Page 80 of Santiago's Conquest (Four Dark Horsemen 1)

So I rock harder, focusing only on my daddy’s voice in my head, ordering me to survive.

Survive no matter what.

Seconds, minutes, or hours pass by until my knuckles turn blue and sleep calls my name, lullabying me on the wet pillow and promising relief from this discomfort if I only close my eyes.

But I keep them open with all the strength I possess in my tiny body, because I promised my papá to survive.

Cortez men always keep their word.

However, in a while, even my resolve doesn’t help me, and my eyelids shut.

Embracing darkness that is oddly more welcoming than the bright reality of this room.

* * *

“Two hours. Impressive.” Andreas’s voice snaps me awake this time, and I dread opening my eyes, not wanting to see what this new reality prepared for me next. “And you survived.” He places his hand on my forehead. “With a slight fever but still.” Is this why my whole body burns hot and my throat is so dry I’m ready to beg for water?

I finally look at him as he looms above me, the evil smirk meeting his mouth before he cups my cheek, but I don’t even have the strength to move away. “Now hopefully you’ll live through it. Then we can finally start your training.”

And for the next week, I’m treading on the thin line between life and death, dying every single day from pain and not finding any help around me.

Praying for God to come, but he stays deaf to all my pleas.

Expecting my father to burst through the door to come for me and show me care during my pneumonia instead of me crawling for medicine while their disgusting laughter echoes around me.

But my father fails me too.

In two weeks, I fully recover.

And when Andreas demands more of my soul, I wish I hadn’t.

Because his training forever killed the real Santiago Cortez inside me, and the monster of his creation was born within me.

Briseis

Rolling onto my side, I burrow my head into the pillow, sighing at the softness and moaning at the ache zapping through me at the movement. My muscles are so sore even wiggling a toe hurts.

Blinking a few times, I look around, focusing on the bare white walls and black nightstand with a water and aspirin on it.

Sitting up on the bed, I snatch the note attached to the lid and read it out loud. “In case of headache, drink and take the pill.” Fisting the note, I throw it away and wince a little when the throbbing in my temples intensifies. Huffing in exasperation as he guessed right once again, I swallow the pill, enjoying the warm water soothing my dry throat.

Putting the glass back on the table, I wrap the blanket around me and swing my legs to the side, my toes curling at the cold marble. As I get up, I glance around, searching for Santiago, but to my relief, he’s nowhere in sight.

I’m not ready to meet him naked, my body aching in the most unfamiliar places from his lovemaking.

Fucking.

I should say fucking, even if it sounds crude to me, because that’s what happened, right?

Two people who gave in to the temptation of the flesh, the lust overpowering any common sense and shameful desire no truth can apparently shake off.

However, dwelling on it makes me sound like a broken record, and the last thing I want to do is wallow in my self-pity, exhausting myself in the process.

The lust awakening my body whenever he’s nearby will be my cross to bear till my last breath.

The illicit things I indulge in despite the sexy body belonging to a monster, for he has no name or personality for me.

Or so say the lies I came up with in order to forgive myself.

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