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

by V. F. Mason

  But what if…?

  I don’t get to dwell on it longer, because suddenly we stop. I hear several loud voices arguing, and then they open the van. Tensing inwardly for this unknown reality, I frown when they throw another body inside before shutting the doors and soon driving off again.

  The small boy lands on the opposite seat—he looks around my age or maybe younger. His entire body is beaten up, dry blood on his nose, and the burned smell coming from him almost makes me gag.

  What in the world?

  Banging on the window, I shout, “Who is this?”

  “Shut your mouth, Santiago. He’s an additional gift,” the guard replies, and my eyes widen. There will be the two of us?

  Since the boy is unconscious, I decide to stay quiet and give him some time to rest before I speak to him voluntarily.

  He’ll be the first one in a while, because I’ve never trusted anyone back at Andreas’s hell, and besides, any interest could have been used against me.

  After a few hours pass on the bumpy ride, the van moves so fast I constantly hit my head, but the boy lying opposite me stays unconscious.

  Why does he still sleep? Shouldn’t he be awake by now and at least worry about his whereabouts? I’ve learned to sleep light in my captivity, knowing that one minute might decide if I live or die.

  Since he ran into trouble, his sleep shouldn’t be this deep either!

  Or maybe he’s… dead?

  “Hey, amigo. You alive?” I slap him on the cheek and forcibly pull his eyelids open with my fingers, sighing in relief when the boy finally wakes up. “They didn’t put me in a wagon with a corpse, right? Esto es una mierda!” Spending a week with two dead bodies a year ago was enough, thank you very much, so I slap him again just so he doesn’t fall back to sleep.

  Based on his injuries, one might not know how strong he is to survive this ride, and he better fucking live for the duration of it. I’m not sure how far away the place they’re taking us to is, but a corpse smells like shit. The scent is forever imprinted on my brain, and I don’t need a repeat performance.

  He croaks through his dry throat, “Stop,” and opens his deep gray-like-liquid-silver eyes, staring back at me in shock.

  Fucking yes!

  A huge grin curves my mouth at his voice, and I clap my hands. “You are alive. Bien!” His brows furrow, probably at my Spanish, but he’ll have to get used to it.

  But the rough rumble of the ground under the vehicle sends him flying in the opposite direction, and he hits his shoulder on the wall, only because the van moves really fast.

  I guess Philip doesn’t like to wait.

  “Who are you? Where am I? Where are we going?” He croaks the questions, pressing his back against the side of the vehicle, and winces, which doesn’t surprise me. His injuries must hurt a great deal.

  I drop back on my seat opposite him, studying him with interest instead of answering his question. So he does the same, his brows furrowing when they zero on my gold watch.

  “My name is Santiago Cortez.” I finally introduce myself, putting emphasis on my family name and gauging his reaction, but his face stays blank. This alone lets me know he doesn’t belong to rich society, so they haven’t stolen him from a wealthy family. “We were kidnapped and are being taken to some guy named Philip. This”—I twirl my finger in the air—“is where they’ve kept us for hours.”

  “Hours?”

  “Yeah.” I flash him another grin and extend my hands, popping my fingers loudly. “I was getting really bored, so I thought I’d wake you up.” He blinks several times in confusion, clearly finding my behavior weird.

  I’ll laugh, laugh, and laugh but won’t ever again allow myself to cry.

  Never again.

  “Life wasn’t kind to you, amigo. Is this why they are taking you?”

  He sits up straighter. “No, it wasn’t. What are you doing here?” he asks, curiosity coating his voice as if he can’t imagine someone rich ending up next to him.

  So I answer, even though I hate every single word I utter. “I’m here because I’m Lucian Cortez’s son.”

  He nods. “My name is Artem.”

  I smile at this unusual name. “Ah, you are Russian?”

  “My great-grandma was.”

  “Glad to have your company, Artem,” I announce, truly meaning it, because no one knows what will happen next. Maybe we’ll never speak another word to one another, or maybe we’ll become allies who can try to get the fuck out of captivity.

  But by his weak posture, I know he doesn’t have—as of now—the resolve to hold on. So acting on impulse, I drop next to him and whisper, “My dad once told me something.” He blinks several times at this, confused as fuck with my change of subject, but I finish my sentence, needing him to become a fighter and not a weakling who’ll break. “If you can’t beat the enemy, survive. Survive until you can beat it.”

  We were destined to get out together.

  What we didn’t know back then?

  We needed to meet one more person before we could fulfill our destiny.

  Briseis

  I tug on the navy blue pencil dress barely reaching my knees, smoothing the invisible lines on the silk before squeezing my damp palms and taking a deep breath into my lungs, although it doesn’t calm my nerves.

  In fact, it does the opposite.

  My heartbeat speeds up, and I exhale heavily, resting my head on the window, not even paying attention to the view as we drive through Chicago to the outskirts of the city where the Cortez mansion is located. George smoothly navigates the vehicle while just the idea of this dinner gives me hives.

  In my experience, all these dinners never end well, and I’ve had all the excitement I can stomach. Shouldn’t life give me a pause to catch my breath?

  “Relax,” Santiago orders, steel lacing his tone, and I glance at him, annoyed with how possessively he sweeps his gaze over my form. “No one’s gonna hurt you there.”

  “How can you be so sure? They must be livid.” And in a way, I understand them. I wouldn’t be thrilled if my son got married without telling me either.

  However, rarely anyone blames their golden boy, so they will direct their fury at me while I’ll have to stand there like a doormat, listening to their crap.

  He shrugs. “Probably. But they’re angry with me, not you. They’ll never take it out on you.” The confidence ringing in his words reassures me a little bit.

  Santiago picks up an envelope between us, opens it, and takes out a phone, giving it to me.

  Grabbing it, I swipe my thumb over the smooth screen, and he explains, “Your new phone. The other one was shit, no offense.” Yeah, I can imagine my five-year-old phone that’s done the job of texting and calling just fine probably seemed ancient to him. “Your SIM is inside already; just turn it on.”

  I quickly press the button, oddly needing to have the connection to the outside world and not feel so secluded and alone in my situation.

  Even if it’s just an illusion.

  He’ll most likely track all my calls, so I can’t plot anything behind his back.

  Generosity is a noble trait devils in this world are incapable of, because their every action is dictated by greed and what they can achieve with it.

  At once, messages and missed phone calls start to pop up one after another, dinging soundly while I can barely keep up with them all.

  And they all belong to one person.

  My best friend.

  I’m going to stop by later tonight. Sorry I couldn’t make it today.

  Are you asleep?

  Why are there cops at your house?

  OMG! Briseis, where are you? This is madness. Everyone is dead.

  Briseis! They didn’t find you inside and your phone is not working. Where the hell are you?

  My grandpa is fine, in case you wondered. He travelled to visit my aunt earlier today, so he doesn't even know about the tragedy.

  a> I’ve been calling and messaging for hours, but you just ignore it. I hope you’re alive, because my hands itch to strangle you!

  You got fucking married without me? It’s official. Run for your life when we see each other next time. I’m gonna kill you.

  By the way… you looked really pretty, and I love this picture. You should have told me the guy you’ve been secretly crushing on proposed to you. Call me tomorrow or I’m gonna raise hell on earth to see you.

  I smile, warmth filling my chest at her words, because there is at least one person in this world who cares about me and cheers me up, even though she must be super pissed right now. Somehow, knowing that my best friend would have never given up on me until she found me and I wouldn’t be forgotten gives me strength. I pour energy from reminding myself that all the abuse I’ve faced before wasn’t because of my wrongdoing.

  So if Santiago’s parents decide to verbally hurt me, I will protect myself.

  I’m a survivor, and we always find a way to move forward, no matter what obstacles stand in our way.

  “You have a good friend,” he comments, his deep voice bringing me back to the present, and I nod, dropping the phone in my lap.

  “The best.”

  “You can call her now if you want.”

  Gritting my teeth to not snap at him—or rather at his casual order—as if I need his permission to call my best friend, I shake my head. “We’ll be at your parents’ soon. This might be a long conversation.” Besides, I so don’t want her to shout into my phone about my so-called crush and the possibility of Santiago hearing it. The guy already has a big head; his ego would fly through the roof, and it’s not like I pined away for him anyway.

  I still write her a message though, so she can stop worrying about me.

  I’m so sorry. I’ll call you later tonight?

  Her response comes instantly.

  You better. Love ya!

  Santiago fishes inside the envelope again, and this time I see a small leather wallet in his hand, which once again he gives to me. “Inside you’ll find several credit cards and cash in case you might need it. There’re also pass cards to the Cortez buildings; all my employees already know to follow your orders if there are any. I want you to be able to access anything of ours at any time.”

  I’m speechless, too shocked by his gifts, not knowing how to react while just staring numbly at the wallet and phone.

  More what they represent, really.

  Power and resources.

  Essentially, he has placed power in my hands, granted one he can always snatch back, but still. Would a true monster have done that to his victim?

  Even my grandmother never gave me access codes or allowed me to boss around her people, reminding me I was nothing as I lived on her charity.

  So the man sitting beside me…

  Has good qualities in him? I wasn’t wrong after all?

  Clearing my throat, I finally find my voice and ask, “Why are you doing this?”

  His brows furrow. “Doing what?”

  “This.” I lift his gifts, their heaviness burning my skin.

  “Newsflash, in order to live in our society, one needs money and proper documentation. Besides, I checked your bank account, or lack therefore, so I had to create one.” He rubs his chin, checking something through the tinted window, and says, “We’re close.”

  However, I ignore it and his statement about my finances, focusing only on his words that send more confusion through me, but also… relief?

  Relief I should squash before it gives me a false impression. “Captives usually don’t have those. Besides, I’m going to stay home during this marriage, so what exactly can I possibly do with those?”

  He moves so swiftly I barely have time to gasp when he wraps his hand around my nape, pulling me toward him, and I fall on his hard chest, my palms pressing against him. His sapphire orbs flash dangerously, his tone low. Yet I don’t miss rage lacing his voice when he grits through his teeth, “You’re my wife. Not my captive.” He tangles his fingers in my hair, tilting my head back, and nips at my chin. “The whole world lies at your feet to do whatever the fuck you please with it. The only thing you’ll never be able to do is leave me. You’re forever bound to me.” His hold on me tightens, and I moan when he delves his tongue inside, brushing against mine before he kisses me hungrily, momentarily washing away all thoughts from my brain, and only the desire swirling in my stomach remains.

  Fisting his shirt, I angle my head back so he can get deeper access, but the kiss ends as swiftly as it started, his mouth deserting me as my embarrassing groan of protest lingers between us. I place my hand on my mouth, trying to control my breathing. “Living in a golden cage doesn’t change my status, Santiago.” No matter how much he twists our situation, the dark variables in them don’t change.

  His bitter and oddly self-mocking laughter makes me jump in place, and he rubs my cheek, before whispering, “You don’t know what a fucking cage is, querida.” Pain slashes through me at the agony in his words, once again reminding me about the scars on his body that must be the result of some horrible incident he refuses to talk about. I insanely want to soothe it, but a guarded expression already settles on his features, his dead voice announcing, “We’re here.”

  Deciding to examine this later on tonight when we’ll be alone, I plaster myself to the car door while studying the environment we drive into as black iron gates slide open, revealing a narrow asphalt road surrounded by emerald-green grass.

  As we get farther inside the property, a magnificent garden comes into view where different kinds of roses, orchids, and other blooming flowers are arranged in different shapes and forms, creating a magical place one can get lost in for hours.

  In the distance, several alcoves dot the place, various flowers growing from the walls, and I bet they’re the perfect places to read a good book. I also see a greenhouse in the distance, the glassed walls showing other potted plants.

  There are also two glass cages with canvases and various paints inside, and even a chair.

  And among all this beauty, right in the middle, stands a huge, Victorian-style house spreading horizontally over the property made out of brick with roses climbing the walls, adding to the overall mysterious aura this place possesses.

  It has three levels and countless rooms, judging by the windows, marble stairs leading to the double brown doors glistening in the sunlight as George pulls the car up by them where a man already stands downstairs to greet us.

  He opens the door, bows a little, and says, “Welcome, Mrs. Cortez.” He extends his hand, helping me get out of the car while I inhale a few breaths, soaking up the energy blooming all around me.

  Power. Power. Power.

  Shivers run down my spine, fear slamming into me again, while all my social disasters flash in my mind. I hope like hell not to screw this one up.

  I still might not fully give in to this marriage, but I want his parents to like me or at least tolerate me enough without bringing me down or tearing me to shreds.

  I startle when Santiago laces our fingers, bringing our joined hands to his mouth and placing a soft kiss on mine, murmuring over my skin, “Relax, querida. My family doesn’t attack its own.”

  I swallow harder. “Great, so you’re safe and I’m not. As far as reassurances go, Santiago, this one sucks.”

  “You’re a Cortez. My wife. Mine.” He emphasizes the last word, his voice and eyes scorching me with their intensity, promising retribution to whoever thinks otherwise. “This makes you our own.” My heart warms, and I nod at him as he tugs me toward the door, saying on his way to the butler, “Hola, Pablo. Cómo estás?”

  “I’m good, gracias. Congratulations!”

  “Thank you,” I reply, and we quickly get up the stairs. Before we reach the doors, they open wide with Jimena standing on the other side munching on an apple. She’s wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt, her long hair styled into a messy bun with a few strands down her
makeup-free face.

  My brows furrow at this, and I look at Santiago, who wears jeans and shirt along with a velvet jacket, which only adds to his masculinity, and wonder if I overdressed for this occasion.

  But in my defense, I didn’t expect family dinner at this mansion to be informal or… well… normal?

  “Llegas tarde,” she informs us, taking a huge bite.

  “It’s five past six. We’re hardly late,” Santiago tells her as we enter, and a gasp slips past my lips when the inside of the house comes into view, no less magnificent than on the outside.

  Red, gold, and brown dominate the color scheme of this spacious place, the marble floor glistening under the various lights. Expensive paintings hang on the walls, showcasing certain events from mythology, some of them from ancient Greece and others from ancient Rome if one looks closely at them.

  A hallway leads to several arch-like doors, which probably consist of dining, common, and terrace rooms just like back at our house, judging by one article in a home-design magazine.

  Expensive oak furniture made by famous designers fills the place while the golden chandelier hanging in their common room has been the talk for decades, rumors floating around that Lucian bought it on the black market because Rebecca loved it so much.

  In the distance, I hear voices arguing about serving dinner, and I assume it’s the staff in the kitchen. The delicious smells float around, enticing my nostrils, and my stomach growls loudly, indicating I haven’t had anything but breakfast today.

  My cheeks heat up, and I place my hand on it, groaning inwardly and hoping it will stop emitting sounds in such an important moment.

  All in all, this mansion should have been forbidden for how luxurious it is, yet oddly enough their house has peaceful energy around it, not imposing on you with its wealth. Rather, it invites you in, allowing you to slowly peel back the veil and peek into their life.

  A privilege rarely anyone is granted, because the Cortez family hasn’t hosted any gatherings in twenty-four years, and no one steps on their land without special permission, or they might end up dead.

  Frowning, I search my mind for certain information, and various newspaper spreads pop in my head, trying to show me something about the past that explains such a stance and how Dad, or rather Howard, once mentioned that Santiago must have a strong bloodline, because he withstood… something.