by V. F. Mason
“If a bunny sees a wolf hunting, what should the bunny do?”
The fuck is he talking about—
And then the memory from a long time ago pops in my head.
“If a bunny sees a wolf hunting, what should the bunny do?”
I giggle, picking a crayon to color on my drawing pad. “Say hi to it?”
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.”
Her mouth drops open, she gasps again, and then darts toward me so fast I barely have a moment to prepare for her slamming into me and hugging my knees so close I have no room to even move without tripping. “Tu eress mi hermano.” Her melodic giggles rock between us as she tilts her head back and raises her hands. “Up, up!”
I kneel instead, grabbing her shoulders and opening my mouth to scold her for trusting a stranger so much. Even if she knows my name, it doesn’t mean—
My thoughts are interrupted when she circles my neck and presses herself against me so tightly, her giggles filling my ears.
And to my shock, I return the embrace, hugging her close to me while several emotions wash over me, each one of them different, although none of them is love, because I no longer know what it is.
Or am capable of giving it back.
In this world, love is a luxury monsters cannot afford, because in order to survive with their demons, they give up the chance of ever experiencing it.
However, the earlier resentment suddenly no longer exists, and a fierce protective instinct remains, where I vow to myself to never allow any harm be done to her so she won’t lose this naivety and continue to think this world is a perfect place consisting of perfect people who always have the best intentions in their mind.
I won’t ever fail her.
She won’t ever be like me, a heartless machine whose heart pumps in order to kill those who harmed him.
I won’t scold her or teach her to be afraid. I’ll stay in the shadows to make sure nothing and no one touches her.
I’ll be the kind of brother who will never raise his hand to his sister… but I’ll break or chop off the hand that hurts her.
Because in this world, in this place, in my real life… she’s the only one who won’t ever know the previous Santiago, and this way her affection is pure and true.
She will love the brother who already became a monster and not expect anything else.
Maybe blood is thicker than water indeed; otherwise, what could possibly explain my instant attachment and need to keep her safe at all costs?
“Cuál es tu nombre?” Thank fuck I continued to speak in Spanish to myself in my head all these years, or I’d have forgotten everything.
“Jimena.” She leans back and palms my head, giggling again, the sun reflecting in her eyes. But then she frowns, and her lower lip starts to tremble, and instantly my instincts go on high alert when she gazes into the distance, whispering to me, “Mommy is crying. ”
Everything inside me goes still; my heartbeat speeds up, my pulse pounding so loudly I feel it in my throat. Taking a few breaths, I push Jimena away a little and get up, still not turning around.
Fear.
Fear pours into my veins, because I don’t think I’m emotionally stable enough to handle her rejection right now when she won’t see her boy in me.
Fear she won’t accept me.
Fear that my mother no longer loves me, even if this love belongs to a boy who died inside me a long time ago.
To my astonishment, my eyes water; tears I thought dried a long time ago are ready to emerge, but I don't let them, composing myself.
Tears are a weakness, and a weakness will always be used against you. I’ll laugh and laugh, but I won’t ever cry again.
Another deep breath and I finally spin around, coming face-to-face with my mother, who stands several feet away from us, her naturally blonde hair glistening in the sunlight while her summer dress sways in the breeze.
She’s barefoot, her hands covering her mouth while tears stream down her cheeks, her gaze roaming over me, but the familiar disgust doesn't come.
Oh no.
I want my mom to look at me, to somehow find traces of the boy she used to love, and accept me.
I heard once that parents always know when you pull some shit or if you’ve done something wrong—just an instinct they have.
Does she know I withstood rape? Does she know I killed? Does she know I would have done a thousand more crimes if it meant survival, and to hell with moral code?
Can she guess it all by looking at me?
Jimena runs to her, tugging
on her dress, and orders her, “Please don’t cry.” But she doesn't listen to her, sobs slipping past her lips as she takes a tentative step in my direction.
Another one, then another, and another, her feet almost soundless on the grass. The only sound filling the space is the brushing of the leaves, my heavy breathing, and her sobs.
I know I should probably come closer to her when she falls to her knees, pressing her hand to her chest while more sobs emerge, tears now pouring from her eyes, but I don't dare.
I don’t dare go and touch her unless she shows me it’s okay and doesn't chase me away from this house.
She gulps for breath, getting up on her wobbly legs and finding her balance again, all while her sapphire eyes, my eyes, stay glued to me as if she is afraid I might disappear.
One step.
Two steps.
Three steps.
She’s standing in front of me—I’m slightly taller than her now. Her familiar flowery scent fills my lungs, and I’m a small boy again who accompanied her wherever she went.
Her trembling hands palm my face. She rubs her thumbs over some of the scars on my cheeks, gazing into my eyes, and I wait for disgust to cross her features, but it never comes.
Instead, she looks at me the way she used to, with love.
So much love I no longer deserve.
And because of that, I withstand her touch while I want to cry in despair and never let anyone’s hands touch my skin ever again.
It has been bruised and abused for so many years it wants reprieve from all the agonizing pain, but this is my mother.
My mother who sometimes I thought I’d never see again.
“Santiago,” she whispers, barely controlling her sobs, but shakes her head to rasp, “My baby.” Her hands slide to my chest, and she pulls back when she notices the many red slashes on my skin. More tears—if it’s possible—fill her eyes, and she sways back a little. “My baby.” I manage to catch her before she falls, and we both end up on our knees while her hands hug me so tightly I can’t breathe.
And I don't want to, because as we sit here, me in her arms while she sobs so hard and cries so loudly, it breaks the parts of my heart that still remain, almost making me believe that time has stopped and I’m the boy she lost.
I’m the boy who hoped.
I’m the boy who was never hurt.
For a second in time… my nightmares never destroyed the boy within.
“I knew you were alive. I knew it. My baby.” She rocks me in her arms. I scrunch my eyes so hard, my hands slowly wrapping around her waist and returning the hug, even if my body rebels against the idea.
I survived hell.
For my mother, I can survive her suffocating arms soothing some of the scars inside my soul that will never heal.
“It’s okay, Mom.” I utter the words I thought I wouldn’t ever again, even though nothing is fucking okay about it.
Words have no power to erase pain, anguish, rage. Our lives will never be the same.
“My baby. My baby boy.” She continues to chant, running her hands over my back and hugging me even closer, all while crying so hard I’m afraid she might get sick.
Jimena shifts in distress, rubbing her hands as if she doesn’t know what to do, and then rushes back to us, hugging me from behind and basically hanging on my neck.
God, I’ve survived so many wrongdoings, but I’m willing myself to survive their acceptance and not snap when it’s not well-earned.
However, years in captivity taught me to always stay alert, and when I feel a stare on me, I raise my head to see my father a few feet away, slightly thinner than I remember him but nevertheless having his powerful energy floating around him.
Lucian Cortez in the flesh finally appears, but I had to come to him myself.
He stayed deaf to all my cries through the years.
My father looks straight at me, catching my eyes, and I understand he knows.
He knows everything I did, everything I went through, and everything I’ll probably do.
He knows it all, compared to my mother and sister showering me with affection and love I don't deserve.
And I know it, because my father doesn't take a step toward me.
Doesn't try to hug me.
He rejects me.
At least in my mind.
A rejection for which I’ve punished him ever since.
Briseis
George pulls the car up to the mansion and mutters, “Have a nice night.” I get out as if my ass is on fire, because the silent game Santiago decided to participate in ever since he grabbed my elbow and practically dragged me outside to his staff’s curious gazes grates on my nerves.
I hate it with a passion; if someone is angry, they should just shout or scold but not give me the silent treatment. For me, this punishment is worse than anything else, because I don't know what to expect or how to protect myself if the need arises.
Without waiting for him, I march toward the house, when his husky voice stops me. “Wrong direction, querida.” Looking over my shoulder, I notice him fishing a cigarette out of his jacket, and he points with it at the garden. “We are staying at the guest house.”
I rub my forehead in confusion. Why doesn’t he have a room inside this massive house? I spin around and notice Santiago’s orbs sparkling with amusement as he lights his cigarette and takes a greedy pull, blowing the smoke around us. I wave it off. “I thought you promised not to smoke in my company.”
His brow rises. “I said I could be persuaded into it if you offer me something else in exchange.” He steps closer, his masculine scent mixed with tequila and tobacco twitching my nostrils and sending shivers down my spine. “Are you offering, my beautiful wife?” He opens his arms wide, the ash dropping on the asphalt. “Marriage is all about compromises, right?”
“Keep dreaming,” I huff in reply, crossing my arms and lifting my chin high, which only seems to amuse him more, since he barks a laugh.
He motions with his head toward the garden again. “Let’s go before my mother wakes up and decides to engage in another conversation that will end badly once my dad joins in.”
He steps onto the perfectly cut grass, strolling straight ahead between some bushes and several huge oak trees with their branches almost brushing the ground, so I follow.
“Ouch,” I mutter when my heels dig into the soil. Stopping, I slip them off and pick them up, moaning in relief when the cool grass touches my bare feet and brings the abused flesh much-needed relief.
I have to hurry to catch up with him though, as we are going farther into the forest, and this part of their house was never featured in any magazines, so I’m going in blind.
Spotting rose bushes on the way, I squeal and rush to one, wrapping my hand around a red one fully blooming. I lean forward to inhale the magnificent scent into my lungs. “This is so beautiful,” I murmur, pulling my phone out and snapping a few photos before a gust of wind has me shivering slightly.
I jump in surprise when Santiago throws his jacket around my shoulders, instantly warming me from head to toe.
He places his palm over mine and tugs it harshly, damaging the rose, and a gasp slips past my lips. “Why did you do that?” I catch the rose before it drops on the ground, brushing my thumb over the soft petals and rubbing it against my cheek. “You killed it.”
“Don’t know how I’m going to sleep at night with such sin weighing on me,” he replies. He takes the heels from me and softly ushers me forward. “Speed up, querida. We don't have all night.”
Still inhaling the rose, I trail after him and duck a little as he separates branches, giving us space to walk. I ask absently, “You have some urgent plans for tonight I’m not aware of?” Maybe he plans to go off somewhere with those two mysterious men who showed up earlier.
His chuckle as he pushes away several more branches lets me know he has plans all right, but they are altogether different. “Don’t even think about it.”
“Oh, I think about a lo
t of things, Briseis. Which ones exactly? I have two scenarios playing in my head. One where I drag you inside the house, hike this dress up, and fuck you hard against the wall.” I halt my movements, looking at him as he stops next to me. Oak trees surround us, almost isolating us from the outside world. Owls are hooting in the distance, and the moonlight brightens the space between us. “Or ripping it, throwing you on the table, and pleasuring you with my mouth.” He drops his voice to a husky whisper, the wicked gleam in his sapphire eyes burning my skin. “Would you like that, querida? I’d even let you choose my cock or my tongue.”
As he says all these words, I feel a strange vibe around him, and as all our encounters flash in my mind, I come to a disturbing realization.
“Why do you always do it?”
“Do what?”
“Start talking about sex whenever we have a conversation. Do you even know how to talk to women without throwing sexual innuendoes?”
Surprise crosses his face before he masks it. “I don't engage in sexual innuendoes, as you put it, with other women.” I guess he didn't have to, since women wanted the dark four for their looks and social position alone.
However, our every encounter has had one. Even tonight at the club, he was so jealous, and I expected it to blow up in my face, yet he switched to another conversation about what he wanted to do to me.
Now, he must be angry, because we are at his parents’ house, but he covers it up with desire yet again.
Is it possible that I evoke certain feelings inside his dark heart, and he doesn't know how to deal with them, so he does the one thing he knows will bring me closer to him?
Sex?
Because that’s one area I’ve never refused him, right? And ironically, it’s the only thing really connecting us, as we’ve never spoken about anything meaningful.
“Why are you so angry at your father?” I ask, and the energy around us changes. His face becomes blank and all the playfulness is gone, leaving only a predator ready to pounce on his prey for daring to even ask such a question.
I jump in place when thunder echoes in the night, the lightning grazing the sky. Dark clouds gather together, ready to pour heavy rain on us at any moment.
“Let’s go.” He grabs my elbow, pulling me forward, and in two short steps, we are finally out from under the branches. My jaw drops at the small house in the distance with glassed doors, the light already turned on, which allows me to see one spacious long room that has several bookcases, a large bed, a couch, and a TV. Another small door probably leads to the bathroom. “Mom prepared everything,” he mutters and saunters toward it while I speed up once again, as light raindrops are already dripping on us.
