Page 15 of Santiago's Conquest (Four Dark Horsemen 1)

“You are not wearing this shit.” She throws the dress on the chair and points at the silver one. “You have to look good tonight so they can all bite their tongues.”

By “they” she means Clare and her two daughters, Addison and Ava, who never hid their resentment toward me.

“Lenora, I don’t care what they think.” Not to mention I could never compete with them when it comes to the looks department anyway.

They are both stunning platinum-blondes with perfect bodies and the brightest green eyes you’d ever see on women. Men’s heads must turn wherever they go; surprisingly though, they are still single.

Even if I wear the most beautiful dress in the world, I’ll just be an ordinary stone next to the expensive diamonds who are my siblings.

“I do.” Anger flashes on Lenora’s face when she walks toward me and grabs my shoulders, digging her nails in, and I wince at her tight grip. “Please do it for me? The thought of you standing in that hideous dress among all the high society just pisses me off, okay? I’ll help you get ready.”

“I’m not Cinderella,” I let her know, because it starts to sound like she wants to play fairy godmother.

She winks at me, knowing it means I’m capitulating to her request. “Nope. You are Briseis. So we need to pamper you in case Achilles shows up.”

For the first time, I laugh, wrapping my arms around her again and murmuring into her ear, “Thank you, Lenora.” It means the world to me she is trying to cheer me up in her own way. “I love you.”

She pats my back, hugging me tighter for a moment. “Love you too. And I’ll be working at the party.” I lean back, frowning in confusion. “The salary will pay my grocery bills for the next two weeks, so I couldn’t refuse. But this way I’ll be close to you should you need me, so it’s a win-win.”

“You are the best, you know that?”

“Of course. You’re not bad yourself.” We both laugh, and then she points at the bed. “Sit down. The party is in several hours, and we have tons of work to do.”

Indeed.

If everything goes well tonight, I’ll finally have my freedom, and this family will be nothing but a distant memory.

So I’ll make sure to give them the performance of a lifetime.

Santiago

Classical music echoes through the space, and I close my eyes, almost imagining I’m standing in front of the orchestra after the composer first came up with this magnificent masterpiece.

He created music that became eternal, and isn’t that one of the things we should all strive for?

Leave something behind so generations to come will have something to remember us by?

I wiggle my finger in time with the music as the high notes of the violin go up, up, up before finishing with the loud bass, and it continues again, one instrument changing to another effortlessly.

However, my nirvana is short-lived, as the screeching voice already raspy from constant begging penetrates through the music and shouts, “I don’t know anything!”

With a displeased sigh, I look at him standing in the middle of the arena, chained to the barrel I’ve installed under the floor that, with a flick of a button, shows up whenever I need it.

He twists hard, the metal chains wrapped around his middle clanging loudly while he gulps for breath and tries again, his face scrunching from the effort. Sweat coats his clothes and slides down his forehead to his nose and chapped lips.

Traces of his skin still stick to the tape currently lying by his feet that I tore off him earlier.

I tsk and press my index finger to my lips to shush him. “Mark, it’s rude to interrupt a maestro.” He blinks, gazing around, probably expecting to see someone else, but then again, I don’t expect a fucker like him to appreciate the greatness that is classical music.

Not paying attention to my warning, he shouts again, “I don’t know anything!” He licks his lips before crying out in pain yet still finds the will to continue. “I haven’t been there.”

When one continues to repeatedly annoy the fuck out of you, what can you possibly do?

“Mark, Mark, Mark,” I say, grabbing a serrated knife coated in salt and walk toward him, my boots thumping so loud his shoulders sag as he watches me warily. “Are you sure lying is the way to go? I already don’t have much value for your life.” He opens his mouth to say something, only to scream when I put the knife to his lips, enjoying how the salt obviously makes the sting intensify. His lips become redder, a little blood slipping from them before I take the knife back and trail the tip of it to his artery, right above his pulse point. He goes still, not even breathing, his eyes so full of fear I can almost taste it. “I’m going to ask again, and this time around, I expect an answer.” I trace the knife to his collarbone and then lower to dig the tip into his stomach, voicing my question. “Does Andreas know about his daughter?”

Peter seemed convinced of such a notion. One can’t trust a man who will sell his own soul if it means surviving though.

Now Mark?

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