Violent Ends (White Monarch Book 2)

by Jessica Hawkins

  Adrenaline pulsed in me with the blood rushing through my veins. “Or will I spit it out?”

  He answered with a sinister chuckle. “You think you can only drink from your mouth?” he asked. “I will spill myself into all your holes, and I won’t relent until your body has drunk every last drop I have to give. Until you’re mine through and through.”

  I was going to climax just from his words. I needed to. The ache firmly rooted in the depths of my tummy cried for more. I tried to put my hand back down my pants, but he lowered it to the bed, pressing it into the mattress in front of my eyes. “Final rule,” he said in my ear. “Your orgasms are mine. You will not come until you ask for it. Until I stick my cock in you and tell you to.”

  He rolled away as shudders of pent-up frustration quaked through me. I opened my mouth to protest, but what could I say? Was I willing to ask for it? That was what he wanted. And I had no doubt—once I asked, he’d make me beg.

  His breathing evened out within moments, and he fell asleep as if it were nothing at all, leaving me wide awake and alone with my thoughts.

  Alone with my vibrating need, my longing for release was so agonizing, I almost wished I’d just broken down and asked.

  That I’d begged for my own destruction.

  12

  Natalia

  The cicadas’ song vibrated the heavy air. Sweat trickled from my temples and under my breasts as I stood on dry grass, trying to mirror Alejandro’s stance as he droned on about the importance of stability during a fight.

  If my self-defense lessons with Cristiano were equal parts terrifying and exhilarating, the ones with Alejandro were downright yawn-worthy. He was lucky he was so easy on the eyes, because he spoke in a monotone, without inflection. And he never got too close to me.

  Cristiano was such a master of diversion that a few nights before, I’d forgotten to feel relieved that he was leaving town and I’d get some measure of freedom from him. For days, I’d mostly just read by the pool, watched TV or movies, and snacked.

  The air was thick, as if polluted and dirty, even though I hadn’t seen one car within the Badlands’ walls aside from those in Cristiano’s flock. A need for relief weighed on the sky. Things seemed desolate, as if it hadn’t rained in years, even though it just had.

  I massaged my side through a cramp. My period had just started, and even though I was bloated and disgusting, everything seemed to turn me on since Cristiano had left me aching.

  The more I tried not to think about him turning my own fingers against me or the orgasm he’d denied me, the hotter I got. That uneased throb spurred me on, and as my hormones went haywire, each day I wished Cristiano would return and finish the job he’d started. One firm touch between my legs had inspired all kinds of things in me, but when I’d tried to replicate it in the shower the next morning, it’d simply felt like touching two body parts together. No fire, no easy walk to the brink of pleasure.

  Cristiano had demanded ownership over my orgasms, and it shamed me how easily my body had complied.

  “Natalia?” Alejandro asked, pausing with his hands hovering in the air. “Are you paying attention? Adjust your back foot inward a bit.”

  “This would go a lot faster if you just arranged my legs the way you wanted them,” I said.

  Either he blushed or he was getting a sunburn. He looked away and continued his narration on how to protect my liver from a potential strike.

  Alejandro wore a long-sleeved shirt despite the heat, and I wondered if it was due to the raised, pink skin peeking out from his collar. I’d first noticed his scars in the church as he’d stood by and watched Cristiano marry me. “You look hot,” I told him.

  “It’s pretty humid,” he agreed. “I think we’re in for another storm.”

  Every person in this house had a story that could help piece together the mystery inside these walls. The chef had served me politely enough, and Jaz had reluctantly helped me around the house, but nobody wanted to talk to me.

  Alejandro’s scars might tell his story best of all. “Why don’t you take off your shirt?”

  “Ay.” He widened his eyes. “Have you met your husband?”

  “Sometimes I wonder,” I said to myself. “But what do you mean?”

  “He’d wring my neck. Cristiano’s become a jealous bastard.”

  I coughed a laugh, shocked. Would he call his boss a bastard to his face? For the first time, a thought hit me—maybe he would. Maybe they were actually friends. I hated to admit that would explain the easiness between Cristiano and his staff much better than the story I’d concocted—that Alejandro’s and the others’ loyalty and respect had been forced on them.

  “Maybe if it was Eduardo training you with his pot belly and limp.” Alejandro snickered. “But I’ve had my fair share of female admirers, and Cristiano knows it.”

  I laughed at his unexpected confidence. “You’re about as humble as he is.”

  “I’m not bragging, just relaying the truth.”

  I eased into a smile, biting the inside of one cheek as I glanced at the edges of his scars. “Can I ask what happened?”

  “Um.” He scratched behind his ear. Maybe it was forward, and none of my business, but he’d actually been acting friendly, unlike others. “I’ve had them since childhood. I was an orphan, and not a very happy one.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “Are they from your foster parents?”

  “The keepers of an orphanage. They seemed welcoming enough in the beginning, but looks are deceiving, Natalia.”

  He said it as if imparting wisdom. I was surprised he’d said it at all. Even though Cristiano had said I could ask the staff questions, I’d assumed Cristiano had put some kind of moratorium on most topics. “How did you end up here?” I asked.

  “I grew up near Tijuana.” He wiped his sweaty temple with his shoulder. “Once I was old enough to run away, I went wherever I could to make ends meet. I met Cristiano in Bolivia when I was nineteen, and he took me under his wing, so to speak.”

  “How?” I asked. “Did he live there?”

  “No, he was there trying to start a business.”

  “What business?”

  “The Calavera cartel,” he said as if it was obvious. “It was a small operation then, but I didn’t have much else, so I joined the cause.”

  The cause. Sure, if he thought the fortune they all made off their business dealings was a worthy movement. “You mean you worked for him.”

  Alejandro shrugged. “When Cristiano learned my story, he asked if I could fight. I’d never been formally trained, but I’d picked up plenty of moves on the street. Within only a week of knowing him, he brought me to meet others like me. Friends that would become family.”

  Others like him. A shiver worked its way down my spine. Was Cristiano’s “small operation” in Bolivia to lead the lost and desperate into a life of their choosing, or of servitude? “Do you mean other orphans?” I asked, picturing Cristiano as some kind of savior in disguise, looking for workers the way my father had brought boys to the ranch.

  “No—well, not exclusively.” He reached his hands toward the sky, exposing a sliver of his washboard abs. “Mind if I stretch? My joints are stiff, which is why I’m pretty sure it’ll rain tonight.” I gestured for him to proceed. Whatever he needed to keep the conversation going. “I was talking about Max, Eduardo, Jaz, Daniel, Solomon, Fisker—you know. The others.”

  The misfits Tepic had mentioned. I couldn’t very well call Alejandro that to his face, though. I nudged the toe of my new, ultra-fancy performance sneakers in the grass. “I don’t understand.”

  “Those of us who had no one.” He linked his hands and turned his palms up before bending to one side. “Society cast us aside and forgot about us. Our families turned us out or sold us.” His forehead wrinkled with a frown. “Hasn’t Cristiano explained this to you?”

  “No . . .” I didn’t want Alejandro to stop talking, but a pit formed in my stomach. Would he get in trouble for revealing
things he wasn’t supposed to? “I’m not even sure he’d like us talking about it.”

  “Never said not to,” Alejandro said, stretching the other way. “Cristiano is discreet given his position, but inside the walls, he’s more of an open book than you’d think.”

  “You’re joking,” I deadpanned.

  “No, señora.”

  “Don’t call me that,” I said. “It makes me feel old. I’m only twenty.”

  “That may be, but you’re married now, and no longer a señorita.”

  “Just because a book is open doesn’t make the story true. I don’t know what’s fact and what’s fiction. Cristiano married his enemy’s fiancée,” I pointed out.

  “I know. I was there.”

  “So why would he tell me anything or let me into all of this? He doesn’t trust me as far as he can throw me.”

  “I’ll bet he can throw you pretty far. Have you tried asking him anything about the cartel?”

  “A little. He explained some of the rumors, like the rotten fish and the snails thing.”

  Alejandro opened his mouth as if to respond but just blinked at me. “Huh?”

  “Never mind. It’s the other stuff that he hasn’t explained, and I’m sure I asked . . .” Hadn’t I? Cristiano’s fuse had run out quickly when the trafficking had come up. He’d accused me of believing hearsay, of not entertaining both sides of the story, and he had denied some of his practices, but not given me an explanation for them.

  “Have you asked what we’re about, though?” Alejandro asked, cocking his head. “What we’re doing?”

  “I know enough. You deal in arms, and you traffic women and children.”

  “What?” he asked, stepping away from me as if I’d shoved him. With his strong reaction, I once again wondered what exactly was happening here.

  “What? Am I wrong?” Was it wrong to assume the worst in Cristiano when he’d forced this life on me? No. Even if there were shreds of decency in Cristiano, that didn’t make him decent. “Isn’t that what you guys do? Isn’t that what you did to me?”

  Alejandro’s jaw slackened. “Is that . . . is that how you feel?”

  Raising my eyebrows, I crossed my arms. “Why wouldn’t I? You were at the wedding. You saw.”

  His eyebrows drew together as sweat dripped down his temple. He swiped it away with his sleeve and turned his face away, shaking his head. “Jesus, Natalia . . . I mean, you should really ask him about all of this. Don’t let him off the hook until he explains what we do here.”

  “You just told me we’re allowed to talk.”

  “We are,” he said. “But it doesn’t feel like my place to explain. When Cristiano gets back, try putting aside what you’ve heard and go in with an open mind.”

  “Will it change the fact that I’m here against my will?” I didn’t expect an answer, but I wanted Alejandro to see things from my side. I sighed. “Forgive me if I find it hard to keep an open mind.”

  Alejandro glanced at the ground, looking uncomfortable. “I get it, I do. But if you could just try . . .”

  “If you think this is about anything other than Cristiano’s need for power and control,” I said, “you need your head checked.”

  “I do,” he said, squatting to tie his shoelace and then glancing up. “I mean, the first part . . . not the head check. Cristiano is a control freak. He needs to live in that space—he’s a provider and a guiding light for more people than I can count. Sometimes, it’s destructive. But in some cases, it can save lives.”

  “Destructive,” I repeated, frowning. “Do you know what I gave up to be here? I loved someone else. I had a future with him—”

  “Diego’s a piece of shit.”

  My mouth fell open. My reflex was to block the insult, to defend the man I was going to marry, but even hearing his name lit a fire inside me, and not the kind it used to. Diego had done awful, unforgivable things, but that had nothing to do with this. “The point is, now I’m here, spending my days wandering around a house that isn’t and never will be, mine. I’m learning how to defend myself in case anyone, including my ‘husband,’ tries to hurt me.”

  Alejandro rose slowly, a frown tugging the corners of his mouth. “He wouldn’t hurt you, not ever.”

  “He already has.”

  “How?” he asked. “You tell me right now if Cristiano has put his hands on you. I would kill him. He may be rough around the edges, but he’s making an effort.”

  Taken aback by the vehemence in his voice, I scoffed. This was making an effort? Cristiano had held a knife to my throat in this very spot. He’d pointed a gun at my head as a child and had left me in the dark to fend for myself. A week ago, he’d almost killed me in a warehouse fire.

  But then he’d carried me from a burning building and bandaged me up.

  And though he and I had been alone two nights, only arousal—and a demanding need—had resulted from his hands on me. So, no. Maybe he hadn’t inflicted any physical violence or force on me, but still.

  “I meant emotionally,” I said.

  “I’m sorry for that,” Alejandro said. “I’ve endured physical and emotional abuse, and they’re equally painful in different ways.”

  He spoke evenly, but the pain of his past came through anyway. Suddenly, my plight didn’t seem as severe. “I’m sorry.”

  Shrugging, he nodded toward the house. “Come on. We can pick this back up tomorrow. Cristiano wants me to show you the cellar.”

  “A wine cellar?” I asked. “Why?”

  One side of his mouth curved, and a deep dimple dented his cheek. “It leads to the panic room. If you ever hear the alarm go off, that’s where you go.”

  I blinked at him. “How big is this house?”

  “It’s designed for a kingpin,” Alejandro said. “And a kingpin needs a place to go if and when shit goes down.”

  “Then why doesn’t the property have tunnels?” I asked since my father had commissioned them in his house.

  Alejandro arched an eyebrow. “Who says it doesn’t?”

  It was a relief, finally, to have someone treat me normally. Jaz couldn’t seem to stand me. Eduardo, the other guard from the wedding, had a face tattoo and seemed largely unapproachable, and the rest of the staff had kept their distance.

  Alejandro and I walked back side by side. “Are you married?” I asked.

  He laughed. “No. It’s not easy to meet women in this life.”

  “Do you want to?”

  He scratched the back of his neck. “Yes. But I prayed to God many times for a family, and he gave me one. This one. My devotion lies with Calavera and Cristiano always.”

  I didn’t understand how somebody so cruel could command loyalty from so many people, but Alejandro seemed to be proof it was possible. He had a genuine air to him, and I believed him when he said he wasn’t in a bad situation.

  I followed Alejandro back into the house and through a multi-car garage I hadn’t yet seen. We passed a Jeep with mud-splattered tires, a sleek, black Mercedes-Benz G-Class, and a monstrous Ford F-150—and that was only in the first section of the garage. “How many cars does one man need?” I asked.

  “They’re for cartel use, and they’re how we get in and out. We have another garage off the premises where we keep the good stuff. McLarens, Audis, etcetera.”

  Well, I supposed there had to be some spoils in exchange for the risks they took. Alejandro opened a door to a staircase and flipped on a light. “I’ll meet you down there,” he said, pulling out his two-way radio. “I’m going to have one of the guys run this like a drill so it feels real. I’ll let the staff know so nobody freaks out.”

  “How will I know which alarm means to go down there?”

  “There’s only one,” he said. “Trust me—you’ll know.”

  I descended the stairs into the cellar. Stacks of wine bottles lined the walls, some behind glass in refrigerators that emitted a warm glow. I walked the perimeter of the room until I reached a steel door that must’ve led to the pa
nic room. I tried the handle and was surprised to find it open.

  I stepped into the dark and tried a switch. Fluorescent lights hummed to life overhead. The large concrete box had clean, gray floors, a windowed office, and multiple doorways. Industrial washing machines and dryers sat against one wall. Boxes and crates were piled next to a row of bicycles. Definitely not the panic room, but still not a place I was sure I was allowed.

  I glanced over my shoulder and walked in, peering into a large closet of cleaning supplies and equipment. I was about to move on when I noticed transparent bins of women’s sneakers and sandals, separated and marked by size, stacked almost to the ceiling. I flipped on the light to see what was in some smaller tubs piled in another corner.

  My jaw tingled as my eyes adjusted to what was in front of me.

  Assorted sizes and colors of bras and underwear.

  What the fuck?

  I made my way to another doorway. This one led to whole other room, as big as Cristiano’s bedroom. Metal shelving lined the perimeter, stocked with more folded pants, t-shirts, and sweaters than a person could ever need. Even stranger, I realized as I picked up a pair of jeans, it was only women’s and children’s clothing.

  Countless boxes were labeled in Spanish for toothbrushes, toothpaste, hairbrushes, and other toiletries. Down the center, on a long metal slab of table, travel-size toiletries were grouped like some kind of assembly line. At the end were boxes of plastic zippered bags stocked with everything from shampoo and conditioner to cotton balls to aspirin bottles. Like toiletry bags I’d pack for a trip.

  It made no sense. I’d expected to find a museum of body parts—and I still did—but this was more akin to a drugstore.

  Drugs. It hit me. People smuggled narcotics in all sorts of creative ways. I picked up a tube of toothpaste, cracked the seal, and squeezed some out. I smelled and tasted it, but there was nothing suspicious about it.