Violent Triumphs (White Monarch Book 3)

by Jessica Hawkins

  It wasn’t the first time we’d been over this. I tried to be understanding of the fact that he’d had a traumatic experience, but I’d had one as well. Cristiano wanted to be back in action. And I . . . I didn’t ever want to suffer through the crippling fear of thinking I’d lost him again.

  “You can’t recover in days,” I said. “You—”

  “I’ve done it before. It’s far more dangerous for me to be off my feet, Natalia. It leaves us vulnerable.” He ran his toothbrush under the faucet. “The best way I know how to heal is to get back to work.”

  “I forbid it,” I said. “I forbid you from leaving our bed.”

  Cristiano paused, then glanced up at the ceiling. “Ay, Dios mío, I’ve waited a long time to hear you say that. I’m happy to stay in bed for weeks if you join me.”

  He’d certainly retained his dirty mind and insatiable hunger to take me to bed. “If you have to go into surgery, you’ll be off your feet for much longer.”

  “It would be worth it for a night with you.”

  Jaz entered with ointment, pill bottles, and the items for his sponge bath. “You’re supposed to be in bed, señor.”

  I didn’t bother hiding my told-you-so smirk.

  He slow-blinked at the items in Jaz’s hands and shook his head. “I already told you both—I’m perfectly capable of showering.”

  “La doctora said you’re not supposed to be moving around yet,” she said, setting everything on the counter. “Natalia needs to clean the wounds and change the bandages. I showed her how. It’ll take two minutes—just stand there.”

  “Jaz, in five seconds, I’m going to hop in the shower,” he said, undoing the tie of his sweats. “So in three seconds, I’m pulling down my pants.”

  “You’re too unstable. You could fall.”

  Jaz was right—he could slip and hit his head. He could barely raise his arms without pain, though he tried to hide it. He needed help, but he’d never admit it. “I’ll join you,” I said.

  His eyes glimmered as they met mine in the reflection. “Join me? You mean . . . in the shower?” The teasing in his voice almost made me rescind my offer.

  “I owe you,” I said. Last month, I’d been the one injured in my bathroom as he’d removed glass from my feet. “For helping me after the warehouse fire.”

  Any hint of jesting vanished from his face. “I’m the reason you were hurt in the first place.”

  “I haven’t forgotten.” But he’d come for me. He’d scaled the side of a building about to blow just to help me. Diego, on the other hand, had left me to fend for myself as he’d tried—and failed—to salvage the Maldonados’ drugs.

  I stepped toward Cristiano, hoping my cheeks wouldn’t redden. Flirting with my husband a few nights ago had been a glimmer of fun in a dark time, and we could certainly use some fun. “You cleaned and bandaged my wounds,” I said. “Let me do the same.”

  “Thank you, Jaz,” Cristiano said. “You’re dismissed.”

  With a twitch of her lips, she nodded once and left the bathroom. At least this time, she didn’t argue. Or else she saw what I was also coming to terms with—things had shifted between Cristiano and me.

  I didn’t recognize this forward behavior in myself, but I’d seen it before. From the man in front of me looking pleased by my demand to take care of him.

  I was staking my claim.

  He’d told me many times before—I was his.

  And for the first time, a small voice in my head answered back.

  He was mine.

  Cristiano watched in the reflection as I approached him from behind. “Lift your arms a little if you can,” I said.

  He raised them slowly to give me access to the bandages around his middle.

  “Does it hurt?” I asked, as I focused on peeling off the gauze.

  “Will you kiss it better?”

  Relentless. I hid my smile. “No.”

  “Then no, it doesn’t.”

  I frowned at the clean, red gashes, no longer than a toothpick, but wide enough that they needed thick, dark sutures to close them. After peeling the dressing from his chest, I discarded everything in the trash. I crossed the bathroom to flip on the shower, and when I turned back, he was there, standing in front of me. “Can’t shower in these,” he said.

  My eyes dropped to his pants. “Do you need help?”

  “Yes.” He cleared the rasp from his voice. “It hurts to bend anywhere.”

  I had no doubt it did hurt, but since he rarely shared when he was in pain, I recognized his ulterior motives. Tonight, though, I’d let him get away with it.

  My fingers grazed his skin as I worked the sweats over his muscular ass. I released a breath, grateful to see he wasn’t hard. Doctor Sosa had explicitly warned Cristiano about straining himself, but if he got sex on his mind, I wasn’t sure he’d heed her warnings.

  But the sight of him exposed and in need of my help stirred my desire.

  The designation of husband had taken on many meanings over the past several weeks. Tormentor. Protector. Teacher. I nearly shivered knowing how it would change again soon. Lover. The thought of sex with him had always excited me, even when it scared and shamed me. But as the days passed and Cristiano began to heal, my anticipation to finally submit to his advances grew more urgent.

  It couldn’t be tonight. He was still far from healed.

  But for all the times he’d enjoyed making me squirm, I could finally return the favor.

  I held his gaze as I drew my nightgown over my head and dropped it with his pants. His eyes jumped to my breasts. My nipples were still two pebbled points, showing off for him.

  I stepped into the shower first and held out my hand to help him.

  As he moved under the stream of water, I soaped up a sponge and touched it to his back.

  “No wounds back there,” he said over his shoulder. “You don’t have to be so gentle.”

  I glided the sponge across the broad expanse, reaching to get his shoulders. I followed a long scar from the right one as it crossed his spine. Other marks on his sides, arms, and back told the story of a violent life.

  “This isn’t your first brush with a knife,” I guessed and ran my thumb over some raised, pink skin under one shoulder blade. “Is this from a bullet?”

  “I told you—I’ve been knocked off my feet before.”

  I’d read a piece in the newspaper years ago about the infamous, anonymous leader of the Calavera cartel. It’d claimed he’d taken more bullets than drugs in his life. I moved around to Cristiano’s front, fascinated by each clue to his past. “What happened?”

  “Many things,” he said. “I’ll tell you one day if you like, but the long scar on my back is the only one with any significance. It started it all—my father’s belt.”

  I froze, raising just my eyes to his. I wished hearing that surprised me more, but it was no secret his father had been abusive. Diego had talked about it now and then, but he’d played it down. Was that because he’d been mostly spared? Had his older brother borne the brunt of it to protect him? Weeks ago, I would’ve never come to that conclusion, but I was beginning to know Cristiano as that kind of man. One who’d shoulder as much as he could to protect others.

  “I hate your father,” I said. “And I’m sorry he did that.”

  “I’ve come to terms with it, and I’ve worked through my issues with him,” Cristiano said. With effort, he raised a hand and leaned against the tile. “I was rarely surprised by how far he’d go. Diego, on the other hand—I never saw his betrayal coming.”

  Diego and Cristiano were each other’s only remaining immediate family, so back then, of course they’d been close. I could see things more clearly from Cristiano’s perspective now, though. Diego had turned on his brother, accusing Cristiano of a brutal crime that could’ve gotten him killed.

  I eyed another bullet wound above his left pec. “You’ve been through so much I don’t even know about.”

  “It made me who I am,” he said. “The
rest of these scars, they’re barely worth talking about, Natalia, so don’t worry about them. The same will be true of my new wounds once they heal. We move forward stronger. ¿Entiendes?”

  “I understand.” I moved on to washing his wounds, ensuring they were thoroughly clean—and trying not to fixate on the fact that we were physically very close, and stark naked, and for once, I wasn’t scared, anxious, or nervous.

  As I silently soaped him, his cock twitched. Once, that would’ve scared me. Now, it reminded me of our last night together before all of this. Upstairs at his nightclub, La Madrina, as I’d advised him to go after what he sought, unaware of the trouble it would bring. And then, as I’d gotten to my knees to comfort him . . .

  I turned away as a flush worked its way up my chest and exchanged the sponge for his shampoo. Any movement was an effort for him, but there was no way he’d be able to get his arms above his head. I’d need a damn step stool to even reach his hair, though.

  I squirted some shampoo into my palm, went to the opposite end of the shower, and climbed up onto the bench to stand over him. When he just stared at me, I said, “¿Entonces? Well?” I raised an eyebrow. “Come here.”

  I could’ve sworn he chuckled as he walked toward me. I sank my hands into his hair. There seemed to be even more of it when it was wet—abundantly silky and inky in my hands.

  He closed his eyes and dropped his forehead to my stomach as I lathered. He scraped the sensitive spot between my breasts with his stubble, and I bit my lip to keep a moan inside. That would only encourage him, and his control had proven slippery. We had to be good, so I had to be the strong one.

  He slid his hands up the outsides of my thighs and rested them on my hips, his fingers splaying over my ass cheeks. “Natalia,” he murmured. “Te extraño.”

  I miss you. I was right here, and yet I understood. Between everyone fussing over him the past three days, and Tasha and Alejandro monopolizing his time, plus everything I’d been doing to keep the household running, we hadn’t been truly alone since he’d woken up. His drugs knocked him out at night, and I slept on the couch to give him space.

  My heart beat in my stomach. Maybe I wasn’t only worried about Cristiano’s control. Stripped bare, with his massive hands on me, and my resistance to him no longer holding me back . . . desire pulled in my depths in a way it hadn’t since before he’d left. I’d fought him for so long. I didn’t need to anymore. I didn’t want to.

  When Cristiano had woken up, it had hit me as we’d come face to face—up until that moment, I’d been terrified he wouldn’t survive. That I’d lost him. That I’d be left on this earth to defend myself against Diego, Belmonte-Ruiz, and even my father. The relief I’d felt had been palpable but equally scary in a different way.

  It didn’t mean he wasn’t still the man who’d forced me into this marriage. Who’d stood over my mother’s dead body, and who’d left me, a grieving child, in a dark tunnel for hours. But he’d also once protected my family and had made sure my every need had been met since my arrival here in the Badlands.

  On our last call, I’d wanted to ask him to stay but hadn’t been able to find the words.

  And I’d almost lost him. Time was precious, as he’d said, and it shouldn’t be wasted.

  Instead of trying to tell him all that, I put my arms around his neck and hugged him to me.

  He pressed his lips to my skin, working his mouth up my chest before tilting up his head. “Por favor,” he said slowly. “Please—don’t deny me anymore.”

  I could bend and kiss him for the first time since the night he’d left La Madrina. And this time, I could admit that I was willing. I wanted that. I wanted him to heal. To have what he needed. That meant I cared. But I had cared for Diego, too. I’d overlooked warning signs and had believed anything he’d said or done. After my horrible judgment, could I trust myself? Could I trust Cristiano?

  Suds dripped from his hair into his face, so I reluctantly peeled his arms from around my middle. “You need to rinse.”

  “You don’t know what I need, Natalia.”

  I sighed as I got down from the bench and led him under the stream of water. He took my face in his hands, staring into my eyes. When I moved closer, his erection pressed against my stomach. I wanted to give in. To soothe him.

  Maybe he was right to believe that I was the one thing that could heal him.

  “Remember the last time you saw me, before all this?” I asked.

  “I was stabbed, not hit over the head.” He brushed his thumb over the corner of my mouth. “My memory’s as sharp as ever. It was the night I caught you with the cell phone and punished you at the club. Are you still angry with me?”

  I shook my head. “That’s not the last time you saw me.”

  “You’re right,” he said. “You were asleep as I packed a bag.”

  “I’m not talking about that.” I took him in my hand. “I mean when I looked up at you from my knees.”

  “Christ, Natalia.” He inhaled a breath, his fingers digging into my cheeks and inspiring a thrill that ended right between my legs. “Be careful talking like that.”

  Last time, we’d been in the dark. Now, I could see everything. He was nearly as thick as my wrist, even more veiny than his brawny forearm, and his pink velvety skin stretched as he grew against my palm.

  His eyes turned anguished as I stroked him, and I’d never had such an urge to chase someone else’s demons away.

  “We can’t kiss—you know where that will lead,” I said. “But will this help? You have to promise to stand very still and not strain yourself.”

  “I could never stay still with your hands on me.” Water dripped down the bridge of his nose. He caught my wrist, and I released him as he laced his hand with mine at our sides. “That’s not what I need anyway.”

  “What then?”

  He tilted my chin back with his other hand, lowering his face to mine. “Have your feelings changed now that you’ve almost lost me?”

  “Yes.” I held his gaze. “But you can’t expect our relationship to transform overnight.”

  “I don’t. But if there’s anything you want to say, say it now.”

  As determination entered his voice, a warning alarm sounded in my head. “Why?” I asked, my shoulders tensing.

  “I have to go, Natalia.” He pressed his lips together. “I can’t let Max stay with Belmonte-Ruiz any longer.”

  Goddamn it. Frustration flared in me, and I stepped back to cross my arms. Cristiano had almost been killed a few days ago. What would it take to get him to pull back? “I know you can’t let them get away with this—it’s the nature of this world. But you can’t go. Make a plan, and send Alejandro and your men after Max.”

  “I’m the one who put Max in danger.” Lines deepened in his forehead with a frown. “I can’t send others to do my job. I’m done playing games with those cabrónes and understand me—I’m going to blow the motherfuckers up.”

  He couldn’t do this. Not now. I was finally letting myself see Cristiano for all he was, and he was going to put himself back in the line of fire. Wasn’t this all he’d asked of me the past few weeks—to open myself to the idea of us? To stop fighting him? And now that I was ready, he was going to go back out there when he wasn’t even at half capacity and get himself killed? “You’re not ready.”

  “You have to trust me to know what I am and am not capable of.”

  “You’re a fool.”

  He paused, blinking at me.

  Now that I had his attention, I didn’t hold back. “You think you’re a superhero, but you’re not. You’re mortal. You can die.”

  “I never said I couldn’t.”

  “You’re acting like it. Physically, you’re not even close to healed. If you leave now, you’ll come home in a body bag.”

  “Do you really believe that?” He straightened, bearing down on me. “Or are you provoking me in hopes I’ll prove just how capable my body is?”

  “You’re not ready mentally, ei
ther. You’ve barely given yourself a chance to recover from an attack on your life. You’re acting irrationally, from emotion—”

  “You don’t know me at all if you believe that.”

  “You don’t know yourself.” I rose to my full height, holding his gaze as it darkened. “You’re a man, and you can fall, Cristiano. You have people here depending on you.”

  “You don’t think I know that?” He clenched his jaw and turned his face from me. “It’s all I ever think about. All the lives that’re endangered when I’m in danger. That’s why I have to go.”

  “That’s why you can’t go after Max. In your state, you’re more vulnerable than usual, and that puts those around you at risk. Don’t be stupid, Cristiano.”

  He stepped into me. “Brave little girl. You think you can call me names?”

  “You can try to intimidate me to keep my mouth shut, but when your life is on the line, I won’t.”

  “Why?” he asked.

  “You almost died.”

  “I’ve come closer than that.”

  I wanted to yell at him to get it into his thick skull that he could be more helpful to Max here than in the field, but that wouldn’t get us anywhere. I took a breath and tried to reason with him. He flinched as I placed my palm over his chest wound. “Escúchame, Cristiano. Listen to me. You’re not weak to rely on your men in a time of need. Can’t you see it makes you stronger to know when to stand back and let more capable people help?”

  He made a fist. It hurt him that an enemy had succeeded in debilitating him and would keep him from doing everything he could for his comrade.

  His hand flexed. Covered mine on his pec. “Every one of your touches comforts me. Heals me. But as you soothe me, the opposite is being done to Max. He’s a prisoner, not a guest.”

  I shut my eyes against the idea, but the image only became clearer in the dark. If Max was still alive, there was no doubt he was being tortured. I tried to fight the vision of him tied up in a dark room, bloody and swollen. “I understand,” I said. “I want Max to come home, too. But we need more information. Maybe they took him to bait you.”

  “Can’t bait a dead man.”