Page 127 of Santiago's Conquest (Four Dark Horsemen 1)

He shakes his head. “No, they couldn't help, because I refused to share about my problems. I didn't want them to cure my instincts or my rage. I needed it to survive. Otherwise, all my nightmares would have been worthless.”

I’m starting to think he was kidnapped as a child, as it’s the only logical conclusion, but shouldn't this information have been mentioned somewhere? “I decided to read the Bible. And stumbled upon the verse about the four riders. I got so interested in the subject and the idea of four magnificent beings bringing so much chaos that I started researching.”

“The therapist was right, then,” I say, although I believe she had something else in mind when she suggested he’d find answers in the Holy Bible. “Did you go back to her office?”

The rain slows down, leaving only light drops settling on his face. Wiping the water away from his face, he strolls back inside, and I quickly move farther inside to give him room.

He grabs the towel on the nearby hanger and starts drying his hair, sending droplets flying everywhere. “Just to discuss the book. Sadly for her, it was too late to salvage anything in my psyche at that point. She quit herself after I told her killing excited me far more than her talk about forgiveness and acceptance.”

Noticing a small electric kettle full of water several feet away on the small desk in the corner, I walk to it and turn it on. The humming sound fills the space and silences my internal voice screaming at me to stop asking questions about his past.

However, it’s impossible to put the brakes on my curiosity now, and I will have to live with whatever consequences come my way.

Putting the book next to the kettle, I spin around to face Santiago, who’s snagging a whiskey bottle from the small bar in the corner. “I thought you only drank tequila.”

He flashes me a smile before flipping the lid and tipping the bottle up, greedily swallowing the brown substance that must burn his throat. “Whiskey is my second favorite. Sometimes it just reminds me of men I wish to forget. But ever since Mom found my tequila stash when I was sixteen, she forbade it in our house.” He drops onto the couch, uncaring about his wet state, his jeans stretched against his muscled legs, and continues our earlier conversation.

“I started gathering all the limited information there was about the four riders, and I loved one metaphor the most. God sent them as a punishment on earth. What a great concept, isn’t it? Some humans just don’t deserve mercy.” Steel laces his voice, his eyes becoming absolutely dead, and a slight shiver travels down my spine in anticipation… and not the good kind. As if I’m on the brink of discovering the truth. “They also say they’ll show up on judgment day to end time and put earth to rest. Conquest, War, Famine, and finally Death.”

The kettle shakes wildly on the desk, and I turn it off, pour water into the mug, and wrap my hands around it, welcoming the heat enveloping me since the door is still wide open. I originally prepared it for Santiago, but I don't think he needs one with how he’s drinking the whiskey. “And this somehow spoke to you?”

“I loved the metaphor, because it represented the cure for the darkness and the evilness in this world that exists in the shadows ready to strike any innocent standing in their way and forever smear them in never-ending suffering. A suffering that sometimes people don’t survive. Those people on the grand scale of things are never punished.”

My brows furrow. “We have laws and—”

“True, we do. You think the law catches everyone? Or every crime is reported?” He shakes the bottle in his hands, watching as the liquid sloshes across its walls. “Not even close. Sometimes, the most evil people roam freely, doing whatever the fuck pleases them. So only divine punishment kills them. They don’t deserve to die in peace.”

My hands tremble when I lift the cup to my mouth, sipping it gently while musing on his words that should send me running outside, yet I’m still glued to my spot, holding his gaze that’s so hollow it seems no soul resides in the magnificent body in front of me.

“So what does it all mean? You associate yourself with four riders, thinking you bring justice to this world by harming the bad guys?”

At least I have that, right? Knowledge he doesn't harm the innocent, although in the current situation, it doesn't sound like much.

He chuckles. “Justice? Claro que no. Darkness is like greed, querida. It pollutes your mind until it consumes you so much you no longer recognize your reflection in the mirror. Your driving force becomes the alluring smell of fear that’s always attached to your victims. I call it payback and revenge not everyone needs or wants.”

“And what do you mean by that?”

“Thousands of people and children go through terrible shit. Most are strong people, who choose the good side and learn to move on from their experiences, because they don't define them. There is always a light at the end of the tunnel. But for the very small percent, it’s too late. We don't need the fucking light. We want people to suffer in our darkness.” He touches his temple. “The key is to have a cold head. If your head is gone, then you just viciously roam around the streets, seeing the smallest of details in your past and acting on those impulses, harming those who don't deserve it. A thin line one must know not to cross.”

His words, his calm tone, the lack of any remorseful emotions on his face indicate without a doubt he will never feel sorry about his deeds and always see them as the right way to live. However, killing bad men who do horrible crimes doesn't make him a saint; he is a sinner like the rest of them.

A cold-blooded killer who enjoys the cries and pain of his victims. A predator ready to sink his claws into any prey he deems fitting the crime.

A man who learned to channel his rage and anguish into a cause he created instead of seeking help when he had all the resources.

Loving family, money, social status.

Yet he chose the dark side, and he thrives in it, dragging his best friends with him, since they formed that stupid brotherhood.

Why?

Digging my nails into the mug, I take one more sip before putting it back on the table. Inhaling deep, I then step toward Santiago, who watches me intently as he places the bottle on the table and rests his hand on the back of the couch, his bicep flexing, which only brings back attention to all the scars and tattoos on him.

Stopping in front of him where a small table separates us, I cross my arms and finally ask the question that will bring me all the answers I need in this fog of constant confusion he has created around me. “What happened to you?”

He freezes, his dark lashes falling over his cheekbones before he snaps his eyes open. The familiar mocking smile—which is fake in its nature—stretches across his mouth then turns into full-blown laughter, the echo of it so cold it chills my blood and has nothing on the wind still swirling around us. “Ah, querida. Por qué? If you know the truth, I’ll stop being a monster?”

“No, you’ll be one till the day you die.”

---