by V. F. Mason
Our mouths separate for a second as we gulp for breath before connecting again. His movements speed up, and I feel tickling sensations filling me from head to toe, my core clenching around him tighter and tighter as he delivers his powerful strokes.
My nails rake his back, making him arch in my arms while he drives into me, building the pressure that’s pushing to the surface, closer and closer, until all-consuming pleasure bursts inside me and I tear my mouth away, crying out while riding the waves.
Slight tremors continue to shake me as I focus my stare on Santiago. The amplitude of emotions this man can evoke in me should be forbidden for how powerful they are.
One, two, three more thrusts and he stiffens inside me and comes, my core spasming around him, as he bites on my lower lip, and I know it will sting later.
Only then I realize he must have put on a condom at some point, as he didn't spill inside me.
He rolls to the side, disposes of the condom, and coldness surrounds me, my body missing his already, and a whimper almost escapes me, but I rein it back in.
In the darkness, the monster can claim his bride, but in the light, they will be separated once again.
I might be his wife legally, but I could never be truly his, because what sane woman would accept such treatment?
I want to bolt, the feeling inside me too raw to think straight or withstand the guilt ready to slam into me, when he lies on his back and flips me on my stomach so I rest on his chest.
He pushes my head toward his hard chest, running his hand over my hair, and murmurs, “Duerme, mi esposa. I will guard your dreams.”
Sleep, my wife.
And just for a little longer, I’ll allow myself to be his.
Because only in the monster’s arms, do I find peace.
Santiago
Briseis finally falls asleep as her delectable body settles on my chest, her even breathing tickling my skin. With my hand tangled in her silky strands, I hold her head over my heartbeat so she knows I do possess the organ she so often speaks of.
Over the years, I laughed at people blaming their heart for their foolishness or speaking about it as if it was another person they couldn’t control. It’s an internal organ used to pump the blood in your body and nothing else.
It doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t ache. It doesn’t fucking feel or urge you to take actions when you should stay put.
Or at least mine always stayed silent to the point I forgot I even had one.
Until tonight.
Tonight, seeing her shed tears at my various scars before kissing them gently—souvenirs left behind by all those fuckers in the past—my fucking heart squeezed so tight I lacked breath, threatening to drown me in emotions I refused to acknowledge years ago in order to survive.
When you feel nothing, there is no weapon in the world powerful enough to destroy you.
Laughter has always been my armor, but my beautiful bride managed to crack through it, coming dangerously close to discovering a truth I hate so much my insides burn with it.
I should have locked her in this room after the damned dress was unbuttoned so she would cry herself to sleep and think about a monster who became her husband. She wouldn’t have illusions about me then.
Because her affection right now isn’t sincere.
She’s playing Beauty trapped in a castle by horrible Beast who took her life in exchange for her father’s. Her attraction to me creates a false sense of security around her, urging her to get to know the beast and maybe then fall in love with him, because someday he’ll become a dashing prince.
She searches and focuses on the goodness, closing her eyes on the darkness, pretending it doesn’t exist.
Except every molecule in my body consists of darkness so hideous no sane person wants to be near it.
My phone rings loudly in the otherwise silent space, the sound screeching through the room, and Briseis groans in her sleep, nuzzling into my chest.
Rolling to the side, I gently settled her on the pillow where she sighs heavily, her brown locks splayed on the pillow. I throw a blanket over her before reaching my pants in two short strides, fetch the phone out of my pocket, and slide Accept on the screen without checking who’s calling.
Hating whoever it is, regardless, for disturbing my time with my new bride, ripping the make-believe world we’ve managed to build for a moment in time.
Fucking hell.
Even I believed the illusion, finding peace in my life that’s nothing but storms.
“This fucking better be good,” I bark into the phone, going to the terrace door and slipping outside, welcoming the frigid air and blast of wind on my naked skin. The sun rises in the distance, slowly casting a light over my land, and I drop onto the swing, enjoying the perfect view of God’s creation.
Since the person on the other end of the line stays silent, I prompt. “So? Fucking talk.”
The deep and dangerous tone, powerful enough, even after all these years, that it makes me sit straight when he finally speaks up. “Hijo, use the word fucking one more time addressed to me and I’ll personally come to cut your tongue out. Muestra algo de respeto!”
Fuck!
Pulling my phone from my ear, I finally see my father’s name flashing on the screen and curse everything that’s holy for not checking it sooner. Clearing my throat, I apologize. “Lo siento, Papá.” I wait a beat before adding, “I didn’t expect your call so early.”
“I haven’t slept the whole night. It’s not every day your only son gets married and doesn’t invite you to his wedding. Better yet doesn’t even bother to inform you he plans to get married. I had to find out about it from the fucking social media post.” Anger sinks into me at his tone, my hands itching to strangle whoever fucking leaked our photos sooner than planned while I try to find words that might appease my father, but find none.
So I go for the only ones I have. “Puedo explicarlo.”
“No, you can’t explain.” His harsh tone leaves no room for argument or justifications for my actions. Lucian Cortez issued a guilty verdict without the option of parole, and everyone should abide by the fucking law.
Stubborn, hotheaded, arrogant man who only listens to himself and fuck what anyone else thinks.
And unfortunately for the both of us, I’m just like him.
“Suficiente, Papá. I’m not a child who has to report my every move.”
His harsh laughter fills my ear, and I bite on my fist from the irrational rage creating an inferno inside me whenever I talk with him without my mother or sister present.
One of the reasons I avoid it at all costs.
“Oh, you’re not a child anymore all right. A point you made perfectly clear sixteen years ago.” I drop the phone onto the seat beside me, stilling the roar threatening to erupt from my throat, and I can imagine my father does the same on the other end of the line.
Threading my fingers in my hair, I tug on it harshly, needing the physical pain to ground me in the present and not allow me to go back into the past, a place where I always end up whenever I talk with my father.
Or rather don’t know how to talk, so we end up either insulting each other or fighting all over again.
I sometimes wonder if the man from my childhood who was my hero even existed or if I built him and our connection in my head.
Yet whenever I see or hear him, only one memory comes to my mind.
How he looked at me after I came back, his stare searching for the boy he lost a long time ago and not finding pieces of him in me, because I killed him.
I had to in order to survive in hell.
And part of me, the part that still felt something, resented and hated my father for it.
Breathing through my nose, I barely manage to rein in all the conflicting emotions inside me and raise the phone back to my ear, not surprised he’s still on the line.
In all our fights, I’ve always been the one to slam the door, hang up the phone, or ignore his phone calls all together, giving him the
cold shoulder I thought he deserved.
And I hated him for it too. Making me seem as if I’m the bad guy who doesn’t let him mend our relationship when he was the one who broke it in the first place.
“Is that all?” I ask, the urge to smoke hitting me so hard I go back inside the house, prowling to the kitchen where I have a pack waiting for me on the counter.
“Family dinner tonight to celebrate your wedding. Be here at six sharp.”
So we can sit in silence while Mom and Jimena go out of their way trying to start conversations and always failing, because we refuse to engage in them? Yeah, no thanks. “I have other plans.”
“Your mother wants to see you. I learned a long time ago to never expect you to do anything I asked.”
And I’ll do anything for my mother or Jimena—my father knows that too. “We’ll be there,” I say, and my father finally hangs up.
My phone drops to the counter with a loud clatter while I slam both of my fists on it, roaring in rage. Thankfully, my room has soundproof walls, because Briseis doesn’t need to see me like this.
Broken, with no control, constantly replaying my past over and over again.
My growing obsession with Briseis has no rational explanations and starts to remind me of the love-at-first-sight bullshit.
Which means I can never allow this emotion to grow even more.
Because if I do?
It’ll destroy the Pandora’s box in my soul hiding all my pain saved through the years, and the eruption of it will be akin to a volcano, burning everyone in its wake.
I might not survive under it.
And I haven’t come this far to leave this world without getting my vengeance first.
Chapter Thirteen
“A family name protects you.
A family name lets everyone know who you belong to.
A family name makes people fear you if you’re powerful enough.
But sometimes a family name becomes a curse that destroys you.”
Santiago
Location unknown, United States
Santiago, 7 years old
Cold water spilling on me startles me awake. My eyes snap open in surprise as I shake my head, trying to evade the icy liquid, but no matter how much I turn, it continues to spray on me. “Stop,” I murmur, rolling to the side and crying out in pain when something sharp digs into my stomach and my cheek hits the hard concrete.
Oh no. Did I fall on the floor again in my sleep?
“Enough. The little fucker is awake.”
I follow the direction of the stranger’s voice and gasp when I see two men looming above me, holding a water hose while they grin widely, reminding me of all the villains from cartoons.
The water finally stops, and I rub my eyes until my vision clears, then cry out in horror when the image around me reminds me nothing of my room back home.
Instead, rusty walls and a floor smeared in red paint greet me. The single bulb on the ceiling flickers on and off, slightly brightening up the darkness around me. A disgusting rotten smell floats in the air, and a dripping sound echoes in the distance. That’s when I spot a sink and toilet in the right corner, all smeared in something brown with flies flying over it while two bowls for dogs lie next to it along with a dirty mattress where two dead rats lay.
Swallowing hard, I look behind them and find a single door probably leading outside, and I dart toward it, wanting to escape this situation, because it must be a bad dream.
Daddy assured me as long as I fought for a way out in my nightmares, I’d always wake up back home where they’d protect me.
Everything is possible in dreams and nightmares, right? So the bulky, scary men holding knives in their hands won’t stop me.
I don’t manage to take even two steps before the heavy chains clasped around my wrists and ankles pull me back, where I land on my knees and elbows on the floor, a loud cry slipping past my lips. The men laugh, the sound scaring every part inside me while my heartbeat speeds up so much it pulses strongly in my neck.
“Not bad.” He waits a beat before ordering, “Look at me, boy.”
I scrunch my eyes, shaking my head, and chant, “That’s not real. That’s not real. That’s not real.”
“You heard the order, fucker,” another voice says, less patient than the first, and I detect anger lingering in his tone, but I focus my gaze on the red paint smeared on the ground, praying to God he would end this.
“Not real. Just a nightmare. Not real.”
However, no matter how much I chant for these men to disappear, it doesn’t happen. Instead, I see the tip of their shoes coming closer and closer to me until they stop inches away.
I groan when one of them fists my hair, tilting my head back so far I’m afraid he’ll rip my hair out. “When a dog hears a command, he fucking listens.” He seethes into my face, his nails sinking into my scalp, and I whimper, trying to shake off his hold, but the chains on my limbs don’t allow me any freedom. They’re too short. “Do you understand?” He grips my hair harder, shaking me a little till my teeth snap while his dark eyes drill into me, rage pouring from him.
“Daddy!” I shout, hoping he’ll hear my cries through the nightmare and come to my room to slay all the monsters as he’s always done in the past. “Daddy! Papá! Ayudame por favor!” Anger twists the man’s face, and he pushes his elbow back. The next thing I know, his fist hits me hard on the nose, which cracks under the assault, and such agonizing pain fills my body a loud cry tears from my throat.
The pain comes in waves one after another, hitting me harder and harder, traveling all over my face and scalp until nothing but ringing in my ears remains. He lets go of me, blood dripping on the floor while I struggle to breathe.
Tears stream down my cheeks, rapidly falling and mixing with the blood, but I can’t even whine, because the slightest movement brings me pain.
“What the fuck have you done, Peter? The boss told us to get the boy.”
“He needed a lesson in obedience.”
“I hope you’re fucking right. Otherwise, we’re both dead.”
“How many boys have we kidnapped through the years? He sells them, and that’s it.” He kicks me in the stomach, and I fall on my side, breathing heavily while blood continues to come, and my stomach flips before I barf all over the floor and my knees, the bitter scent filling the air, making me gag some more. “This one won’t be any different.”
My head goes dizzy. Everything around me spins while I feel so bad I wonder if I’m dying. I haven’t ever been in this much pain, even when I fell from the garden wall and broke my arm.
Mommy and Daddy took care of me then, baking cookies and going to the parks with me.
Where are they now?
Where is my father?
“Papá,” I whisper, desperately wanting him to show up and punish all these awful men who hurt me, even if they exist only in my imagination, but nothing of the sort happens.
They continue to talk, and my eyelids slowly drop, my breathing evening out, yet I’m still holding on, unable to fall asleep again.
Or rather wake up in my reality.
“He’s Lucian’s son.”
“What?” Peter shrieks, and he runs his fingers through his hair, pacing the room—or maybe it’s a basement—back and forth. “Lucian as in Lucian Cortez? That fucking Lucian?”
The door behind them finally opens, the bright light streaming inside the darkness, and my heart pangs, my vision blurring as I slowly go back to sleep, relaxed.
Daddy came.
He would save me now.
That’s the last thought flashing in my mind before I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and the world around me vanishes.
The beeping sound disturbs my ears, my nose twitching a little, and I groan painfully when a sting travels across my face.
Putting my hand on my nose, I feel something under my fingers, and my eyes pop open, zeroing in on my bandage-covered nose and some machine wires attached to my wrists.
A sigh of relief escapes me, because the nightmare is over, and Daddy probably brought me back to their bed so I wouldn’t get scared again and…
My nose.
Why is my nose still hurting even after I woke up? I shouldn’t feel any pain.
Blinking a few times in confusion, I sit up quickly, ripping a wire attached to me in the process, and groan into my palm, my nose throbbing so hard I can’t even breathe through it.
“Daddy,” I whisper brokenly, looking around, because the nightmare hasn’t ended and continues to play in a different dimension now. Is that possible? To stay for this long in a nightmare? “Papá!”
Finally, someone answers.
The calm and rough tone doesn’t belong to my father though.
“Santiago, you’re awake.”
I swing my head toward the sound and notice a man sitting on a nearby chair with a book in his hand. He scans me from head to toe with his eyes. They remind me of a snake; that’s how focused on me they are.
Shaking my head once again, I ignore the pain and almost slap myself to finally wake up in my bed, because Daddy doesn’t hear my cries for help, but the environment doesn’t change.
“Wake up. Wake up. Wake up,” I will myself, wanting to go to the land where pain and suffering don’t exist, because everyone loves and protects me.
I want to go home.
“You’re not sleeping, boy.” Displeasure laces his voice, and I look at him again, fear enveloping me so hard it squeezes my lungs, not allowing me to breathe while I try to understand what’s going on.
“Who are you? Where am I?”
“My name is Andreas. This—” He swirls his finger in the air. “—is your new reality and home.”
“No, it’s not true,” I whisper, shaking my head again, and that’s when the memory of someone sneaking into my room and stabbing me with an injection pops in my mind. Gasping, I shout, “No!”
Kidnapping.