Page 3 of Santiago's Conquest (Four Dark Horsemen 1)

And once fucking again, just like every time, I’m in awe of the beauty of my own creation that has taken me years to get right, yet I don’t regret a second spent on it.

The oval-shaped arena spreads horizontally so far it looks like there is no end, with a thousand benches spread outside the circle. Awaiting onlookers watch my brand of torture with interest and even have a drink from the nearby bar—located on the second row—with a broad selection of liquor.

Nothing but the best for me.

A black, iron ceiling covers the enclosed space of the arena, but with one click on the remote, I have the power to slide it open to showcase the second, glassed ceiling, allowing everyone to gaze at the stars and wonder how they ended up here with me.

Or just muse about philosophical questions while the cries of victims echo in the distance adding to the “cozy” atmosphere around you.

However, the true beauty of my hunting ground lies inside the circle where several tables hold countless weapons, from the most expensive knives acquired in different parts of the world to poisons that are almost impossible to find if you don’t have the right connections on the black market.

Ah, my collections are my most prized possessions, a legacy I would have been able to leave for generations to come in how to properly torture people.

For the true beauty of the skill lies in the weapons and what you can do with them, and not the rage fueling your blood every single day of your life.

Too bad I have no plans to ever have children or students.

“Please,” a voice murmurs, snapping my attention to the middle of the circle, where a man breathing heavily is standing with a tight chain, which is attached to the ceiling, wrapped around his neck. His fingers are digging into the metal and trying to rip it off. He huffs in exasperation.

I shake my head, sighing heavily as once again I have to deal with the stupidity of humankind. One of these days, an idiot will end us all, and we’ll have no one but ourselves to blame for it.

He licks his dry lips, shifting a little, his bare feet slapping against the concrete while he extends one of his hands to me and croaks, “Please, help me.”

The pleading in his voice ignites the familiar excitement at the pit of my stomach, yet it extinguishes quickly with the boredom that has lately been my constant companion.

When will I finally get an interesting victim who will say something original and act a little bit more… I don’t know… brave?

My chuckle echoes through the space at this. The idea of someone issuing me a challenge is hilarious in itself. I walk to the table and grab a bottle of tequila before pouring a generous amount into my glass while he continues to beg. “Someone kidnapped me from the club.” I hear the clanking of the chain as I take a greedy gulp of my drink, closing my eyes when the burning substance travels through me, the taste grounding me in the present and blocking away everything else. He coughs a little before adding, “I think they want a ransom. Please help me.”

Slamming the glass back on the table, I spin around to face him again with a wide smile on my lips. I barely control myself from killing him with one single shot, as his annoying voice grates on my nerves. “Why should I?” I ask him, picking up the bottle and slowly going back to him, my boots thumping on the floor and making him blink with each of my steps.

He shakes his head and mutters, “I have money. I’m very wealthy.”

My hand tightens so hard on the bottle it’s a wonder it doesn’t crack, though I manage to keep my tone even, wanting to play with my victim a little bit more. “Do you now?”

He nods enthusiastically, hope radiating from him as if he finally found the way out of darkness and holds on to it with everything he can. “Whatever you want, it will be yours. Just please help me before he comes back.” He swallows hard. “They put a bag over my head and kicked me so hard I hurt all over.” He casts his gaze down, his cheeks heating up. “Even took away my clothes.”

Ah, right.

He is standing naked in front of me, various tattoos covering his body, and I wouldn’t have given a fuck about them… if it wasn’t for the one right in the middle of his chest.

“That’s so rude,” I say, placing my hand on my heart and sighing dramatically before exclaiming, “They shouldn’t have done it!” Snatching the keys from my pocket, I jangle them loudly in front of his face. “I bet that shackle around your neck hurts.” Someone should give me an award for the concern lacing my words while the only thing I truly want to do is laugh in his face. “I thankfully have the solution for it.”

He pulls at the chain again. “If you have a cell phone let me call my people, and they’ll come. Then you’ll have your reward.” When I stand still and don’t obey his command, he frowns and sneers. “What the fuck are you waiting for? Use the damn key and let me call.”

All the cowards are brave when they think their money rules the people around them, but in the light of true danger, they beg like the weak motherfuckers they are.

I clack my tongue. “I don’t think so.” He freezes, blinking at how deadly my tone turns, and I lean closer, whispering, yet I might as well have screamed for how much impact my words have on him. “You’re awfully whinny, Peter. Your daddy didn’t raise you right?” His eyes widen as recognition settles in his gaze, and he retreats, wincing when the chain brings him back to me while a little bit of blood drips from the shackle. The sharp edges from the inside of the collar dig into his skin. “First, you do as I say, and even then, no one gives a fuck about your wants.” I throw the phrase he loves to say in his face before dropping the bottle on the floor where it shatters around his feet, and he cries out when the glass cuts him, but I pay no attention to that.

Instead, I walk back to the table, grab another tequila bottle along with the silver knife, and click my fingers when music fills the space, booming through the arena while I shout over it. “Let’s dance, Peter. Like old times, shall we?” I raise my arms up, swaying them to the beat of the music as I slowly dance toward him and add, “Come on, Peter. Or do you want to die?” He trembles a little but starts to move, wincing every time his bare feet step on the glass, while his eyes water. He bites on his lip hard as if not wanting to cry, but who gives a fuck about his tough-guy act?

We both know he’s a useless piece of shit who should have never graced this world.

Taking a gulp from the tequila again, I then throw some at his feet, listening to his screams as more glass hurts him along with the alcohol dripping on his open wounds.

“Peter, move your legs. Up and down, up and down.” I show him, thumping my feet harder and harder while he follows, tears streaming down his cheeks as he chants, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” But I don’t give a fuck about that either.

Whenever someone says sorry to me, all I want is to shut their mouths and make them choke on it till life leaves their body.

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