by V. F. Mason
A small bar is located in a corner, various alcohol bottles filling it, and by how most of them are half empty, it leaves no doubt Santiago likes to drink as much as he likes to smoke.
Taking tentative steps on the black marble, I go farther into the room to spot a hallway leading to three different doors. The common room has sliding double doors, which lead onto the terrace and open to the view of the grounds.
Santiago points at the door on the left. “Our room. Opposite to it, my office, and the third one is a guest room.”
My brows rise. “You actually have guests here?” The whole house has a fuck-you vibe going on, so I can’t possibly imagine anyone wanting to stay here willingly.
It’s as cold and bland on the inside as it is on the outside.
Then his other words register in my mind, and I go still. “Our room?”
A sinister smile shapes his mouth, his eyes glistening in amusement as he walks toward the bar and drops several ice cubes in a glass before pouring himself tequila. “Of course nuestra habitación. Where else would a husband and wife sleep?”
I deeply inhale and order myself to stay rational, even if I want to punch the fucking grin off his face. “I’m going to sleep in the guest room,” I announce, and he shrugs, taking a large sip while his sapphire orbs stay glued on me, secrets flashing in them as if he knows something I don’t, and by his light chuckle, I’m not going to like it.
“As you wish, querida.”
Slightly surprised by his easy capitulation, I raise my chin high and march toward the guest room, fully intending to slam it in his face and stay hidden in there until he goes out tomorrow. Based on what I know, the man rarely stays in one place for long—always chasing entertainment while he’s not destroying someone. Not to mention the family business probably takes his time too.
In short, I pray to God my new husband forgets about my existence all together while I stay in this prison called a house, waiting for his stupid obsession to wear off.
I reach the door in record time, twist the knob, and open it wide, clapping my hands together to turn on the light. I assume all his house is wired this way, and I gasp in shock when it brightens up the room.
Or rather an empty space.
It’s completely bare—no bed, nightstands, or even just a mattress. Just an empty room with a huge-ass window opening onto the view of the shimmering grass with moonlight streaming through the glass.
It doesn’t even have a bathroom!
“The AC runs nonstop here. Can’t stand the heat,” Santiago says from behind me, and I spin around to face him as he rests his shoulder on the doorjamb. “Sleeping on the cold marble will suck.” He points with his glass toward the skirt of my dress while I send daggers his way, which only spikes his amusement, if his satisfied grin is anything to judge by. “Thankfully, you have this wedding dress to sleep on.” He winks at me before saluting with his drink. “Buenas noches, mi bella esposa.”
Something inside me snaps, and taking the few short steps toward him, I flip his glass and it splashes tequila all over him. When the glass drops to the floor, the loud thud echoing through the space while I freeze, I expect it to shatter into tiny little pieces, but to my astonishment, it doesn’t. It just rolls around toward the nearest wall.
What is it made off? Brick?
“You’re a sick bastard, Santiago.”
Without taking his eyes off me, he removes his wet jacket and drops it on the floor. His white shirt plasters against his chest, the wet smudges splattered all over it. “I offered you the furnished room, but you refused.” He motions over the space around us. “You reap what you sow, querida. When you refuse the kindness this world has to offer, don’t be surprised at the cruelty thrown your way.”
Shaking my head in disbelief, I hiss, “This is not kindness. You put me in a hopeless situation, so I’ll have no choice but to sleep in your room.”
He shifts closer, his masculine scent enveloping me along with the tequila breath fanning my face. “We always have a choice, mi amor. You just might not like the options.” He straightens his back and motions with his head toward the hallway. “My invitation to join me in the master bedroom still stands.”
Not dignifying it with a response, I push past him and race toward the room as fast as possible in this stupid, heavy dress. I get inside, slamming the door in his face while twisting the lock, sighing in relief when the click echoes in the place.
Resting my back against it, I exhale heavily, only to groan inwardly when his voice penetrates through the wood. “Smart choice, Briseis.” Somehow, all this defiance pales and becomes less satisfactory when he dishes out his approval, because it seems my disobedience only turns him on, and that’s the last thing I want.
According to my plan, his obsession should extinguish, not be lit up even more.
Clapping my hands, I wince a little when bright light blinds me, and I blink several times, adjusting my vision, only to frown when the room comes into view. All it has is a king-sized bed, two nightstands, a door leading to a spacious closet, and a bathroom.
Slipping off my heels and moaning a little when my sore feet touch the cold marble, I pad toward the bathroom and open the door wide to see a large bathtub, shower stall, and sink, barely any necessities inside.
It’s like Santiago has no sentiment for anything, because the room might as well have been one in a hotel, since it lacks any personal belongings.
Strolling to the closet, I flick the light on and see clothes hanging inside, mostly dark suits along with some jeans and shirts and shoes. That’s not what snags my attention though—oh no.
The countless colorful dresses made out of the finest silk and lace hanging on the right side do, their sophisticated designs showcasing that whoever picked them possesses one hell of a taste in clothes.
They all have new tags, which indicates to me Santiago had this wedding planned for a long freaking time! My hands itch to rip each one of them into tiny pieces before stomping my feet all over them so I won’t have to see them ever again.
But underneath it all, buried deep inside my heart, pain finds a way to pour salt over the still open wounds that his deception and blackmail inflicted, solidifying my belief that he has married me for some grander scheme he refuses to share.
This man almost killed my father tonight. Who cares for his reasons, right?
Except I do, because no matter how much I tell myself I hate him… I can’t help but want and respond to him.
My greatest weakness and shame lie in my desire toward a handsome monster who deceived me.
Taking a deep breath, I exhale heavily and slap my cheeks, willing myself to calm down and finally snap out of this stupid emotional swirl that’s bringing me no good anyway, then snatch one of his white shirts before closing the door.
I have to sleep in something comfortable tonight, but more importantly, I want to get rid of this beautiful dress that mocks all my dreams about happily ever afters.
I twist my arm to pull at the zipper on my back so this dress can finally fall off, only to find buttons under my fingertips. “Oh my God,” I groan, remembering Erica’s words as realization hits me.
“The best part about this dress are the tiny buttons on your back… since the groom will have to take his time undoing each one of them. It must be hot! No wonder he picked it.”
His nonchalant attitude after my bolting and his generally amused mood makes so much sense now.
No wonder he picked it indeed.
Huffing in frustration, I run to the bathroom, the skirts dragging over the floor, and turn around, looking over my shoulder to study the buttons and trying to fumble with one. But each attempt is unsuccessful, and my shoulder blades start to ache from my rigid posture.
“You jerk!” I exclaim and look around for a sharp object so I can rip the dress yet find nothing in sight.
Marching toward the door, I flick it open and go racing to the kitchen, ready to pick up a knife and end my misery, hopefully av
oiding the husband dearest all together. But luck, as always, isn’t on my side.
Santiago leans on the counter, both hands gripping the wood while he cracks his neck from side to side, the shining moonlight streaming through the terrace door showcasing him quite clearly in the otherwise dark space. A gasp slips past my lips when I see he’s shirtless.
Not because of the nakedness though, but what hid under the material.
Endless scars are scattered all over his tan skin. The angry puckered slashes run from his nape to his lower back and are splayed in such hectic patterns it leaves no doubt the abuse was often and cruel.
Smaller faded scars intertwining with the bigger ones curve into his side. He pushes off the counter, spinning around to face me, and I place my hand on my mouth, too stunned to say anything when his chest comes into view.
Similar scars mar that skin too, although there are several different ones—burn marks and even cigarette ones judging by their shape—leaving barely any skin to admire.
Several tattoos are layered over them, although they fail to cover the damage that has been done to him, and that’s probably why the Four Dark Horsemen tattoo sits on his collarbone, where there are few scars.
In all the pictures I’ve seen of him over the years, never once has he been shirtless or naked; even ones on the yacht, he was always the odd one out wearing long pants and shirts.
Even back in the library, he didn’t allow me to explore him much or remove his shirt. He concentrated all his efforts on me until I couldn’t think straight, let alone pay attention to his scars.
Shame along with regret fills me, and I quickly go to him, placing my splayed palm on his chest, my fingers rubbing over a particularly angry mark standing out among them all, and I whisper, “How did you get this one?”
“An axe. Someone stabbed me by accident.”
How do you stab someone with an axe by accident?
No, I should ask a different question.
How do you survive someone stabbing you with an axe?
Not removing my hand from his chest, I raise my eyes to his, their intense stare sparking something inside me, and I will myself to ask a question playing in my mind, drawing hideous pictures in my head, which bring up my own childhood. “Did your… did your parents do it?”
A hollow chuckle echoes between us, freezing my bones as he shakes his head. “No, they would have never done it.”
“Then who?”
Who could have possibly hurt a Cortez? His father would have wiped the floor with whoever dared to touch his son.
Based on all the scars, it must have gone on for years, or maybe that’s the result of some dangerous sport the dark four participate in?
Santiago puts his hand above mine, squeezes it lightly, and leans forward, his voice washing over me like a silky web ready to trap me at any moment while his question barely registers in my ears. “Why? Do my scars change anything?” He raises his other hand and flicks up the lock dangling on my forehead, winking at me. “Makes me more appealing despite my despicable deeds?” I pull at my palm, but he doesn’t let me, only pressing himself closer to me as he dishes out another question. “If I hurt too, it makes hurting other people justified?”
“Don’t put words into my mouth!” I shout at him, hating the truth coating his words and how he smeared my concern in the dirt by twisting it into something hideous.
“Then don’t feel sorry for me, querida.” He pushes me away, and I stumble a little, before gripping the counter, dumfounded at the stone-cold expression flashing on his face and barely controlled anger. “Never let your emotions lead you. It will be your downfall.” He goes outside onto the terrace and completely ignores me.
Oddly though, my anger doesn’t come, and instead I wonder if I touched a nerve by poking into things that are none of my business.
I’m a fake wife who has no right to ask her husband questions about his past, let alone be disappointed he just left me here instead of doing the usual stuff he does.
Like annoy me to no end and not respect my personal boundaries.
But he’s right—my compassion has no place here, because a monster might have bled in the past… but it doesn’t mean he’s automatically a saint in the present.
In fact, I know he isn’t.
Finding the knife near the kitchen sink, I tug on my dress and slip it between my back and the buttons, ready to rip it open. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“Getting out of this dress.” I push the blade closer to the fabric, only to wince when I touch my skin instead, and it leaves a sting behind. “Ouch.”
A strong hand captures my wrist, taking the knife from me and throwing it back on the counter. “What are you doing?” I grit through my teeth, ignoring the relief rushing through me that he’s back—invading my space—and hating myself for it.
I feel his hot breath on the back of my neck, the air hitching in my throat when his cool fingers brush against my skin, slowly undoing several buttons. “What every groom does on his wedding night,” he says, his voice gliding over me like the finest silk, leaving goose bumps in its wake and creating a frenzy around me that shouldn't be there.
“Just rip it open,” I say, hating how strained I sound. He chuckles, and the rumble of his chest sends vibrations through me.
His fingers shift to another one, the corset slightly loosening around me, and I gulp for breath, although it does nothing to calm my accelerated heartbeat. “Dónde estaría la diversión en eso?” He utters the same words he spoke to me in the library.
Where would be the fun in that?
Closing my eyes, I let our library encounter play in my head, reminding me how this man ravished me on the table: his touches, his long fingers stretching me before he soothed me with his tongue, and fucked me hard.
God, was it just hours ago?
Feels like an eternity, and I hate it.
I hate every molecule in my body that craves this monster, because he’s the only one who showed me what true pleasure feels like.
Only to rip it away from me when his monstrous nature came to light.
My heavy breathing fills the room, my palms sweating as I press them to my chest. “Your smooth skin that remains a flawless canvas is awfully flushed, querida,” he whispers and leans closer to my ear, his hips bumping into my ass. “Is there something you want?” His lips graze my ear, and his fingers go to another button. “Did you remember how it felt with these fingers inside your tight pussy?”
“No.” I won’t let him use my betraying body to his advantage; we might not control our physical reaction to certain people, but it doesn't mean I should succumb to the temptation.
Or give him an even bigger ego boost.
“Liar.” He quickly unbuttons the rest of the buttons then finally settles on the last one. I gasp when I feel his hot presence on my exposed back, my hands clenching the fabric in front, ready to bolt at any minute. “If you weren't so stubborn, I’d strip you naked.” Agonizingly slowly, he unbuttons the last one. “Place you on my bed and run my tongue over this delicious body I haven’t had the chance to admire.” He grabs the sides of my dress, squeezing them hard and pulling me closer to him. His rigid muscles dig into me, and a groan slips past my lips at the images he creates in my head. “I’d fuck you with my mouth for hours until you’d beg, and even then I wouldn't give you the relief you wanted.” He puts his hands on my hips, gripping me so hard a hot flash travels through my system, alerting me to the danger lurking in his voice. But I stay frozen in place, wanting to hear what he has to say next. “Would you have wanted it, querida? Having my mouth all to yourself to get off on as you please?”
My core spasms, reminding me of the talents he possesses and how he tortures me relentlessly.
Biting on my lower lip, I trap the moan ready to erupt in my throat and shake my head, not letting the desire flashing through my system and boiling my blood show itself to him.
Even if he seduces me right now, he will know I resist
ed, and he won’t dictate to me.
Santiago chuckles in my ear, his breath fanning my neck, and I half expect him to kiss me, but instead my eyes snap open when he pushes me away, and coldness slips into my bones when his body heat is gone. “Too bad. We both would have enjoyed it.” Spinning around so my naked back isn’t facing him, I look at him as he heads back to the terrace, and he must sense my shock as he clacks his tongue, amusement lacing his tone. “You want your husband to fuck you, querida, then you ask him for it.”
“I’ll never do it,” I tell him, hating him in this moment so much, because the need zipping through my veins and dampening my flesh relentlessly pushes over me, begging me to ask him to soothe it, and maybe then I’ll forget the reality.
And everything disastrous in it.
Why can’t he just fucking take it!
Something flashes on his face before he masks it with indifference, but he comes closer to me once again, lifting my chin with his index finger. “Ask, querida. Ask and the pleasure shall be yours.” His thumb brushes over my cheek, his gentle caress such a contrast to his harsh persona, and my mouth opens to do as he says.
Utter the words and put us both out of our misery.
I’ve been a good girl my whole life, playing by all the rules, trying to gain affection and love from the people who couldn't give two shits about me.
Why can’t I, for once, indulge in something that will bring me pleasure, even if it’s bad and I’ll feel guilty afterward?
Guilt has been a constant my whole life, weighing on me like an invisible chain, showing me my place in this world, punishing me for the sins my parents committed.
What will one more feeling of guilt change anyway?
At least the man standing in front of me has never pretended to be someone he is not or promised me sunshine and roses while giving me thunder and thorns.
Fisting the dress harder, I exhale a heavy breath and come to a decision that won't change much in my life anyway.
For the man in front of me will always stay a beast who won't transform into a prince, and I should always remember that.