Morgue
A Bones MC Romance
Iron Tzars MC, Book 11
by Marteeka Karland
Motorcycle Club Romance
Date Published: June 14, 2024
Publisher: Changeling Press
Dorothy: Spring Break turned into my worst nightmare. Drugged and held against my will, the brutality I witness seems too horrible to be real. Unable to escape, unable to do anything other than await my fate, I nearly gave up hope. Then he burst through the door like an avenging angel. My very own angel of death.
Morgue: I’m a straight-up killer. It’s what I’ve trained for my entire adult life. I got my road name because I’ve put more men in the morgue than all my brothers combined. So when we rescue a group of women being held by human traffickers, I did what I do best. I killed. But not for all the women we rescued. For her. Dorothy. My very own angel of mercy. Now that I have her, I’ll do anything to keep her. I just hope she can accept what I am and not condemn my soul to hell.
WARNING: Morgue includes scenes of graphic violence and adult situations including those that may be triggers for some readers. There’s also a protective hero, a determined heroine, and an eventual happy ending. No cheating, as always.
Excerpt
Dorothy
Moans of the other women in the shitty little shack filled the air. I knew the feeling. My head throbbed and every muscle in my body ached. The rooms were paper thin so we all could hear the screams of the others around us. The cruel laughter of men. The frightened whimpers of the women. And girls. I had absolutely no idea where I was or how long I’d been there, but I knew it wasn’t Kansas.
“Levántate, perra. Afuera.”
“I don’t understand.” It wasn’t a new thing. And I’d paid for not knowing Spanish more than once since I’d been taken.
“¡Ahora!” The guy knew I didn’t understand. It felt like he took pleasure in the fact I didn’t understand so he could single me out. I shrank back, trying to make myself smaller in the face of the brutality I knew was about to happen. He lunged forward and backhanded me before grabbing my arm and shoving me out of the tiny room I shared with five other girls.
I hit the floor, my knees slamming onto the hard dirt. Pain shot from my knees up my thighs, and I cried out. When I tried to get up, the guy kicked me in the side. My head spun with all the sudden movements. I thought it was also some kind of lingering effect of the drugs they kept shooting me full of. They did it to everyone who fought. Unless they wanted us to fight. I got dosed often.
“Perra estúpida,” he muttered. I got the “stupid” part, and I could only assume the other was “bitch,” but it could have been anything. The kick knocked the breath out of me and sent pain exploding through my ribs. I groaned but knew better than to make too much of a fuss. Noise drew attention I didn’t want. Attention meant someone was about to hurt me worse than I already was.
“¡Escuchen!” The big brute swept his hand through the air, obviously wanting everyone’s attention. He spoke in a string of rapid-fire Spanish I didn’t understand. I was pretty sure something horrible was about to happen and I sincerely hoped it didn’t have anything to do with me. I’d been here maybe a week. Seemed like longer. I was surprised this guy or the men and women with him hadn’t done more than terrorize me or the other women. Though I was sure the qualifier “yet” needed to be added. There was no way they’d brought us here for tantalizing conversation. Though I’d been smacked around a lot and was covered in bruises, they hadn’t seriously harmed me. Again, there was that fucking qualifier hanging over my head.
I crawled very slowly to the wall where the other women were, trying not to make sudden moves so he didn’t bring his focus back to me. The one thing I knew for sure -- in spite of the language barrier -- was that I absolutely did not want any of these men to focus on me for too long.
All the women around me were whimpering and trembling, looking as terrified as I felt. A few looked like they might have checked out and I didn’t blame them. If I knew how, I probably would too. Fighting back didn’t seem like the smart thing to do if I wanted to live. While I knew there were fates worse than death, I wasn’t ready to contemplate them just yet. I was sure, at some point, I’d have to face that decision, and I wasn’t looking forward to it.
More rapid-fire Spanish followed as one of the other men dragged a young woman down the hall and tossed her to the ground so she skidded several feet before rolling to her knees with a whimper. She’d been beaten, one side of her face swollen. I hadn’t seen her before, but, given the track marks on her arms and how badly she’d been beaten, I was certain she’d attempted to escape. They’d likely dosed her as much as they’d dosed the rest of us when we got out of line. Only, this time, I got the impression this guy was done taking shit.
“Esto es lo que les pasa a las perras que no me obedecen. Si no me obedeces, esto te pasará.”
I didn’t understand. But I didn’t have to. The next thing I knew, he’d drawn out a machete. The girl screamed and tried to scramble back only to be held in place by two more men. A third helped them wrestle her to the ground onto her back. Once they had her down, the third guy held her legs at the ankles. There was a whoosh as the blade cut through the air and came down on her right thigh.
Blood arced when he raised the machete and brought it down again on the same leg. It took three more tries before he hacked her leg off and started on the other one. Everyone screamed, myself included. When anyone turned away, there were men to force them to turn back. And watch.
Before he got her second leg hacked off, the woman was unconscious. There was blood splatter everywhere, but once a limb was completely severed, the bleeding slowed dramatically. Still, the men tied tourniquets above the stumps.
I’m sure I was one of the women screaming. If I was, though, I had no memory of it. All I could process was a young woman getting her legs chopped off.
“Esto es lo que sucede cuando intentas escapar.” He spat on her. “Una puta sin piernas es más fácil de follar. ¿Sí?”
I stared at the unconscious woman. Though he hadn’t killed her outright, I was sure she wouldn’t last long. One of the men grabbed her wrist and dragged her out of the room, leaving a trail of blood as he went.
As I watched, one of the men approached me with an evil smirk on his face. “In case you’re wondering,” he said in thickly accented Spanish, “He said this is what happens when you try to escape, Americana.” He grinned. “And a whore without legs is easier to fuck.” He snorted a laugh. “I happen to agree. So, I’m really hoping you try to escape too.”
I barely held back a sob of despair. I knew he was trying to elicit a response from me, likely to give him a reason to hit me. There were some of us who tried to fight back when they came for us, but we were always overpowered. So far, all they’d done was beat me, but most of the others had been brutally raped and I knew that’s what they were building up to. This was a whorehouse of sorts. Only, the women didn’t get paid. The men who “owned” us did. A place where we were all used and trafficked.
The guy backhanded me when I didn’t respond to him. I fell back with a cry, covering my head with my arms and whimpering.
“Don’t worry, bitch. You won’t suffer long. I doubt you make it a month once we start breaking you in.” He gave a bark of laughter before kicking me.
My head swam from both the blow to my face and the remaining drugs in my system. More men crowded us in the tiny corridor only to shove us into various rooms. There were five more women in the room I landed in. Three filthy mattresses lay on the floor and a bucket sat in one corner for us to relieve ourselves. That’s the way it had been since I’d been here.
The next thing was the men coming to shoot us full of whatever drug they were using. I suspected it was heroin. A couple of the girls screamed while the other three complied easily. Probably because they were addicted or figured it was better to endure whatever happened next while blissfully numb than stone-cold sober. I understood. While I couldn’t put up much of a fight this time, I wanted to. Desperately. I hadn’t given up hope of getting out of here alive. Not really. Not yet. But I wasn’t too ashamed to admit I was fucking close.
A man held my arm while another jabbed a needle into my arm at the bend of my elbow and pressed the plunger. The pain of the dull needle sinking into my arm was soon replaced by a sickening euphoria. My eyes glazed over and my body went limp. I was still conscious, but… detached.
That was when one of the men shoved me onto a mattress and pulled at my clothes. He was breathing heavily and talking in Spanish, but I got the gist of what he was saying. He was going to fuck me. I caught the word “Americana” and figured he was taking bragging rights by fucking the American woman. They all looked at my blonde hair and blue eyes, going so far as to pry my eyes open and touch my eyeball, like a child testing if something was real. Maybe they thought I had contacts or something. Many of them felt my hair, fisting it and mimicked wrapping it around their cocks. I imagined far worse was going to happen shortly.
I whimpered but couldn’t even form words to tell the guy to stop. Not that it would have done any good. I batted at him weakly, but he didn’t seem to notice much less even acknowledge I was trying to fight him off.
Once he had me naked from the waist down, the guy crawled on top of me, pressing me into the filthy mattress. He reached between us and freed his cock. I could feel the head of it touching me. I shuddered, gagging as I pushed at him weakly.
“No!” I tried to shout the word at him, but it was a whisper at best. Just as he was about to penetrate me, there was a huge bang and the door splintered, throwing pieces of wood all around the room. I was sure some were embedded in my skin, but I still couldn’t do more than try to roll away from the man on top of me.
He shouted, pushing himself to his feet. Once his weight was off me, I crawled as best I could to the corner of the room and tucked myself into a ball. It was all I was capable of. I couldn’t even cry. Oh, tears poured freely from my eyes, but I didn’t have the strength to sob out my fear and frustration.
I thought there were screams all around me, not only in this room but in others nearby, but it was hard to tell. The more I tried to move, the more the room spun. Somewhere in the background of all that, and the ringing in my ears, I knew a fight raged. Was it more men coming to chop off the legs of someone else? Oh, God!
Then someone grabbed at my arms. I was helpless to stop them. I thought I was even more groggy than I had been when I was about to be raped. Whatever drug they’d given me had started to take hold. It was only the adrenaline coursing through my veins that kept me conscious.
“Hold on, honey. We’re gettin’ you outta here.”
About the Author
Marteeka Karland is an international bestselling author who leads a double life as an erotic romance author by evening and a semi-domesticated housewife by day. Known for her down and dirty MC romances, Marteeka takes pleasure in spinning tales of tenacious, protective heroes and spirited, vulnerable heroines. She staunchly advocates that every character deserves a blissful ending, even, sometimes, the villains in her narratives. Her writings are speckled with intense, raw elements resulting in page-turning delight entwined with seductive escapades leading up to gratifying conclusions that elicit a sigh from her readers.
Away from the pen, Marteeka finds joy in baking and supporting her husband with their gardening activities. The late summer season is set aside for preserving the delightful harvest that springs from their combined efforts (which is mostly his efforts, but you can count it). To stay updated with Marteeka's latest adventures and forthcoming books, make sure to visit her website. Don't forget to register for her newsletter which will pepper you with a potpourri of Teeka's beloved recipes, book suggestions, autograph events, and a plethora of interesting tidbits.
Author on Instagram & TikTok: @marteekakarland
Publisher on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and TikTok: @changelingpress
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