Page 69 of Santiago's Conquest (Four Dark Horsemen 1)

But underneath it all, buried deep inside my heart, pain finds a way to pour salt over the still open wounds that his deception and blackmail inflicted, solidifying my belief that he has married me for some grander scheme he refuses to share.

This man almost killed my father tonight. Who cares for his reasons, right?

Except I do, because no matter how much I tell myself I hate him… I can’t help but want and respond to him.

My greatest weakness and shame lie in my desire toward a handsome monster who deceived me.

Taking a deep breath, I exhale heavily and slap my cheeks, willing myself to calm down and finally snap out of this stupid emotional swirl that’s bringing me no good anyway, then snatch one of his white shirts before closing the door.

I have to sleep in something comfortable tonight, but more importantly, I want to get rid of this beautiful dress that mocks all my dreams about happily ever afters.

I twist my arm to pull at the zipper on my back so this dress can finally fall off, only to find buttons under my fingertips. “Oh my God,” I groan, remembering Erica’s words as realization hits me.

“The best part about this dress are the tiny buttons on your back… since the groom will have to take his time undoing each one of them. It must be hot! No wonder he picked it.”

His nonchalant attitude after my bolting and his generally amused mood makes so much sense now.

No wonder he picked it indeed.

Huffing in frustration, I run to the bathroom, the skirts dragging over the floor, and turn around, looking over my shoulder to study the buttons and trying to fumble with one. But each attempt is unsuccessful, and my shoulder blades start to ache from my rigid posture.

“You jerk!” I exclaim and look around for a sharp object so I can rip the dress yet find nothing in sight.

Marching toward the door, I flick it open and go racing to the kitchen, ready to pick up a knife and end my misery, hopefully avoiding the husband dearest all together. But luck, as always, isn’t on my side.

Santiago leans on the counter, both hands gripping the wood while he cracks his neck from side to side, the shining moonlight streaming through the terrace door showcasing him quite clearly in the otherwise dark space. A gasp slips past my lips when I see he’s shirtless.

Not because of the nakedness though, but what hid under the material.

Endless scars are scattered all over his tan skin. The angry puckered slashes run from his nape to his lower back and are splayed in such hectic patterns it leaves no doubt the abuse was often and cruel.

Smaller faded scars intertwining with the bigger ones curve into his side. He pushes off the counter, spinning around to face me, and I place my hand on my mouth, too stunned to say anything when his chest comes into view.

Similar scars mar that skin too, although there are several different ones—burn marks and even cigarette ones judging by their shape—leaving barely any skin to admire.

Several tattoos are layered over them, although they fail to cover the damage that has been done to him, and that’s probably why the Four Dark Horsemen tattoo sits on his collarbone, where there are few scars.

In all the pictures I’ve seen of him over the years, never once has he been shirtless or naked; even ones on the yacht, he was always the odd one out wearing long pants and shirts.

Even back in the library, he didn’t allow me to explore him much or remove his shirt. He concentrated all his efforts on me until I couldn’t think straight, let alone pay attention to his scars.

Shame along with regret fills me, and I quickly go to him, placing my splayed palm on his chest, my fingers rubbing over a particularly angry mark standing out among them all, and I whisper, “How did you get this one?”

“An axe. Someone stabbed me by accident.”

How do you stab someone with an axe by accident?

No, I should ask a different question.

How do you survive someone stabbing you with an axe?

Not removing my hand from his chest, I raise my eyes to his, their intense stare sparking something inside me, and I will myself to ask a question playing in my mind, drawing hideous pictures in my head, which bring up my own childhood. “Did your… did your parents do it?”

A hollow chuckle echoes between us, freezing my bones as he shakes his head. “No, they would have never done it.”

“Then who?”

Who could have possibly hurt a Cortez? His father would have wiped the floor with whoever dared to touch his son.

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