Falling for the Forbidden: 10 Full-Length Novels

by Jessica Hawkins

  I returned my eyes to Father Rios, who seemed to be whispering his own prayer while waiting for my answer.

  Cristiano turned to me, laced our fingers together, and raised my hand between us. “He has asked if you’ll take me as your husband, Natalia.”

  I can’t. I can’t say it.

  After a moment, one of Cristiano’s men said, “She does.”

  “I heard it too,” the ugly guard said.

  “Por favor,” the priest pleaded. “I can’t proceed without her consent.”

  “Nor can I,” said Cristiano. My palm perspired in his rough one. He squeezed it gently. “Tell him, Natalia Lourdes.”

  Father Rios’ fallen expression took my heart down with it. He was as trapped as I was. I straightened my shoulders and looked at Cristiano. His dark eyes danced. The sharp lines of his angular face almost softened with something like happiness. “I do,” I said to him.

  Cristiano stood and helped me up. He reached for my left hand. “I don’t have your ring yet.” From his pocket, he produced a considerable but simple diamond in a gold setting and slipped it on me. “For the sake of the ceremony, until we find one that suits you.”

  “I don’t need one,” I said.

  He glanced at the priest, who nodded for him to continue.

  “With this ring, I thee wed. With my body, I thee worship.” Cristiano commanded my attention, and again, the others fell away. As his dark eyes drank me in, I only wondered how, if he’d not been to many weddings, he knew what to say. Or why he seemed to say it with such vehemence, as if he meant it.

  It wasn’t like he needed anyone in this church, not even the reverend, to believe it.

  “With all my worldly goods,” he continued, “I thee endow—en el nombre del Padre, y del Hijo, y del Espíritu Santo. Prometo amarte y respetarte todos los días de mi vida. Amén.”

  He hesitated, as if he half-expected me to repeat the words back to him.

  I promise to love and respect you for all the days of my life.

  My new husband was turning out to be a riddle.

  But I wouldn’t mock the church and say what he asked of me.

  We were mercifully interrupted. Out of nowhere, a man in cowboy boots and a matching hat appeared and clomped down the aisle to us. “¡Felicidades!” he said. “Congratulations to the happy couple.”

  “Remove your hat in the church,” Cristiano said.

  “Of course.” The man did as he was told and held out a folder.

  Cristiano opened it, looked over some paperwork, and rearranged the pages. Satisfied, he turned the file around for me. “Sign.”

  I glanced at the sheet on top. “What is it?”

  “To legalize the marriage with a civil ceremony.”

  “Why all this trouble?” I asked, shaking my head. “You could take me to the Badlands and imprison me there whether we’re legally married or not.”

  “I have my reasons.” He nodded at the cowboy, who patted his pockets before producing a pen. “Sign.”

  I started to protest, but what could I say? And what did it matter? Signing on the devil’s dotted line was no more permanent than the verbal agreement I’d already given. I had lost, and I feared I’d need my strength to fight bigger battles later.

  The man started to put his hat back on, then seemed to remember Cristiano’s order and held it to his chest. “I’ll need those medical records, compañero. They’re supposed to be done weeks in advance.”

  “I’m grateful for all the concessions you’ve made for my wife,” Cristiano said, returning the folder to the man once I’d signed. “You have a friend in Calavera.”

  “Gracias, de la Rosa,” the cowboy said, slipping the paperwork under his arm. He bowed to me, replaced his hat, and returned from wherever he’d come.

  I found myself staring at Cristiano like everyone else in the church. He thought himself a god and expected the same of others.

  He’d called me his wife. My fingers and toes curled. I was what my mother had been to my father. In some ways, it was a stretch—the devotion between them had run deep, the love profound, and here I was marrying a man I knew little better than a stranger. Yet that wasn’t true. Cristiano had been a constant presence in my life, even after he’d left. There were similarities to our marriages too. My mother and father had trusted Cristiano with their lives and now, I was putting that same faith in him.

  Trusting him with my eternal life as we descended into hell.

  Promising him my love everlasting while my heart belonged to another.

  Cristiano turned to the priest. “Finish it.”

  Father Rios nodded. “You may kiss the bride.”

  Cristiano gestured for my bouquet. For strength, I called upon a moment in which I hadn’t feared Cristiano. A sunlit afternoon many years ago when he’d carried baskets of daisies and morning glory. I’d held Mamá’s hand on our way back to the house, turned, and caught him smelling the flowers. He’d winked at me. I’d laughed, thinking it funny back then that it was more unusual to see him toting flowers than it would’ve been a gun.

  I prayed, for my sake, that man still lived in him.

  He took the bouquet from my nerveless fingers, unwrapping the rosary from its stems. “What do you think of it?” he asked.

  “What?” I looked between us. “The rosary is from you? But how did you know?”

  “It’s not a replica. It was your mother’s.”

  I could clearly remember her turning these beads through her slender fingers in this very church. The memory brought tears to my eyes. Now, I truly had a piece of her, but under such dire circumstances.

  He pocketed it, then passed my bridal bouquet to a guard, who handled it with surprising care.

  Cristiano cupped his hands around my jaw. He had to stoop a good deal to meet me, even as he lifted my face the rest of the way. He waited there, his unforgiving eyes boring into mine as if trying to read my mind. I had only one mounting thought, though.

  Please, let this be another nightmare, for the darkness I’ve resisted welcomes me too easily.

  Let Cristiano dematerialize into the black shadow that haunts my sleep.

  Let him have mercy.

  Let him release me.

  He pressed his lips to mine, their yielding fullness a stark contrast to the firm hands that held me in place. He inhaled sharply, as if he’d surprised himself as well. My heart pounded. His mouth parted, and mine did the same, granting him access that he seized, plunging his tongue inside to find mine just as eager. I gripped his elbows as his fingertips dug into my cheeks, my knees threatening to give out. A kiss that promised lovemaking in one breath and fucking in the next.

  He drew away, leaving me gasping. I kept my eyes closed as the silence grew weighty between us. Why did giving into his kiss feel like walking into darkness—a temptation I knew I should resist? I half-expected a soothing whisper from him, maybe even something sweet.

  I eased my eyes open. He kept my face in his hands but had his head turned toward the back of the church. “Envision me taking her with the same fervor on this, our wedding night, brother,” he said, then kissed me again.

  I jerked away and slapped him. The sound of it echoed through the church—skin on skin, and Pilar’s loud gasp—whereas my regret was immediate.

  Cristiano glared at me, working his jaw side to side, anger clearly building within him.

  Even with the realization of what I’d done, rage burned in me. For the way he’d flaunted the kiss, something that should’ve been sacred no matter the circumstances. For how he’d used me to become even more powerful. For how he’d stolen my senses and tricked me into enjoying the kiss.

  “You’ve ruined me,” I said to him, and turned to look down the aisle at Diego. “And you let him.”

  I picked up my dress and strode down the aisle. If Cristiano didn’t like it, let him shoot me in the back.

  “Talia,” Diego said, pressing his palms together in supplication. “Wait.”

  I pushed
by him. “Go to hell.”

  Max blocked the door, stopping me with a curt shake of his head. There was nobody to help. Nobody but me.

  I spun back and stood in front of Diego as my vision blurred with tears. “You were careless with my father’s business and careless with me. Now I’ll pay the price.”

  “You saved my life,” he said. “I will forever be grateful to you.”

  I grabbed the lapels of his suit to push him away, but I couldn’t. I didn’t want him to go to hell. I wanted him to stay with me. Diego took my wrists. I fisted the fabric and buried my face in his chest. “You know what he has planned for me.”

  Without turning, I sensed Cristiano at my back before he spoke. “Take your hands off my wife, or I will add them to my collection.”

  I squeezed my eyes shut. I would soon see Cristiano’s rumored museum of body parts with my own eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” Diego said, and we released each other.

  “She is mine,” Cristiano said. “Say it.”

  The tie of Diego’s knot hung loose, defeated. I hated that he had put me in this position, but I hated how Cristiano rubbed it in our faces even more.

  “She is yours in the eyes of God,” Diego said, “but in every other way, she is mine. Saying otherwise won’t change the fact.”

  I turned to Cristiano to plead with him not to react to Diego’s baiting words, but he stood calm.

  “As I told you before, brother,” he said, each word slow and clipped, “once this was done, there’d be no turning back. She is mine. If you, or anyone, touches her again, I will rain down a fury the likes of which not even the Maldonados have seen.”

  Chills spread over every inch of my skin. He only said it to goad Diego, but his possessiveness gripped and thrilled me in ways that scared me.

  Cristiano lowered his eyes and locked them on me. “Get out.”

  Instinctively, I knew he wasn’t talking to me.

  “Out!” Cristiano bellowed. He looked around, meeting eyes with each of his men and then Diego. “Everyone leave. You too, Max, and take the priest. I have business with my wife.”

  The church emptied quickly—too quickly. I couldn’t even get a handle on my trepidation over being alone with him.

  When it was just us, Cristiano walked forward until we were face to face. “Next time you slap me,” he said, “save it for the bedroom.”

  I let out a shaky breath. My only comfort was being in the church. I had to believe he wouldn’t punish me for my insolence in God’s house.

  He looked me up and down. “Hit me, rage against me, call me names. But I have two rules you won’t break twice. First, Diego will never touch you again. And second, you will not ever lie to me, even one more time.”

  I racked my brain for what he might be referring to. “I didn’t lie,” I said quickly.

  “No?” he asked. “What did you think would happen when you came to my bed and didn’t bleed?”

  I swallowed my gasp and did my best to school my shock. He knew I wasn’t a virgin—yet he’d gone through with the wedding anyway. “Not every woman bleeds,” I said, careful to speak honestly.

  “Not with Diego, I’m sure. He treats you like you’re breakable. I won’t. With me, you’d have bled, and perhaps you still will in other ways.” He raised his chin. “Remove your dress.”

  What? My jaw went slack. He couldn’t mean for me to strip down here? I ceased to breathe or function in any way but to stare at him—and shake all over with the force and speed of my hammering heart.

  “Y-you can’t,” I said, my mouth completely dry. Even Hades would wait until he was back in the underground for this next part. “We’re in a church.”

  “White doesn’t suit you, my lovely wife.” He circled me until he was at my back. I didn’t even have the wherewithal to try to keep him in my sight. He wouldn’t do this here. He couldn’t.

  He trailed a finger up my spine until he’d reached the top button of my dress, just under my hairline. He gripped the back of the collar with both hands, slipping his knuckles between the fabric and my skin. It was a warm caress that spurred panic in me as I realized what he was doing.

  “Stop—”

  He yanked the dress open, ripping my mother’s lace.

  I opened my mouth, and my chin trembled. I thought I’d already known the worst of him, but he would prove me wrong. When his footsteps sounded again, I did my best to inhale back the urge to cry. My weakness would only spur him on.

  Cristiano finished his circle and stood in front of me again with darkened eyes and lowered lids. “Now, take off your dress, Natalia—and let me see what my brother’s freedom bought me.”

  * * *

  Now Available: Violent Ends

  Continue the series now

  Mountain Darkness

  By

  Vanessa Vale

  1

  KIT

  I stuck my arm out from beneath the covers and slapped at the top of my alarm clock to shut it up. God, it was too early. Even though the sun was peeking beneath my blinds, I wanted to snuggle deeper for a few more hours. Groaning, I kicked my legs out and sat up. Last night’s wedding had gone smoothly; at least the bride and groom had thought so. Erin and I had been able to sober up the groom’s uncle with two cups of coffee in time for family photos. They never knew the veggie medley on the sit-down meals hadn’t been a medley at all, but solo broccoli.

  While the couple had a wedding day, and most likely night, to remember, mine had been less exciting. For my wild Saturday night, I’d picked up the daily lottery ticket for my mother on the way home, kicked off my heels by the front door, then fell into bed like a tree being cut down and slept until… the annoying alarm.

  We had a breakfast meeting with our new—and biggest—client, and all this work was why I’d returned to Cutthroat, but a few extra hours of sleep wouldn’t have hurt.

  I didn’t smell any coffee brewing, which meant Erin was still asleep. She’d scheduled the early meeting, so the least she could have done was get up first and get the caffeine injection ready.

  Already grouchy, I quickly made my bed, then padded out of my room and down the hall, tugging my sleep shirt down. I made it as far as the couch in the great room, then stopped. Stared. Blinked. I wasn’t quite awake, my mind not firing on all cylinders, but seeing Erin sprawled on the floor, I went fully alert between one heartbeat and the next.

  “Erin!” I shouted, dropping to my knees before her. Her blonde hair was matted to her head with blood. So much of it was soaked into the carpet. Her blue eyes stared up at me, vacant and empty. “Oh my god, Erin. Wake up!”

  Rationally, I knew she was dead. Her eyes weren’t moving. Her lips were gray. The side of her head… god, it was bad. Irrationally, I lifted it onto my lap, brushed her hair back, kept telling her to wake up. When I realized I was smearing the blood, I stopped. I started to shake, to look around to figure out how she’d ended up like this. Help. She needed help.

  Carefully, I laid her back on the floor and ran to my room, grabbed my cell from the charger. With shaky fingers, I tried to swipe my screen for access. “Come on,” I whimpered, but my fingers were covered in blood and it wouldn’t work. I wiped them on my sleep shorts and tried again.

  “9-1-1, what is your emergency?”

  “I… my friend… she’s dead. Oh god. You have to send an ambulance.”

  “Ma’am, what is your address?”

  I told her, then answered all the questions she tossed at me in her efficient voice. I stayed on the line with her until I heard sirens, then hung up and ran outside. Erin’s house was a custom build with all wood and glass, with more rooms than one person needed. It sat in a high-end enclave of homes with large lots and great views that would make a big dent in most people’s bank accounts, but not Erin’s. She was a Mills. I ran down the front walk in my bare feet to meet the fire truck and ambulance that had pulled into the circular drive and pointed toward the house.

  “Are you hurt?” one of t
he paramedics asked, looking me over as the others went inside.

  I shook my head. “It’s… it’s not my blood. I found her.”

  I followed him back into the house where the other paramedic and three firemen stood in the two-story great room in front of river rock fireplace, but weren’t doing anything to help Erin. One was speaking into a walkie talkie, although I wasn’t paying any attention to what he was saying.

  I looked down at Erin by the couch, just as I’d left her. The responders weren’t doing anything because they knew she was dead. She looked dead, even wearing her familiar black yoga pants and white tank top, the shirt stained with blood on the right side.

  “Ma’am, can you tell me what happened here?” a firefighter asked, taking in my appearance. “Did you get in a fight?”

  My mouth dropped open. “What? No. I… I just woke up. I found her like that.” I pointed toward Erin.

  “Why are you covered in blood?”

  I spun about at the voice. It wasn’t any of the first responders, but someone else. Someone I knew, just by the deep tone of his words.

  “Nix,” I whispered.

  The man who’d starred in the bulk of my late-night fantasies stood before me in all his six feet plus glory. He wore jeans and a button-down shirt, a prized rodeo belt buckle about his waist. A service pistol was in a holster on his hip right next to the badge, and right next to that… his bulge.

  I blinked, looked away. God, my roommate was dead, and I was ogling Nixon Knight’s package. But it was Nix. Everything about him was familiar, like coming home, even though I hadn’t seen him in over a year. Even though he was one of the reasons I’d left Cutthroat. Even though he had zero interest in me. That had me glancing away, my cheeks flushing. Not from being caught, but from the shame from last year. My wasted imaginings. My misplaced love.

  “Kit,” he replied, reaching out and settling his hand on my shoulder and bending at the waist so his dark eyes met mine. “You’re not hurt?”

  His gaze was shrewd, assessing, taking in every inch of me.