by V. F. Mason
That’s right.
My future bride doesn’t bow her head to anyone.
When we reach the double doors, she puts her foot forward, but before she steps inside, she looks over her shoulder, firing my way. “I hate you, Santiago.”
Bien.
Because her love will destroy both of us.
Briseis
A raspy breath of distress slips past my lips when my hold on the bouquet in my hands tightens, the roses’ thorns digging into my skin and probably drawing blood.
The priest’s booming voice echoes through the space of the church, his smile so bright I wonder if it hurts his face.
Or do despicable creatures have no idea about the devastating emotions of mere mortals?
“Do you, Briseis Dawson, take this man…” With each word, I zone out farther and farther from this situation while the ringing in my ears replaces his rusty voice. I barely hold myself back from spitting on him for what he’s allowing to happen inside these walls that should have been my sanctuary.
Instead, it’s fed me to the wolves so they could shred my flesh to pieces, their sharp teeth sinking into me so harshly they won’t rest until I bleed out on the floor… with God as my witness.
Monsters, hideous monsters, led by the devil who….
A single tear slides down my cheek, hidden behind my veil made out of the finest tule, nothing but the best for the bride, after all.
The groom, who I promised to hate till my last breath for what he supposedly did to my family, stays oblivious to my begging, only a small smirk on his face while the pleasure at his deeds radiates from him.
The King of Darkness and Deceit.
Santiago chuckles, and I can almost imagine how his sapphire-blue eyes glisten with something wicked—the only expression that fills those orbs whenever his gaze lands on me—and I have to run far away from him… well, as much as I can in the current circumstances, in order to avoid it.
Not that he lets me do it for long; the freaking sadist enjoys my discomfort in his company, if his constant grins are anything to go by.
Remi and Jimena stand by our sides, acting as witnesses to this charade, while Octavius only watches us intently from the pews, drinking from a bottle of whiskey with no respect for the place he’s in.
Then again, is there anything they truly respect?
Madness has many forms and faces on this earth, covered in the masks of beauty and power, sneaking up on you when you least expect it, snatching you in its web of deceit and pain that follow you wherever you go.
Santiago’s madness though?
Has no boundaries or control. Instead, it soaks up all the chaos around him.
He proved this much with his last statement to me, stripping me of all the hopes and stupid dreams plaguing my mind.
The corset of my wedding dress is impossibly tight on my waist, and each gulp of air becomes a struggle, the pressure reminding me of the invisible chains the man has placed on me with no way of breaking them.
Shifting my focus from the priest, I stare at this unusual church with its expensive, colorful glass filling the windows and the ceiling carved in an oval shape that almost gives a fairy-tale-like experience.
Except I’m trapped in a nightmare, which—no matter how much I pinch myself—doesn’t transform into the fairy tale I’ve pleaded for my entire life.
Despite the church’s beauty that has the power to make one gasp in awe, the place reeks of doom and hopelessness that no amount of expensive artwork or luxurious design can hide.
The engagement ring on my finger bumps against one of the thorns, the stone glistening in the shimmering light from above me, and I resist the urge to snatch it off and throw it at Santiago, along with a few colorful word choices.
It would have been an offense to his parents, who trusted him with a family heirloom.
For a second, I catch Father Paul’s stare on me; conflicting emotions cross his face along with distress that he soothes with his gentle smile as if it can reassure me.
Nothing on this earth has the power to soothe the inferno burning in my chest or the monster claiming me as his because he wishes to.
The priest’s lips stop moving, and he looks at me expectantly while my brows furrow, since I’ve no clue what he wants.
Panic shadows his face, and his lips move once again. I shake my head, hoping the ringing will go away so I can listen to him.
Still nothing though, and instead, my heartbeat speeds up in my chest, beating so fast I’m afraid it might jump out and land on the floor where Santiago can stomp all over it.
Literally this time, since he’s done it figuratively already.
A strong hand wraps around my waist and spins me so fast my head gets dizzy. I bump into the hard-as-brick muscles of his chest while his other hand captures my chin between his fingers, raising it so our gazes clash. “He asked you a question, mi novia.”
Rage flashes through me so violently the air gets stuck in my lungs, while I want to shout in despair from not being able to unleash it on him with full force.
Maybe then he will choke on his words, because calling me his bride is an insult to all the married couples all over the world.
The only appropriate word is captive.
His deep, husky voice sends shivers down my spine, and revulsion runs through me at his touch, the rose thorns digging sharper this time, and I wince in pain, finding no wiggle room in his hold to step back and throw away the stupid bouquet I never wanted in the first place.
“Will you take me as your beloved husband and promise to cherish and love me till the day I die?” A sinister smile widens his mouth while he winks at me. “Or, in other words, till death do us part?” I freeze, my chest rising and falling rapidly while he rubs my cheek. His thumb slides over me gently, evoking fear inside me, reminding me how this hand can kill someone with just one strike.
I twist my face to the side, avoiding his caress, but he tightens his fingers on me, digging them painfully into my skin, and a whimper of distress escapes me. “The choice is yours, querida.” He prolongs the last word, as if tasting it on his tongue when he addresses me.
I wish to slap him hard, so he won’t call me his darling again, then fist the skirts of my dress, and with my high heels clicking soundly on the marble floor, run through the heavy, wooden doors at the end of the church’s hallway to hide far away from here.
“I always keep my word, darling.”
He won’t chase me, granting me the freedom he has promised from the very beginning, and with time, I can forget all the events that have happened in the last week like a bad dream that should have never even involved me.
However, all this musing has no point.
I stay silent, waves of shock rushing through me while I will myself to say the words everyone expects, yet they seem to get stuck in my throat, not wanting to be spoken for the destruction they might cause in my life.
The groom sighs, winking at me. “Querida, I’m starting to get bored. And it’s never a good sign.”
Someone clears their throat, and I shift my focus to the bench on the left where Florian flips the knife between his fingers while my father sits next to him, bound in tight, black ropes, groans in pain, blood seeping from the various wounds on his torso and head.
Those men who think themselves invincible might never lie, but it doesn’t mean they keep their promises, using twisted games to spin the truth in their favor.
They clearly hurt my father after I left the dungeon, probably enjoying his cries of pain, seeking their adrenaline high like junkies to function properly.
That’s the future I’m subjecting myself to. Surviving among men who need to kill in order to live.
Florian puts the sharp tip to Father’s neck and nicks the skin, chuckling quietly, finding amusement in how he bursts into tears, his eyes pleading for mercy he’ll never get from the likes of them.
Father mumbles something through the tape covering his mouth, and I don’t have to read
his mind to know what he thinks.
Or rather asks of me.
After everything he put me through… he still expects me to do it.
“Choose, Briseis,” Santiago repeats, boredom lacing his tone as he snaps my head back to him so his hot breath fans my face, his lips inches away from mine. “Either become my wife, or I’ll kill your father.” He waits a bit and adds, “Choose wisely. Don’t bargain with the devil if you’re not ready for the consequences, mi amor.”
Yes, Santiago Cortez has given me a choice.
But no matter the outcome… my soul will be crushed like a porcelain mug hitting the floor.
Turning away from him, I focus my attention on the priest and finally find the strength to utter the words that cut me from inside out, while self-loathing fills my entire being along with hate that burns brighter with each passing second toward the man standing next to me. “I do.”
My life has become a nightmare.
Because a sinner decided to own me.
Chapter Twelve
“To understand a monster, you have to look into his past.”
Santiago
Chicago, Illinois
Santiago, 7 years old
“This is so stupid,” Florian complains, digging his shovel into the soil and stepping on it while Octavius laughs, sitting under the tree and throwing his football in the air.
“Little help here, amigo?” I ask, wiggling my shovel in the air, but he shakes his head.
“No way. You lost the bet, and that’s why it’s your job.”
I roll up my shirt sleeves, wrap my hands around the shovel, place my foot on the lip, and push it really hard, exhaling in relief when I break ground and start to dig out a deeper hole with Florian’s help, who is already sweating like a pig.
“Funny how it was your idea, yet we’re the ones doing it,” Florian says back, wiping his brow and continuing to help me while I grit my teeth at Octavius’s laugh.
If it wasn’t for the fact that we’ve been friends since… well, since we were born, according to Mom, I’d go and punch him like Dad taught me, because every man should know how to protect himself and his family if the need arises.
But we’re all part of the precious four, the nickname our parents gave us all due to how we all stay together no matter what happens, and if someone picks on one of us, he has to face all of us.
Although, most of it applies to Remi; his family works as the help in my mansion, and due to it, he stands out in our private school.
After all, the three of us come from the wealthiest families in the country with private tutors and the most expensive things at our disposal.
One of the reasons why, according to most people, we use way too mature language for our age, but what could they say if we read old classics by the time we turned five?
And since we’re inseparable with Remi—he’s my best friend in the whole wide world—my parents decided to pay for all his education too, so he wouldn’t be left out.
“I won the bet fair and square. And you’re sore losers.”
“Can you all shut up?” Remi hisses a few feet away from us, peeking through the rose bushes Mom planted in the garden and keeping an eye on the territory, making sure none of the guests are headed this way. “If you want to bury this thing, you have to be quiet.”
Florian frowns, digs some more before pointing a finger at Octavius. “I hope you’re happy about this. If Santiago’s parents find us here destroying their precious tree, we’re in big trouble.”
I shake my head at this, staying quiet, not wanting to disturb their illusion, although what they say isn’t true.
My parents would never do anything to hurt me or my friends, because they love me so much. Daddy once said if anyone hurts me to come right to him, because he’ll fix it.
I glance toward Octavius who, even though he grins widely, winces every time he adjusts his back against the oak tree, trying to find a comfortable position, and my stomach flips, just imagining what I would find if I lifted his shirt.
Whenever his stepfather comes back from business trips, Octavius earns new scars, the angry puckered slashes marking his skin and not going away for weeks at a time. When I see them, my fists clench, and I want to run to Dad to tell him about all this so maybe he can punch the bad man, but Octavius always stops me.
He gives me the same explanation every single time.
“He’s a good man, and Mom loves him. Not to mention, he loves Estella. He hurts me only when he’s drunk, because my looks remind him of my father. He doesn’t like to remember Mom had a life before him.”
None of what he says ever makes sense to me. It seems all so complicated, but I keep my mouth shut, hoping one day it will stop.
After scooping a generous amount of soil and throwing it to the side, I stab the shovel into the ground where it stands still, and I dust my hands. “I think we’re done here. It’s deep enough for the box.”
Florian nods and motions for Octavius to get up and bring the box lying next to him. It rattles loudly as he walks to us. Remi gives one last glance around the perimeter before joining us, and we open the box, studying the objects inside. “What’s all this?” he asks, rubbing his chin.
“All of them represent us.” I point at the blue sapphire given to me by my grandfather. “This is me.” I slide my finger to the red ruby I asked Octavius to bring. “Esto es Octavius.” Then I shift my focus to the yellow diamond, glistening the most among the stones. “Esto es Florian.”
“And the ordinary rock este soy yo?” Remi chuckles, albeit frowning. He crosses his arms and steps back from us, a move we’re all familiar with.
The minute our social differences come to light, he always becomes guarded, ready for us to kick him out of the group and take it without crying.
We would never, ever do it though, because without Remi, there is no us.
“It’s not an ordinary rock, Remi. It’s a not-yet-carved emerald. Stole it from Dad’s office,” I rattle the box a little, and the gemstones bounce in the air then drop solidly back in. “We’ll bury them here as a sign of devotion to our friendship.”
“Woohoo!” Octavius exclaims and then groans when he raises his arm too much.
Florian shakes his head at him and murmurs quietly, although we still end up hearing him. “We’ll have to take care of your back after this.”
“I have supplies in my room. No one’ll be searching for us there,” Remi says before placing the lid back on the box and closing it. “So let’s do this, because I’m starved.”
I put the box into the hole, and then we hastily cover it up as the owls hoot in the night and the music echoes from the open terrace door, indicating my parents’ party is still going in full swing with no one noticing our absence.
And once we’re done, we run to Remi’s room, where we help out Octavius who is gasping in horror at the new wound on his back that’s so deep even pain pills don’t help him. Then we play board games, chatting about the future, where our friendship will be strong as ever.
Finally, once the party is over, I change into my pajamas before bouncing up and down on the bed, enjoying the squeaky sounds the bed makes as the headboard bangs against the wall, and giggle when I spot Mommy leaning on the doorjamb. She’s still wearing her pink dress from the party, but she’s barefoot, so it means everyone left. “Someone is not sleeping.”
I bounce and then land on my knees, quickly grabbing the blanket and putting in up to my nose, muttering, “Busted.” She walks into the room toward the window, sliding it open and allowing the light breeze to slip inside, blowing back her green hair.
She constantly changes it in the different colors of a rainbow. “Why do you color your hair, Mommy?” I ask, suddenly very curious about it, because all the other women around us never have blue or purple hair, and sometimes I see how they look at Mommy.
Not sure how to describe it besides saying it’s not nice.
She comes closer, traps my toe, and pinches it a litt
le to my laughter before sitting on the edge of the bed next to me, propping her back against the headboard. “I’ve colored it for years now. It helps me focus on my art.”
“Can I color my hair too?”
She flicks my dark locks back from my face and cups my cheek, smiling warmly as she hugs me to her side. “Of course. Once you turn fifteen.” She kisses me on the forehead, resting her cheek on the top of my head. “We can even pick a color together.”
“That’s so far away!” I whine, hugging her closer, her familiar scent of lavender and roses filling my lungs and calming me down.
“My son won’t color his hair.” Daddy’s raspy voice echoes in the room, and I look at the door where he stands, his dominant presence scaring everyone around him but us.
He’s wearing a shirt and pants, his jacket long gone, and he walks into the room, lowering himself on my other side, and throws an arm around Mom and me, almost enveloping us in a bear hug where nothing could hurt us.
At least that’s how Mommy describes it.
“Lucian.” Oh no. Mom sounds angry!
“Mi amor, he got your eyes. My son will have my hair.” His tone leaves no room for argument, and I feel Mom’s body vibrating. Frowning, I quickly raise my head to wipe away her tears, only to find her laughing into her palm.
“You’re impossible.” She extends her hand, tapping on his chin, and sighs. “That’s why I love you.”
“I thought it was my charm and money.”
“That too. After all, the starving artist’s got to eat.”
Dad winks at her, catching her fingers and kissing the tips lightly. “The starving artist who owns several galleries,” he adds, and I exhale heavily, used to their confusing relationship where they start bickering only to kiss later.
Is this a marriage thing? Grown-ups are so complicated!
“Will I have a sibling someday?”
“Por qué preguntas?”
“Mr. Reed changed once Estella was born. Octavius is always hurt.” I focus my attention on Daddy. “Will you hurt me too once I have a little sister?”
