Page 154 of Santiago's Conquest (Four Dark Horsemen 1)

I enter my mother’s gallery, where instantly the hum of various voices greets me along with classical music playing in the background.

Mierda.

I have three more hours of this torture before I can whisk my wife away.

I navigate between the bodies, spotting my father, who admires the collections of sketches displayed on a wall. “Hola, Papá.” He turns to me, smiling before enveloping me in a hug, and I no longer tense in his arms or want to run away.

No, I welcome the embrace and hug him right back.

Although it took us time to get here, our hug in the hospital served as a stepping-stone to mending our relationship, yet we still acted awkward around each other.

We had to learn how to talk to one another, discuss our past and present without being afraid to be judged by the other.

As we slowly aligned all the bricks in our relationship that got destroyed into a new, solid structure that can withstand anything, the bond finally formed without us expecting the other to break it. That in turn allowed me to spend some time at the family mansion and even stay the night a couple times a month when Mom planned all these family breakfasts. The family home became a safe harbor once again, where laughter existed and ghosts disappeared.

Dad grins, sipping his coffee. “Her sketches are always amazing. She’s brilliant at showing all these myths in a unique manner.” He glances at the description next to it. “Trojan War. A love story. Interesting.” He points at the sketch showing a golden-haired warrior looking at the woman who gazes back at him with hate in her eyes. “Achilles has your eyes.” He chuckles. “I guess I don't have to wonder where she got her inspiration from, huh?”

“What can I say? I’ve got the looks to inspire artists.” I give him a crooked smile, and he laughs while my eyes search for a beautiful dark-haired woman and growl under my breath when I don't find her.

Where the fuck is she?

Briseis built herself a name after her first gallery showing with the four riders, earning her name recognition and interest in her work. She specialized in depicting ancient myths with twists, giving them modern touches, and that attracted her peers and buyers alike, establishing her in the field. We travel several times per year to her different showings, and on most days, she spends time in her studio either in the city or at home creating.

Dad traps my chin between his fingers and moves my head to the right. And sure enough, there she is, throwing her head back, her melodic laughter enveloping me in a warm cocoon as she listens to something my mother says while they stand by some huge-ass statues.

“Gracias, Papá. See you later.” I prowl toward my woman, admiring her graceful neck and how that fucking red dress hugs her tightly, putting all her gorgeous body on display.

Mi mujer.

Mine and only mine.

Thankfully, a ring on her finger serves as a reminder to everyone around her, leaving no doubt who she belongs to.

I was right all those years ago; I’m my father’s son.

I love obsessively, needing her constantly, and I’m possessive to the point of insanity.

Everything about her and every part of her belongs to me, my saving grace and salvation in the dark.

And no one basks in her light but me.

My mother tears her gaze away from Briseis and, winking at me, murmurs something in her ear, making my woman smile before Mom starts to walk away. She stops when she passes me though. “Hola, Mamá.” I kiss her on the cheek, rubbing her arm, and her eyes soften as always.

However, her voice is colder than steel when she orders, “Do not take her anywhere. We have her work presentation in thirty minutes.”

Hissing through my teeth and sighing in displeasure, I earn myself a slap on the chest and a grin. “Fine.”

“Good!” Someone calls her name, and she waves at them, already going in their direction.

I wrap my arms around my wife’s waist, dragging her toward me, pressing her back against my chest tightly, her flowery scent filling my lungs, calming the primitive beast raging inside me whenever I’m around her.

She gasps and then places her hands above mine, resting her head on my shoulder, and tilts her head to meet my gaze. “Mr. Cortez. What a surprise, seeing you here.” She laughs when I bite her on the neck. “I thought you considered art shows a waste of your time.”

“You must have heard me wrong. I said I consider it a waste of my time, because I could fuck you hard in your studio instead. I fucking love art.”

“Oh my God.” She spins around and covers my mouth with her palm, looking around as if I give a fuck whether anyone heard me or not. “Stop it.” A smile slips onto her lips when her hand cups my cheek though, her thumb trailing over a new scar on my neck.

She’ll ask all about it later on tonight, and I will tell her, not hiding my life from her. She accepted my dark side but never wanted to be in the dark regarding it. No, my wife wanted to know all the details and why the punishment was dished out on my victims.

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