Page 8 of Santiago's Conquest (Four Dark Horsemen 1)

For as long as I can remember, water has been my favorite element, experiencing a deep connection to it, and I can spend hours in the ocean without getting tired.

It can adapt to any circumstance, no matter what nature throws at it.

If it meets cold, it becomes ice. If it meets heat, it becomes water once more. And if it meets fire… it floats in the air as steam, never letting anyone destroy it.

There is a lot to learn from water and Mother Nature. Unfortunately, humans are too stupid to take lessons from it.

Instead, they destroy nature bit by bit, thinking it will never retaliate against them.

But you can poke someone or something for only so long… until the injured party decides to end the threat once and for all.

Or at least those are the lessons my father taught me.

Lucian Cortez.

Hollow laughter slips past my lips when I swing the bottle of tequila to my mouth, greedily gulping it while it mixes with the rain.

Wiping my mouth, I close my eyes and lift my face to the rain, ready to drown in it until I turn blue from cold. My bare feet slap against the concrete when I move forward, and I throw the bottle on the floor where it shatters loudly.

Snapping my eyes back open, I place my feet on the glass, the sting traveling through me when the glass digs into my skin… yet as far as the pain goes?

Fucking nothing.

Rolling my eyes when the memories of Peter’s crying comes to mind, it doesn’t even hurt much. What a fucking piece of shit. I walk back into my penthouse, leaving bloody footprints on the perfectly polished white marble with the AC blasting at me full speed, breaking goose bumps on my skin, but I only smirk at this.

I drop onto the couch, kicking my legs up onto the small table holding a chessboard ready for players to assume their positions and participate in the game of a lifetime.

It was specifically designed for me, red and white pawns carved out of the finest oak, which are quite fitting, all things considered.

After all, I came to this earth to conquer on a fucking white horse while the opposite side is played by the inexperienced angel who doesn’t even know her soul is in the line of my destruction.

But then again…

Do devil spawns even have a soul to speak of?

The ringing of my phone snaps my attention, and I accept, connecting it to the TV.

Picking up the remote, I turn on the TV hanging on the opposite wall, and a man comes into view.

“Surprised you replied to my message so quickly,” I tell him, flipping the remote between my fingers, I watch him lean back in his chair, sipping his drink and just observing me through those fucking blue eyes of his. They drill into me, and as far as fuckers go… I don’t like this one much.

“Curiosity,” he says.

I bark a laugh. “You can still be curious?”

He puts his glass on the desk with a thump and nods. “When one of the Four Dark Horsemen asks for my help, I have to say I’m intrigued. What was it that you said the last time you visited New York?” He rubs his chin, his blond hair glistening under the harsh light. “Fuck you, Lachlan, and your rules. I’m a Cortez, so I do as I please.” He chuckles, although I don’t miss the deadly tone that is a warning in itself that he doesn’t appreciate my past words, nor will he take any bullshit from me. “How the mighty have fallen.”

Threading my fingers through my wet hair, I wipe my hands before taking out a cigarette from the pack nearby and light it up, the greedy pull instantly calming me down when the first taste of nicotine hits my tongue, spreading temporary pleasure all over me.

Generally, people consider smoking bad, yet it’s one of the rarest things that actually has the power to help my mind go still and enjoy the moment.

Maybe because it will always have a scent of freedom attached to it, so I’ll fucking never give it up.

Exhaling the smoke, Lachlan’s face temporarily blocked from view, I speak out. “Tell me when you’ll be done gloating, so we can discuss business.”

“Oh, I haven’t even started, Santiago.” He taps on the rim of his glass, moving his finger back and forth slowly as razor-sharp sounds start to emit from it, making me twitch, and I snap my teeth, barely holding back from barking at him to stop, but I’m in no position to do so.

Lachlan Scott is the underground king of New York, one of the most skilled serial killers I’ve ever known, and I know so many I could build a fucking stadium filled with them. He rules his protégés with an iron fist, and his reputation proceeds him. Everyone knows not to fuck with him or his fucking city, because consequences for it are severe.

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