Santiago's Conquest : A Standalone Enemies-to-Lovers Romance

by V. F. Mason

  Me though? A whole different story. “They hurt me all my life. It’s a relief to know they aren’t my family. At least I can live with the knowledge my father isn’t an asshole.” I mean obviously I have no clue who fathered me, but how much worse can it be really? It’s hard to top Howard in that regard.

  Regardless, I don’t want to find my real family, because the Dawsons scarred me for life as it is. Knowing I’m not theirs is enough.

  Maybe I’m not so unlovable after all.

  A conflicted emotion crosses his face at my words, his hold on me tightening, his fingers digging into me to the point of pain. Dread fills me, a horrible thought nipping at my mind when his scars pop in my head, ready to reveal a dark secret that could possibly change my life. I open my mouth to voice my concern, when I see a yellow-golden blur pass by the terrace window, and then the blur passes by again in the other direction.

  Momentarily forgetting about our topic, I step closer to the terrace, narrowing my eyes on the blur, and when I do, my pulse stops before it starts beating so freaking fast I have to put a hand over my heart so it won’t jump out.

  A lion.

  A lion runs around the perimeter, his paws landing heavily on the grass, leaving footprints in his wake as he bares his teeth, strolling across the land as if he owns it.

  His muzzle has the longest whiskers, and his shaggy golden mane glistens under the sunlight, his powerful large body only adding to the magnificent picture the wild animal presents.

  He pauses when he notices my attention on him, his whiskers twitching. He turns his head to me, his eyes almost dead, zeroing their focus on me. His jaw drops open, and I see meat stuck between his teeth. My stomach drops, because a dangerous animal has spotted me, and only a freaking glass window separates us!

  I step back but bump into Santiago’s chest, his hands landing on my shoulders, keeping me steady while the lion still stares at us, his focus so absolute I wonder if that’s how prey in the wild feel when a hunter chases them.

  Their whole life playing in front of their eyes while fear sinks into every bone, where the mind shouts one thing only.

  Run. Run. Run.

  “A lion. There… is a lion,” I finally say, urging Santiago to do something, because maybe he hasn’t seen him? Otherwise, why is he standing behind me and doing nothing!

  “Yeah, I’m aware. Meet Leo. Say hi.”

  “Hi.” I wave at the lion like an idiot before the actions register in my mind and finally tear my gaze away from the animal to face Santiago. “Leo? You named a lion?”

  I’m still hoping that maybe the animal wandered on his territory accidentally. Maybe he has a neighbor who loves cats or there is a zoo nearby….

  A grin pulls at his mouth. “Of course. He’s my pet. Who else would name him?” And like that, my hopes die.

  I married a man who has a fucking lion as a pet!

  Taking a deep breath to calm my nerves that are probably nonexistent at this point with all the excitement I keep on getting because of Santiago, I ask, “Is it even legal to have him as a pet?”

  He shrugs. “Not in our state. We have a ban on dangerous animals. But then I don’t advertise the fact that I have him either.”

  “You’re sick, you know that? Wild animals shouldn’t be caged, they belong in the wild!” Something bumps on the glass, and I look over my shoulder to see Leo’s muzzle is really close.

  Santiago chuckles. “Yeah, I do. He wouldn’t survive in the wild though. So I gave him his best shot.”

  “Why?”

  “He wouldn’t have been able to hunt. He limps on one leg. He stumbled into a trap when he was a cub. It shredded his bones, so he never truly recovered.” He points at his right back leg, and I do notice the slight limping when he starts pacing back and forth, occasionally bumping the glass with his paw. “I found him like that in a forest. The owner probably didn’t want to deal with the runt of the litter.”

  Runt? He’s so huge… but then again, I don’t know how much an average lion weighs or what it looks like in close proximity either.

  “Still, you should have—”

  I cover my ears when a loud roar rattles the window, drumming on my ears and sending shivers down my spine. Goose bumps break on my skin, cementing the fear settling deep in my blood. My mind chants for me to get the fuck out of here while I’m still intact.

  “Él tiene hambre.”

  He’s hungry.

  And what? Does he plan to feed me to him as his lunch?

  He walks to the fridge, snatches a plate full of steaks, and goes back to the terrace door, ready to slide it open, but my hand stops him. “What are you doing? You can’t open that door. He’ll come in here!”

  “He’s not allowed inside the house. My lion has manners.”

  “Oh, well, if he has manners, then I shouldn’t be worried,” I reply breezily before slapping him on the chest. “Are you insane? He might kill me!”

  “Hardly.” He tries to open the door again, but I plaster my back against it, squeezing in between his chest and the glass.

  “How can you be so sure? Knowing you, he probably eats all your victims.” I look at the plate in his hand, nausea hitting me, and I barely control the gag reflex. “Please tell me it’s not human meat.”

  Santiago rolls his eyes before tapping on my forehead. “Now who’s insane? It’s a cow. Con tu permiso me gustaría alimentar a mi león?”

  He pushes me away, finally opening the door, and I shout at his back, “No, you don’t have permission to feed your lion!” I quickly shut the door after him and watch him throw a steak to Leo who catches it easily, munching on the meat before pushing his muzzle to Santiago’s chest, asking for more.

  He throws another one and another, the lion eating so rapidly I can’t take my eyes away from his huge teeth, super grateful to be on the other side of the glass. Finally, he finishes the whole plate—in five minutes, it seems.

  At this point, my nose is glued to the glass, studying his every move, as the lion runs to Santiago, wraps a paw around his leg, and hugs him by the looks of it.

  I’m not sure what’s crazier.

  Me marrying a serial killer last night or said serial killer hugging a lion right now.

  Although a thrill rushes through my veins, seeing him so confident with the wild creature, not an ounce of fear marring his face. Is there anything this man is afraid of?

  The lion lies on his back, exposing his belly to Santiago, and I understand by my limited knowledge, he’s submitting to him. He considers Santiago the alpha in their pack, so he probably would never attack him.

  Don’t bite the hand that feeds you, right?

  Santiago gently scratches him behind his ear, the lion eating up all the attention and hitting him lightly with a paw when he stops momentarily.

  A smile tugs on my lips at such domestic-cat behavior, yet Santiago doesn’t share my amusement.

  His face goes blank. He looks at the paw and then at Leo, saying loud enough for me to hear. “No.” Their stare-off lasts several seconds before the animal lies his head on his paws, accepting the order. Santiago gets up, strolling back to the house, and comes inside, reeking with feline smell.

  “You need to take a shower. I’m not sure your parents want to smell cat on you,” I say, waving my hand and ready to spin around.

  I need to think about my life, pushing aside judgment and what society says we should feel toward certain things.

  If a vicious killer can be this gentle with an animal, does this mean I got the wrong impression? Don’t some serial killers experiment on animals first before daring to touch humans?

  How truly bad are his deeds anyway?

  He doesn’t rape women, he doesn’t hurt animals, and according to rumors, he is never rude to his staff, which means he probably doesn’t abuse his power with them.

  Even his friends show him great loyalty that has nothing to do with their shared secret; they’re ready to stand by one another through anything, and such
bonds are earned, not given as a right.

  Maybe he only kills bad guys who have done hideous crimes themselves and no one punished them for it. He sentences them to mortal hell himself in seeking justice?

  Not that it changes anything on the grand scale of things. He’s still a serial killer, and sane women should never be with him.

  Except I start to think there is nothing sane about me.

  “What an excellent idea, querida.” Santiago’s mouth curves in a wicked grin as he walks toward me, and I take a step back, avoiding the shattered mug on the floor, my pulse speeding up recognizing the expression on his face. “Scared, are we?”

  “I’m not scared, and I’m not taking a shower with you, if that’s what you’re implying.” Crossing my arms, I lift my chin high when his shoes touch my feet, sending electricity through me at the contact, but I hold my ground, ignoring it.

  Although I start to understand why Helen ran away with Paris and didn't give a shit about consequences. Lust is such a powerful emotion it blocks away any common sense.

  My behavior last night is one giant piece of proof.

  “Muy bien.” That’s all the warning I get before he dips down and throws me over his shoulder.

  My squeal echoes through the space as I hang down his back, my head awfully close to his ass, and I start to hit him hard on his lower spine, trying to lift up a little as he moves toward the bedroom. “Let me go!” And then I yelp in disgust when a feline smell and hair, along with something sticky ends up on my hands. “Ewww! You’re dirty!”

  His deep laughter is the only answer I get as I continue to kick and thrash in his arms, hoping a painful hit will weaken his resolve, but no such thing happens.

  Instead, once again, we end in the bathroom in several short strides. He places me back on my feet, but before I can bolt, he drags us inside the shower stall.

  When he taps on the button, cold water starts to cascade down on us, soaking us, and I squeal, squeezing to the side, trying to avoid it. He pushes another button, and gradually the cold water transforms into warm as he presses me hard against the wall, his heart beating evenly under my palm while a smug smile graces his features.

  At this point, my anger has reached epic proportions, and I’m surprised steam isn’t coming out of my ears. “What in the hell are you doing?”

  “I want to take a shower with my wife. Is it such a crime?”

  “Yes!” Motioning my hand between us, I add, “No one showers in their clothes!”

  He chuckles. “I couldn't let you leave. Now you can’t.”

  “You’re a jerk.” Huffing in frustration at the amusement lacing his tone, I detest my body reacting to his close proximity as goose bumps spread on my skin when he leans closer. Our noses are touching, and he puts his hands on either side of my head, caging me between his hard chest and the cold tile.

  “Am I? I thought you weren't scared.”

  “I’m not! It doesn't mean I want to spend every minute with you. What happened last night—”

  “Will happen again and again.”

  His arrogant reply makes my jaw drop. “It was just sex. It doesn’t mean we have some kind of relationship.”

  “Querida, you are my wife. A relationship doesn’t go deeper than that.”

  “You blackmailed me into marriage.”

  “No one blackmailed you into anything. You became my wife in all the ways by your choice. You cannot take it back and pretend it didn’t happen. Tú eres mía.” My stomach flips at his softly murmured words that are doing something to my heart and spreading warmth through me, because in this lonely world, no one ever wanted me to himself.

  Only his obsession borders on insanity, which is very suspicious in its own way.

  Because a serial killer’s obsessions are always short-lived and end up dead somewhere along the way.

  “Do you kill only bad people?” I ask, and the energy changes, becoming darker, and his smile vanishes. His eyes become crystal-clear, coldness slipping into them, and he pushes back, kicking open the shower stall as he gets out.

  I watch him through the steam and glass, studying the rigid posture of his back, the scars even more visible under such harsh light while he toes off his shoes and spins around, his hands on his sweatpants plastered against his legs.

  I imagine my dress is no better, weighing on me, and I long to shimmy out of it, but I can’t.

  During the day, I can’t pretend like this darkness doesn't exist and give myself freely to the monster.

  “We aren't living in a fairy tale, Briseis.”

  I get out of the shower, standing in front of him, water dripping from me onto the floor. “Why can’t you just answer my question?” I almost yell the last part, and his laughter sends chills down my spine for how mocking it is.

  “So you can build an image in your head that allows you to give in to this relationship without any guilt or fear?” He steps closer, his presence empowering me once again while steam rises around us, making us breathe heavily, but I can’t peel my stare from his. “Lo siento, querida. I won’t do it. I’m not a beast who will magically turn into a prince if you give me just a dash of affection.” He threads his fingers in my wet strands, and I gasp when he pulls me toward the mirror, showcasing us in our full glory. He pushes my front against the counter so I have no other choice but to put my hands on it, maintaining my balance. He stands right behind me, his pelvis pressing into my ass, and angles my head in a way so I can't avoid his gaze in the mirror’s reflection. “I kill those who I think deserve it.” He puts his other palm on my neck, his thumb brushing against my pulse. “Ah, it makes your heart beat faster in fear. Scary thought, isn't it? Who I find deserving of death and torture. They cry, beg, plead, and I never listen. Killing them all because, in my eyes, they don't deserve a second chance.”

  The air sticks in my throat, my pulse speeding up as a slight shiver travels through me, awakening every hair on my body. My head screams at me to get away from him, run somewhere far away so the monster won’t find me, although I know it won’t help me.

  This kind of monster has hunted for so long nothing can stop him from catching his prey.

  He lets me go only to spin me around, and our chests bump against each other as he traps me in yet another cage. “Have no illusions about who I am. You’re my wife, and you’ll stay that way. You can either accept the beast or wait for the prince who will never fucking show up. If he does, I’ll kill him.”

  “You’re insane,” I whisper, hating the possessiveness and truthfulness of his last statement. This man would kill any guy who so much as hints of wanting me, and it’s madness on a whole different level. “You kill people for your own amusement. I didn't choose you.” But even though I say these words, I don't feel like they ring true.

  He said those who deserve it in his eyes. Surely, innocent people don't deserve it in his eyes? He grew up in a loving household. Could it be that he kills those who he thinks hurt those less fortunate?

  Or is that just wishful thinking on my part?

  “Tough, because I’m all you’ve got. Tell me, Briseis, who else gave a fuck about you all these years?” His reply cuts through my musing, and I wince when he fists my hair again, tilting my head back, and he moves forward, his hips digging into mine while our lips are inches apart. “No one. You played the good girl persona all your life, and how did life repay you, besides dealing you a shitty hand?”

  I close my eyes, avoiding his probing gaze while pushing away internally all my bad memories and how little happiness I had. Even when I broke my leg as a child, no one cuddled me or told me everything would be okay. I had to bear it for hours before someone finally summoned a doctor.

  “Stop resisting this pull and accept this relationship, knowing that the monster in a castle won’t ever let anyone treat you like dirt under their nails.” His fingers scrape my scalp, so I open my eyes again as he leans closer, his lips brushing mine now. “You cannot put boundaries on this, because I won’t allow
it. I will use this body shamelessly, fucking you into submission, and you’ll hate yourself every single time.”

  My breath becomes raspy, a protest stuck in my throat, because I know he’s right.

  After last night, he won’t let me shy away from him for however long he plans to have this obsession with me.

  How many times will I sleep with him until I start to hate myself with a passion rivaling what’s exploding between us?

  Self-loathing has been a constant in my life since the day I spoke my first word, and it’s an unbearable emotion; it drains people so much they start to think everyone around them is right.

  Results might be catastrophic.

  If I accept this relationship and give it a chance, trying to understand the man who became my husband, I might find answers to my questions and live peacefully, even if his deeds scare me. What other choice is there really, when I’m his captive, even though he has given me wife status?

  But is he hurting me? Or am I hurt by what he does and consider it wrong because he isn't a saint, and I fell a long time ago for a sinner who doesn’t match my description of the prince?

  Either way, he’s right.

  I’m going to accept this twist of fate, try to survive among the thorns, and hope the beast in this castle isn’t a monster.

  Because it’s the only way to stay sane.

  Palming his head, looking into his eyes as they flare with desire, I join our mouths, tracing his lips with the tip of my tongue before slipping it inside, seeking his.

  I moan when his hands fall to my waist, squeezing it harshly and pressing us firmer together, his hard-on pushing against my needy core, making all the thoughts fly far away.

  Regaining his control, he changes tactics, devouring me with his open-mouth, passionate kiss that sends a hot flush through my body, electrifying my nerve endings and spreading fire through my blood.

  Melting into his arms under such heat, I circle his neck, rising on my tiptoes and wanting to meet each stroke while slowly rubbing myself on him, enjoying the heavy bulge pressing on my clit only adding to the pleasure slowly building between my folds.