Page 81 of Santiago's Conquest (Four Dark Horsemen 1)

Even his pull toward me can be used to my advantage if used right.

Yeah, right.

I roll my eyes and chuckle under my breath, because just the idea is laughable. On my way to the bathroom, I grab a light summer dress from the closet. I drop the blanket before going in and then step into the shower stall to turn on the hot water.

Only to yelp in surprise when I turn and see Santiago watching me through the glass door. “What are you doing here? Get out!”

So much for not wanting to be naked and vulnerable in front of him!

A sinister smile lifts the corner of his mouth when he opens the door, stepping inside wearing nothing but sweatpants hanging dangerously low, showcasing the perfect V.

God, why does the devil have to be so handsome. My hands are itching to touch him all over again.

Even if only to slap the smug smile off his face. “Get out,” I repeat, covering myself with my hands as much as I can although at this point, he has seen everything.

Still, allowing his touches in the darkness where I push away reality is one thing. Building intimacy and being familiar during the day is a whole different level.

My weak stupid heart doesn’t have good enough armor against him.

Under no circumstances can I fall for a monster.

“Breakfast’s ready. Or should I say lunch? You’re quite the sleeping beauty.” I send daggers his way, holding my chin high, and he winks. “Hurry up. We have a dinner to attend.”

My brows furrow, and I momentarily forget about my nakedness. “What? Why?” Does this marriage include us going to social functions together? Or whatever else being his wife entails? Why would he want it?

Doesn’t sound like a man who plans a divorce in the near future at all!

“Because my parents want to meet you, querida.” He shuts the door, walking out while I stand still, the water cascading on me, yet the warmth is gone, coldness and panic replacing it.

His parents? I have to meet his parents?

Oh my God!

My own family despised me for being illegitimate. I can just imagine what Lucian and Rebecca think about their son’s less than stellar choice. They probably hoped he would settle with someone famous and beautiful whose family dotes on their princess like they do on Jimena.

A point they will make clear during tonight’s dinner.

I slam my fist into the tile at the thought of being subjected to scrutiny once again and not being able to do anything in order to avoid it.

I almost wish he would have given me a contract before this marriage; at least I would have had a clear understanding of why he wants me and what my responsibilities are.

I quickly finish washing my hair and body, dry myself, and put on my clothes, barely glancing in the mirror as I dart toward the kitchen.

Santiago sits on the couch, his legs propped on the small table while he flips through the news channels on the muted TV, not settling on anything, and says without looking at me, “Breakfast is on the counter.” I see a steaming white mug and a plate full of eggs and toast plus an avocado.

My stomach growls loudly. My cheeks heat up, and I quickly pick up the fork, digging it into the eggs. I take my first bite, closing my eyes when the taste hits my tongue. I quickly enjoy a few more bites before focusing my attention back on TV, ready to munch on my toast.

It pauses midway to my mouth though when I read the headline on the news.

Footage of the house along with the report showing something in the background appear, and I exclaim, “Turn the volume up!”

“No point. They haven’t found anything and don’t know who did it. Your father is at a nearby hospital, and doctors are treating his injuries,” he casually replies, turning the TV off and resting his head back on the couch.

Bile rises in my throat when all those dead bodies flash in my head, and I lose my appetite, wrapping my hands around the mug and lifting it my mouth, inhaling the mint scent into my lungs before taking a tentative sip. “Police will have questions for him. He’s the only survivor. You should be prepared.” Dad won’t hesitate to throw them under the bus, seeking retribution for the humiliation they subjected him to.

“He might try” comes the amused reply, as if he knows a secret that I don’t.

That’s when I slap my forehead. “They’ll want to question me too, right?” Somehow, I shouldn’t be scared of the police, considering the latest events, but I can’t lie. They would know something was wrong.

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