Valentine’s with the Cartel (Nightshade Wolves #9)

Chapter 1

Anan

I stared out the window as the city blurred by, my reflection a pale oval against the streaked glass. Aunt Mara sat beside me, her hands clasped tightly in her lap as she gazed ahead with a grim expression. Why was she acting like this? It was her fault. All of it was her fault.

The silence between us was thick and heavy, laden with unspoken words that choked the air. We both didn't want to say what we were thinking. We knew it would hurt too much.

My mind reeled, unable to process the bombshell she had dropped only days ago. Only frigging days ago.

So, I was going to be married. And to some stranger in the cartel to boot? I was barely twenty-one, my life still stretching out before me like an endless expanse of potential. The thought of being tied down, of surrendering my freedom and identity to a man I'd never met, made my stomach churn with dread.

The surprising thing was that we knew my groom was in the cartel. That was actually everything we knew about him.

Aunt Mara, sensing my turmoil, reached over to squeeze my hand, but I didn't want it. I hated it, actually.She was feigning empathy for me, but we both knew that she did what she did because she wanted money.

"I know this is a lot to take in, Anan. But you have to trust me on this. It's for the best."

Her words only fueled the resentment simmering in my gut. For the best? Really? I knew she didn't really think that.

She had no right to decide my future like some pawn on a chessboard. The bitter thoughts circled in my head, each one more vicious than the last. It was difficult to control them. It was actually getting possible to keep doing that.

Hadn't she promised to keep me safe, after all? To protect me after Mom and Dad died? And this was how she repaid that trust—by selling me off like livestock to the highest bidder? The truth was hard to ignore.

I wanted to scream at her, to rail against the injustice of it all. But the words lodged in my throat, stuck fast by years of ingrained obedience and the ever-present fear that still lurked in the shadows of my mind. I knew from experience where lashing out could lead.

But I really wanted to do that. I wanted to tell her everything I was thinking.

But I simply withdrew my hand and turned my face back to the window, letting the tears that pricked at the corners of my eyes fall unchecked down my cheeks. Aunt Mara sighed beside me but said nothing more as the car pulled up to the curb outside the pack house.

Maybe now I was finally going to meet my soon-to-be husband, but I wasn't really holding my breath for that. After all, whoever he was, he really wanted to keep his identity secret from me until the very last moment.

I stared up at the imposing facade with a sinking heart, knowing that once I crossed that threshold, there would be no turning back. The die was cast and my fate sealed by my aunt's selfish desire for more money.

My mind drifted back to my childhood with Aunt Mara, a jumble of fragmented memories that I had long tried to suppress. I didn't want to think about them, but they were all coming back. Of course they were. This was the right moment to keep tormenting me.

She had taken me in after my parents' deaths, and for a while, I had been grateful for her presence in my life. But as the years passed, the cracks in our relationship began to show—as they always do. That’s something that happens in every relationship eventually.

I remember the way she would snap at me for the smallest things, like leaving a dish in the sink or forgetting to put my toys away. Her voice was always sharp and biting, and it made me shrink into myself with fear and shame. I learned early on that it was better to stay out of her way when she was in one of her moods. And it happened more often than it should.

And maybe, just maybe, what was happening was an exit for me. Getting married to whoever was going to become my husband meant living with him, after all.

There were moments of kindness with her too, fleeting and infrequent as they may have been. Aunt Mara had a soft side that she rarely showed, and when she did, I clung to those tender moments like a lifeline. The gentle touch of her hand on my head as she tucked me into bed at night. The rare smile that lit up her eyes when I did something to please her. Those were good things.

As I grew older, though, the bad times began to outweigh the good. That wasn't a surprise.

Aunt Mara grew more distant and critical, always finding fault with everything I did. She would make snide remarks about my appearance or my grades, chipping away at my self-esteem until I felt like nothing more than a disappointment to her. It was hell.

I started to withdraw into myself more and more, spending hours holed up in my room to avoid her biting tongue. It was in those moments I wished I had friends so I could spend time with them.

Even in my room, though, I found no solace. Aunt Mara would barge in unannounced, rifling through my belongings and making disparaging comments about the books I read or the music I listened to. Why did she feel she needed to know everything about me? I never did the same to her. I never would to anyone. Everybody had a right to their privacy, after all.

It was a lonely existence, filled with a constant state of anxiety and dread. I never knew what to expect from her, whether she would be the caring aunt one moment and the cruel tormentor the next. It was exhausting, always walking on eggshells and trying to appease her fickle moods.

No matter how hard I tried, I could never figure it out—it was beyond my capabilities. I gave up on it a long time ago.

Looking back, I realized that Aunt Mara's actions were a form of emotional abuse, designed to keep me dependent and obedient. She wanted to control every aspect of my life, from what I wore to who I associated with. And for the longest time, I let her because I was too scared to stand up for myself.

Even now, that was still kind of working. Less than before, but it was still present.

As a child, I knew that something was fundamentally wrong with our relationship. Anybody would have arrived at that conclusion, to be honest.

There was a hollowness in her eyes when she looked at me, a cold detachment that made my skin crawl. It was as if she resented me for being there, for being a constant reminder of the tragedy that had befallen our family.

But it wasn't my fault. I didn't have anything to do with what happened. Why would she think that way?

As I grew older and began to assert my independence, Aunt Mara's grip on me only tightened. She would fly into rage-filled tantrums when I tried to make decisions about my future, screaming at me until I cowered in fear. It was then that I realized the true extent of her selfishness and manipulation.

She never truly loved me; she just wanted to possess me, to keep me under her thumb for her own twisted purposes. And now, as I sat in the car beside her on the way to meet my unknown husband, I felt a wave of anger wash over me at the realization of just how little my aunt had ever cared about my happiness.

As the car pulled up to the curb, I hesitated for a moment before reaching for the handle. I didn't want to do it. I felt like it was the last step before absolute hell started to happen.

Aunt Mara's hand on my arm stopped me, her grip surprisingly tight.

"Anan, listen to me," she said, locking her eyes with me. "Whatever happens in there, just go along with it. Don't make a scene. It's for the best."

I stared at her, incredulous. Was she serious? How could she say that after everything I'd been through? But then I realized nothing was surprising about her behavior. It was expected, coming from her.

Before I could respond to her order, she was shoving me out of the car and onto the pavement. I stumbled, catching myself on the side of the vehicle as I straightened up and smoothed my shirt. Just like that, the moment when she was showing sympathy for me, it was over.

The air outside was cool against my flushed skin, carrying the distant sound of traffic and the sharp tang of exhaust fumes. I took a deep breath, trying to calm the nerves that were twisting my stomach into knots.

Aunt Mara emerged from the car behind me, her heels clicking on the pavement as she came to stand beside me. She had her game face on, all poise and confidence as she surveyed the imposing facade of the pack house before us.

I followed her gaze, my heart sinking at the sight of the towering structure. It loomed over us like a monolith, its dark windows seeming to stare down with an almost predatory intensity.

Suddenly, my attention was caught by a figure standing in the distance, partially obscured by the shadows of the building. I squinted, trying to make out his features as he moved into a patch of light.

He was tall and broad-shouldered, his dark hair cropped close to his head. As he turned slightly, I caught a glimpse of a strong jawline and piercing eyes that seemed to bore into me from across the distance.

My gut clenched with a sudden, visceral reaction. This was him. I knew it with a bone-deep certainty. My unknown groom, the man who would be my husband in mere moments.

Aunt Mara must have sensed my unease, because she stepped closer and gripped my arm again, her nails digging into my flesh.

"Remember what I said, Anan," she hissed under her breath. "Don't do anything stupid. Just play along."

And I couldn't help but think that she had always known who my husband was going to be. Her reaction was telling me exactly that. Otherwise, she shouldn't have known that was really him and should be acting much more casually.

I tore my gaze away from the distant figure and met my aunt's eyes, seeing the steely determination in them. She was really serious about this. There was no backing out now.

With a deep breath, I straightened my spine and nodded once, telling her that, yes, I understood her. Whatever happened next, I would face it head-on. There was no other choice.

With me slightly behind her, we walked up the steps to the heavy wooden doors, our footsteps echoing in the sudden silence. The figure in the shadows watched us approach, his stance relaxed but with an underlying tension that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

As we drew closer, I could see him more clearly now. His eyes were a striking hazel, framed by thick lashes and set beneath a strong brow. There was a scar above his left eyebrow, a thin white line that only added to his dangerous aura.

He was dressed impeccably in a tailored suit that hugged his muscular frame, the material stretching across his broad shoulders before tapering down to his lean waist. Everything about him screamed power and authority, from the set of his jaw to the way he held himself with an almost predatory grace.

I never expected any different from that. I knew he was dangerous, considering that he was in the cartel.