Page 85 of Santiago's Conquest (Four Dark Horsemen 1)

If a vicious killer can be this gentle with an animal, does this mean I got the wrong impression? Don’t some serial killers experiment on animals first before daring to touch humans?

How truly bad are his deeds anyway?

He doesn’t rape women, he doesn’t hurt animals, and according to rumors, he is never rude to his staff, which means he probably doesn’t abuse his power with them.

Even his friends show him great loyalty that has nothing to do with their shared secret; they’re ready to stand by one another through anything, and such bonds are earned, not given as a right.

Maybe he only kills bad guys who have done hideous crimes themselves and no one punished them for it. He sentences them to mortal hell himself in seeking justice?

Not that it changes anything on the grand scale of things. He’s still a serial killer, and sane women should never be with him.

Except I start to think there is nothing sane about me.

“What an excellent idea, querida.” Santiago’s mouth curves in a wicked grin as he walks toward me, and I take a step back, avoiding the shattered mug on the floor, my pulse speeding up recognizing the expression on his face. “Scared, are we?”

“I’m not scared, and I’m not taking a shower with you, if that’s what you’re implying.” Crossing my arms, I lift my chin high when his shoes touch my feet, sending electricity through me at the contact, but I hold my ground, ignoring it.

Although I start to understand why Helen ran away with Paris and didn't give a shit about consequences. Lust is such a powerful emotion it blocks away any common sense.

My behavior last night is one giant piece of proof.

“Muy bien.” That’s all the warning I get before he dips down and throws me over his shoulder.

My squeal echoes through the space as I hang down his back, my head awfully close to his ass, and I start to hit him hard on his lower spine, trying to lift up a little as he moves toward the bedroom. “Let me go!” And then I yelp in disgust when a feline smell and hair, along with something sticky ends up on my hands. “Ewww! You’re dirty!”

His deep laughter is the only answer I get as I continue to kick and thrash in his arms, hoping a painful hit will weaken his resolve, but no such thing happens.

Instead, once again, we end in the bathroom in several short strides. He places me back on my feet, but before I can bolt, he drags us inside the shower stall.

When he taps on the button, cold water starts to cascade down on us, soaking us, and I squeal, squeezing to the side, trying to avoid it. He pushes another button, and gradually the cold water transforms into warm as he presses me hard against the wall, his heart beating evenly under my palm while a smug smile graces his features.

At this point, my anger has reached epic proportions, and I’m surprised steam isn’t coming out of my ears. “What in the hell are you doing?”

“I want to take a shower with my wife. Is it such a crime?”

“Yes!” Motioning my hand between us, I add, “No one showers in their clothes!”

He chuckles. “I couldn't let you leave. Now you can’t.”

“You’re a jerk.” Huffing in frustration at the amusement lacing his tone, I detest my body reacting to his close proximity as goose bumps spread on my skin when he leans closer. Our noses are touching, and he puts his hands on either side of my head, caging me between his hard chest and the cold tile.

“Am I? I thought you weren't scared.”

“I’m not! It doesn't mean I want to spend every minute with you. What happened last night—”

“Will happen again and again.”

His arrogant reply makes my jaw drop. “It was just sex. It doesn’t mean we have some kind of relationship.”

“Querida, you are my wife. A relationship doesn’t go deeper than that.”

“You blackmailed me into marriage.”

“No one blackmailed you into anything. You became my wife in all the ways by your choice. You cannot take it back and pretend it didn’t happen. Tú eres mía.” My stomach flips at his softly murmured words that are doing something to my heart and spreading warmth through me, because in this lonely world, no one ever wanted me to himself.

Only his obsession borders on insanity, which is very suspicious in its own way.

Because a serial killer’s obsessions are always short-lived and end up dead somewhere along the way.

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