Page 94 of Santiago's Conquest (Four Dark Horsemen 1)

“Newsflash, in order to live in our society, one needs money and proper documentation. Besides, I checked your bank account, or lack therefore, so I had to create one.” He rubs his chin, checking something through the tinted window, and says, “We’re close.”

However, I ignore it and his statement about my finances, focusing only on his words that send more confusion through me, but also… relief?

Relief I should squash before it gives me a false impression. “Captives usually don’t have those. Besides, I’m going to stay home during this marriage, so what exactly can I possibly do with those?”

He moves so swiftly I barely have time to gasp when he wraps his hand around my nape, pulling me toward him, and I fall on his hard chest, my palms pressing against him. His sapphire orbs flash dangerously, his tone low. Yet I don’t miss rage lacing his voice when he grits through his teeth, “You’re my wife. Not my captive.” He tangles his fingers in my hair, tilting my head back, and nips at my chin. “The whole world lies at your feet to do whatever the fuck you please with it. The only thing you’ll never be able to do is leave me. You’re forever bound to me.” His hold on me tightens, and I moan when he delves his tongue inside, brushing against mine before he kisses me hungrily, momentarily washing away all thoughts from my brain, and only the desire swirling in my stomach remains.

Fisting his shirt, I angle my head back so he can get deeper access, but the kiss ends as swiftly as it started, his mouth deserting me as my embarrassing groan of protest lingers between us. I place my hand on my mouth, trying to control my breathing. “Living in a golden cage doesn’t change my status, Santiago.” No matter how much he twists our situation, the dark variables in them don’t change.

His bitter and oddly self-mocking laughter makes me jump in place, and he rubs my cheek, before whispering, “You don’t know what a fucking cage is, querida.” Pain slashes through me at the agony in his words, once again reminding me about the scars on his body that must be the result of some horrible incident he refuses to talk about. I insanely want to soothe it, but a guarded expression already settles on his features, his dead voice announcing, “We’re here.”

Deciding to examine this later on tonight when we’ll be alone, I plaster myself to the car door while studying the environment we drive into as black iron gates slide open, revealing a narrow asphalt road surrounded by emerald-green grass.

As we get farther inside the property, a magnificent garden comes into view where different kinds of roses, orchids, and other blooming flowers are arranged in different shapes and forms, creating a magical place one can get lost in for hours.

In the distance, several alcoves dot the place, various flowers growing from the walls, and I bet they’re the perfect places to read a good book. I also see a greenhouse in the distance, the glassed walls showing other potted plants.

There are also two glass cages with canvases and various paints inside, and even a chair.

And among all this beauty, right in the middle, stands a huge, Victorian-style house spreading horizontally over the property made out of brick with roses climbing the walls, adding to the overall mysterious aura this place possesses.

It has three levels and countless rooms, judging by the windows, marble stairs leading to the double brown doors glistening in the sunlight as George pulls the car up by them where a man already stands downstairs to greet us.

He opens the door, bows a little, and says, “Welcome, Mrs. Cortez.” He extends his hand, helping me get out of the car while I inhale a few breaths, soaking up the energy blooming all around me.

Power. Power. Power.

Shivers run down my spine, fear slamming into me again, while all my social disasters flash in my mind. I hope like hell not to screw this one up.

I still might not fully give in to this marriage, but I want his parents to like me or at least tolerate me enough without bringing me down or tearing me to shreds.

I startle when Santiago laces our fingers, bringing our joined hands to his mouth and placing a soft kiss on mine, murmuring over my skin, “Relax, querida. My family doesn’t attack its own.”

I swallow harder. “Great, so you’re safe and I’m not. As far as reassurances go, Santiago, this one sucks.”

“You’re a Cortez. My wife. Mine.” He emphasizes the last word, his voice and eyes scorching me with their intensity, promising retribution to whoever thinks otherwise. “This makes you our own.” My heart warms, and I nod at him as he tugs me toward the door, saying on his way to the butler, “Hola, Pablo. Cómo estás?”

“I’m good, gracias. Congratulations!”

“Thank you,” I reply, and we quickly get up the stairs. Before we reach the doors, they open wide with Jimena standing on the other side munching on an apple. She’s wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt, her long hair styled into a messy bun with a few strands down her makeup-free face.

My brows furrow at this, and I look at Santiago, who wears jeans and shirt along with a velvet jacket, which only adds to his masculinity, and wonder if I overdressed for this occasion.

But in my defense, I didn’t expect family dinner at this mansion to be informal or… well… normal?

“Llegas tarde,” she informs us, taking a huge bite.

“It’s five past six. We’re hardly late,” Santiago tells her as we enter, and a gasp slips past my lips when the inside of the house comes into view, no less magnificent than on the outside.

Red, gold, and brown dominate the color scheme of this spacious place, the marble floor glistening under the various lights. Expensive paintings hang on the walls, showcasing certain events from mythology, some of them from ancient Greece and others from ancient Rome if one looks closely at them.

A hallway leads to several arch-like doors, which probably consist of dining, common, and terrace rooms just like back at our house, judging by one article in a home-design magazine.

Expensive oak furniture made by famous designers fills the place while the golden chandelier hanging in their common room has been the talk for decades, rumors floating around that Lucian bought it on the black market because Rebecca loved it so much.

In the distance, I hear voices arguing about serving dinner, and I assume it’s the staff in the kitchen. The delicious smells float around, enticing my nostrils, and my stomach growls loudly, indicating I haven’t had anything but breakfast today.

My cheeks heat up, and I place my hand on it, groaning inwardly and hoping it will stop emitting sounds in such an important moment.

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