Page 122 of Santiago's Conquest (Four Dark Horsemen 1)

Derek chuckles and ruffles my hair. “No, kiddo. It should always run away.”

Holding his gaze, I say, “It should always run away.”

He gasps, so many emotions playing on his usually stoic features, and he lunges toward me, but I step back, not welcoming his embrace.

He understands it at once, darkness settling on his face, and questions play in his eyes that I don't bother to answer.

He might be my father’s close friend, but for me, he’s no one as of now. “I knew it was you when you spoke in your father’s tone with your mother’s eyes.” He takes out his phone, probably ready to call my father, but my words pause his movements.

“No need. Just let me in.” He nods, and I walk forward while throwing over my shoulder to Dave. “You’re fired.”

Fuck if I will take disrespect from any fucker who thinks it’s okay to be an asshole to a harmless kid.

As I prowl along the narrow road leading to the main house, I notice how hardly anything has changed around me, although somehow this garden lost its charm.

It’s not as vividly beautiful as I remembered and doesn't scream magical place any longer.

As I walk farther, the memories continue to slam into me, showing me how once upon a time this was my home where I was so loved.

Where I was the only one who never suffered at the hand of my parents compared to my friends.

Where my dreams and wishes mattered, where I mattered and wasn't just a dog and toy to be kicked, raped, and used however fuckers saw fit.

I used to be Santiago Cortez, a son, an heir, a friend, and a good student.

Society’s future darling.

Now… who am I?

A murderer, a victim, a rare statistic.

Somehow, all this makes me think I no longer belong here, and if I don't belong home… where is my place on this earth?

While I’m slowly reaching the massive house, a giggle snags my attention, and I spot a little girl in a pink dress sitting on the grass, brushing the hair on her doll while a musical instrument stands next to her.

What is it called? A harp?

She places the doll aside and then runs her fingers over the strings, frowning a little and biting her tongue as if she doesn't know how to get a specific note.

She huffs in frustration and sits back, crossing her arms, her black locks flying in different directions when the wind whooshes past her.

I’m too mesmerized with the little picture she creates to do anything when she raises her eyes to me, and I almost fall down from the impact it has on me.

Because those eyes are pure ocean-blue just like mine, which leaves no doubt in my mind who the little girl is.

My stupid resentment tastes bitter on my tongue, and even though shame fills my every bone for such thoughts, I can’t help but feel this way.

Is this why they gave up on me?

They have a daughter, so the son can go fuck himself?

She gasps, grabs her doll, and hugs it tight to her chest. “Quién eres tú?” She gets up and cocks her head to the side. “Estas sucio.”

“Who are you?” and “You’re dirty” are the first things she asks when she sees a stranger? How about running and screaming for help?

Dios, did my parents learn nothing? Their son got kidnapped from his own bed; they should guard her twenty-four seven and teach her to never speak to strangers, period.

Still not coming closer to her so she won’t get scared, I reply, “Soy Santiago.”

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