooses to spend her whole life with him?
Harold speaks up again, ignoring my sarcasm. “Ricardo was wondering if maybe you are hungry and would like for him to cook something?” A beat and then, “Whatever your heart desires.”
Snatching the ointment, I flick it open and apply it to my sore skin, welcoming the cooling sensation blanketing the pain. “My heart desires freedom from Lucian. I want to go home and put him behind bars.” Harold pales a little, tugging on his cravat. “If you and Ricardo can help with that, I’ll be very happy.” Throwing the tube on the desk, I rip open the bandage and stick it to my heel. “Otherwise you know where the door is.” Only my mother’s words drilled into me from an early age about respecting our elders stops me from shouting at him or letting my temper flare.
He continues to stand though, glued to the spot, and I sigh heavily. “Harold, I understand your devotion to this family. Truly I do. Loyalty means everything, and you don’t have to be on my side.” Life proved a long time ago I can protect myself if necessary. “But please don’t expect me to participate in all this with a smile on my face.”
He swallows. “Lucian has many layers.” Is this what we call killing people now? Having layers? “He has a heart, though, under all this darkness, and he will be very loyal to any woman he marries. Loyalty is in their blood.”
Okay.
There goes my respect.
“He’s a murderer.” The air hitches in his throat as I no longer give him an opportunity to run away from the freaking truth. “He uses blackmail to marry me. A man who does all this—” I stand up, wincing a little at the stab of pain in my feet, and point at the picture. “—cannot have a heart. Because having a heart implies compassion, love, goodness. Things he is incapable of.”
“Goodness and evilness lay in the eye of a beholder,” he says, kneeling down and gathering all the photos before getting up. “Every story has a past, a beginning. Maybe if you asked him…” He trails off, hope dancing on the edges of his tone, but it dies quickly when I shake my head.
“I don’t care.” Even to my own ears it sounds like a lie, and I hate myself for this weakness within me that still wonders about his scars and what kind of past led him to these choices, despite having all the riches in the world.
My heart, the idiotic heart that holds affection for the man who no longer exists, wishes to uncover the secrets that have seemed hidden in his gaze that shines a light on the man he has become but also on the monster he is.
And part of me, the one that noticed his lack of rough treatment, is scared I might excuse all these deeds too if the story moves me.
Then I’ll become one of the statistics, a woman who knew about her man and puts her selfish desires above the life of other people.
“I’m an obsession, and we both know it.” He casts his eyes down at my words, and even though they pain me, they showcase our courtship in true glory.
A hunter spotted his prey and wanted to possess her.
However, obsessions have a very limited lifespan, and what happens then?
When will his obsession no longer serve as a shield between me and his sadistic inclinations?
I have experienced firsthand what serial killers do when nothing goes according to their plans, and I refuse to live through such a nightmare again.
I will not stay long enough to find out anyway.
“For some, their obsessions are sacred,” Harold says, walking toward the door and resting his palm on the knob. “Especially for a man who never knew love.” With these parting words, he disappears behind the closing door.
My eyes land on the ointment and bandages that somehow also show that he does care for my pain, at least physical, while Harold’s words play in my mind.
Goodness and evil lay in the eye of the beholder.
But how could killing someone lie in the eye of a beholder?
Lucian
A knock echoes as I pour whiskey into my glass, and I call out, “Come in.”
“Lucian.” A dark-haired man enters as he adjusts his thick glasses on his nose, his cassock flapping in different directions when he takes long strides to come closer to me. A heavy cross dangles from his neck, swinging from side to side, while a Bible is pressed to his chest. He huffs in exasperation. “Harold called me. It seemed like the world was on fire or something.” He gulps for air and rubs his forehead. “He really scared me.”
“Paul,” I say, snatching a bottle of water and throwing it his way, which he catches easily.
Flicking the lid open, he takes a sip and frowns. “Father Paul.” He corrects me and then glares when I only chuckle, finding the idea hilarious calling a boy I used to hang out with in the mansion when his mother cleaned our house by anything but his given name. “I took an oath, you know.”
“Congratulations on that.” I pick up my glass and walk to my chair, dropping onto it and motioning for him to sit down. “You’re still the boy with whom I guzzled tequila until we turned blue, and Harold busted us, hosing us from head to toe in freezing water.” I clack my tongue. “Fun times.”
The man wouldn’t shut up for a week about how stupid and irresponsible we were for even engaging in such risky activities.
And Harold didn’t appreciate me telling him that if he paid as much attention to my father and his risky activities, maybe he wouldn’t have turned into a drunk who couldn’t stand on his own feet most weekends.
Needless to say, Paul’s mother ripped him a new one, but it didn’t stop us from continuing our friendship despite our social differences.
Or views, because the whole church thing inspires nothing but cynicism in me, all the talk about divine interventions and how if only we believe, things would change.
Yeah, right.
My childhood can attest to the fact that just having belief is never enough.
A ghost of a smile appears on Paul’s face before he schools his features again; priests probably shouldn’t think about their pleasurable pasts. Would that be considered a sin, I wonder?
Ah, the life of a saint must be so difficult. I prefer to be a sinner.
“What’s going on?” he asks, settling on the leather cushion and sipping some more of his water before placing it on the desk. “Is someone dying?”
My laughter echoes around the room and I tilt my glass a little. “Why would you think that?”
“You urgently summon me, and let’s not forget the staff here is ancient.” Well, he has a point there. Besides a few maids I hired to clean the house and security, almost everyone used to work for my grandfather. None of them want to leave though, and I have enough money to pay them until they die. “So I repeat. Qué está pasando, amigo?”
“Me voy a casar.”
Paul blinks, his gray eyes widening while the book drops to his lap. “You’re getting married?” he asks, and at my nod, a laugh escapes his throat while he claps a few times. “De verdad?”
“Sí. The bride is getting ready upstairs as we speak.”
“I cannot believe this. A man who said he would never, ever do it. I’m so happy to hear that, Lucian!” He raises up on his seat, ready to come to me and hug me. Despite my opinion on the matter, he loves these fucking hugs, but I do not welcome anyone’s hands on my body but Esmeralda’s.
He falls back on his ass when I tell him, “I’m blackmailing her, and she calls me a monster. Right about now I think she’s trying to come up with a plan to use this wedding to her advantage and escape my clutches.”
The fire shines brightly within my woman. The girl who saved herself once will not let anyone else harm her, so her survival skills will use any opportunity to run away.
Ah, that might be quite interesting, and while she will never be my victim, for the first time
someone will display bravery instead of begging me for their life.
I finally dug deep enough to find the classified information of the police report regarding a homicide eleven years ago and just finished reading it before Paul’s arrival.
According to the autopsy, the killer had been extra cruel and done everything imaginable to the victim sans rape. He even tortured the body days after she died as if his anger was so strong he couldn’t control it. Such a violent crime made even the bravest of police officers sick.
Suzanne must have used all her connections in the upper levels to hide this information from the press. In a way, protecting Esmeralda. Because the minute fame knocked on her door, this would have been circling around all the time.
The strangest part though?
The older sister was nowhere to be found. And connecting all the dots with the fact that Esme must have been in the house during all this shit makes only one logical conclusion.
The serial killer committed an emotional crime, punishing their mother for a rejection and wanting to eliminate Esme as well because she represented a danger to what he loved and valued the most.
Evangeline.
Judging by all the wounds and angry slashes on the victim’s body, I know for a fact she was his first. Their mother snapped something inside him, which opened up a flood gate he couldn’t stop and that started to drive him crazy.
He thrived in it, but he couldn’t control it, which probably resulted in erratic killings.
And his sick mind believed it was Esmeralda’s fault because, according to him, her death would mean an end to the madness.
The more information I gather, the more I start to wonder if maybe I’ve been mistaken.
The man who wants to rebuild James’s legacy and the man who hunts Esmeralda… cannot be one man.
The former needs a calculative mind, twisted desires, and business skills.
The later has hectic actions, a need to kill, lack of concentration, and the skills to face me.
However, Francis and Jeremy were informed about a woman and delivered this information to me.
So these two psychos must know each other in order to share such vital details from the past.
An alliance built on a mutual agreement to get what they want?
One gets my downfall, while the other… his missing piece?
Motherfucker.
A divisive, strategic plan to divert my attention to someone else, while he continues to build his underground kingdom, thinking I’ll fail to stop him in time.
What a better way to get rid of the hunter?
Cause him to stray from the right path and send him into the unknown.
“Lucian.” Paul’s voice pulls me back to the present, and I detect shock lacing his voice. “Are you out of your fucking mind?”
My lips twitch in amusement. “I thought priests didn’t swear.”
“They do when their best friend holds a woman captive!” He slaps his splayed hand on the desk. “I will not officiate a wedding with an unwilling bride!” He gets ups, anger flashing on his face as he shakes the Bible in his hand. “I took an oath, and it might mean nothing to you, but it means everything to me. This is wrong.”
Before he makes a single step toward the door ready so storm off upstairs—Paul never gave a fuck about my temper or the things I engage in at night, because he knows well who dies by my hand, but he draws a line at innocent people—I speak up. “If I do not marry her, someone will find another way to punish her. And I will not risk her safety for your fucking moral code.”
He blinks several times, musing on my words and then sits back on his seat for the third time. “Explain it to me.” My brow rises at the command in his tone, and he huffs in exasperation. “You’re asking me to go against everything I believe. I will not do so blindly.”
“Our friendship lacks trust, I see,” I say mockingly and finish my glass before putting it on the desk. “My heart is broken.”
“If I didn’t trust you, I would have gone to the cops fifteen years ago.”
Right.
After he found me in the basement, my hands smeared in blood, and the body inside a trash bag.
Paul must have already anticipated his calling to serve God and his children, because instead of running scared, he stayed and listened to my reasons.
To this day, his action astonishes me, and maybe that’s why he will forever have my loyalty. He is one of the few people who actually has had my back through thick and thin.
“A killer who wants her will thrive on her pain. Marrying me right now is one of her greatest nightmares. He has to see the punishment and not come up with another before I catch him.”
He ponders my explanation for a few seconds. “She doesn’t know someone is after her.” I shake my head. “Why won’t you tell her the truth?”
“She knows I kill people.” He sighs heavily, running his fingers through his hair, clearly seeing how this complicates things right now. “Besides, her grief and resistance must be real since he watches her carefully.” Fury slides through my veins, slipping into every shattered crack of my soul and urging me to locate these two fuckers quicker so my woman can sleep peacefully at night. “And then I will use his weapon against him.”
Paul grows quiet again, resting his head on the chair’s back while closing his eyes, which is a sign of him placing the information in blocks inside his head to make a decision.
Harold choses this time to come in. “The dress lady is here along with a makeup artist. We need around an hour to get ready. The garden is almost done. I took the liberty to invite a photographer.” Leave it to Harold to think my bride wouldn’t mind snapping a few pictures on this day. She’s more likely to spit in my face rather than stand still long enough for a flash to go off. “Since your room is occupied by the bride, I put your suit in the guest room. According to tradition, you’re not supposed to see her before the ceremony.” Paul chuckles at this, and I join him, our collective laughter filling the air while Harold gives us the stink eye. “I don’t see what you both find funny about this.”
“I think we broke the tradition when I blackmailed her.”
Paul barks a laugh again and then winces when Harold smacks him in the back of the head. “Watch it, boys. You’re both not too old to get hosed down again.” With this, he takes off, muttering something under his breath.
“The scary part is that he actually means it,” Paul says, and then all amusement is gone from his gaze as he focuses on me. “Do you love her, Lucian?”
Everything inside me freezes at his question as my woman comes to mind, and the good-for-nothing heart in my chest thuds loudly as if truly beating when she’s around.
Her laugher.
Her beauty.
Her weird quirks that I somehow find adorable, even though I didn’t even know the meaning of the word until she came into my life.
Esmeralda has become a necessity, a ray of light in my darkness, a calmness to the monster raging inside me, and an obsession to the man who never had anything to call his own and craves her to the point of insanity.
Madness for her consumes me. I desire to own her body and soul. I want every man who comes close to her to know who she belongs to.
I need her wearing my ring on her finger and have my family name attached to her so wherever she goes, whatever she does, everyone knows that Lucian Cortez owns her.
And if they dare to touch, hurt, cross her… they will have to deal with me.
My darkness should swirl around her as a warning to anyone, but it should never glide over her or sink its claws in because she doesn’t belong in my hell.
An angel fell from the sky, and my twisted web trapped her, yet she has kept all her good qualities, refusing to succumb to the lesser emotions.
Barbaric, such barbaric, thoughts, yet the possessiveness spreads deeper and deeper into my psyche, polluting my mind and blood with its intensity, where only one word remains that’s a synonym to her name for me.
Mine. Mine. Mine.
Being around her almost makes me believe I could live a normal life, where the past would not pierce into my present and future. Where there is more to life than just never-ending revenge.
More than pain, more than memories or the agony.
Almost, because it’s an impossible dream for those who have lived in darkness their whole life and are smeared in it so much even love will not cure them.
Love.
Such a simple word, but I never understood the meaning of it.
And right now, compared to the fire burning brightly inside my soul just from fear, it seems like such a small word to describe it.
“Ella es mía.” I finally give the only appropriate answer to Paul.
And she will stay mine until both of us die.
Hopefully later rather than sooner though.
“Then I hope you know what you’re doing, amigo, because relationships built on force and lies do not last long,” Paul warns me and reaches for the bottle of water. “I’ll do it.”
Relationships do not last long when a man fails to protect his woman, but I decide not to share this little tidbit with him.
We are in the middle of a war right now, and I can’t be gentle with my gatita.
A smile curves my mouth, and I wink at Paul who only shakes his head at me. “You owe me big.” A beat passes, and he adds, “We laid the foundation for the church.” Right after he got his title, he decided to rebuild an old church that burned to the ground around thirty years ago. “But we still need finances for the roof and other things.”
“Didn’t I pay for it last time?”
“You paid for the foundation.”
“Ah, yes. Just call my accountant, and it’s done.”
Yeah, I can always count on Paul.
He would never betray me.
And after I marry my woman, I will have one more person in my corner who always has my back.
Because Esmeralda might not admit it, but she loves me and will never do anything that might endanger me.
No matter how revolting her mind finds that idea.
Esmeralda
“Oh my God,” Jaqueline, the woman who brought the wedding dresses to me and stayed in order to check which one fits me better, exclaims as she steps back from me. “This one is perfect.” She adjusts the huge, full-length mirror Harold dragged in here when she complained the bride would have nowhere to look at herself. “Ta-da!” she shouts, clapping her hands together after I spin around and finally study my reflection, momentarily struck speechless by the vision in white I make.