Their Cartel Princess: A Dark Reverse Harem Romance Box Set

by Fox, Logan

  “I told you—” Finn began in a rasp.

  “If not you, then I must choose others. And who knows where their loyalty will lie? If they could be as…professional as the two of you.” Javier glanced over his shoulder at Cora, who’d come to stand in the full sun, shading her eyes as she stared over at the gazebo. Wondering what the hell they were talking about, no doubt.

  Tension drew his muscles taut. Lars rubbed his hand along the back of his neck. Standing there, so isolated, a bright, cheery smudge on the day, Cora really did look like a child. A lost, anxious child in a strange new world.

  For the first time, an invisible hand squeezed at Lars’s heart.

  “And she’s such a lovely girl, isn’t she?” Javier’s voice dripped with insinuation. “I’m sure any man would find it difficult to keep his hands off her. I just want her to be safe…don’t you?”

  * * *

  “Man, are you sure this is the right thing to do?” Lars mumbled.

  “You sound like a stuck record.” Finn gripped the steering wheel even tighter. Lines of red appeared in the whites of his knuckles.

  “You heard what he said. What’ll happen if—”

  “He’s playing us, you idiot. Manipulating us.”

  “Well he’s fucking good at it,” Lars said sulkily. “I’m gonna be wondering for days what the fuck—”

  “He won’t let anything happen to her. It’s obvious she’s important to him.”

  “I don’t get that,” Lars said, sitting forward.

  Grass chafed the bottom of the truck’s chassis. They both had their windows open a crack, despite the dust that tunneled into the car. The dirt road stretched infinitely ahead of them. It felt like they’d been driving for days, not an hour. And every time his eyes went to the rearview mirror, all he could see was a dust cloud. Those prison-towers had been blocked out at least forty minutes ago.

  Cora’s prison.

  He pushed away the thought and focused on keeping the SUV Javier had given them to ride out of the compound on the two-track dirt road.

  “I mean, why not replace her father with someone else from inside the cartel? Someone with experience. She doesn’t exactly strike me as someone who knows the intimate inner workings of a cartel.”

  Finn thought back to Cora’s recitation of the day her father had been dragged into the manor with two slugs still buried in his body.

  “She knows some,” Finn said. And then raised a hand to cut off Lars’s argument. “But not enough. And I don’t know why that prick’s doing what he’s doing.” He shrugged his shoulder into the seat, as much to scratch an itch on his shoulder blade as to rid himself of that feeling of being watched. “Luckily for us, we’re not in it anymore.”

  He glanced across at Lars, who had his chin on his knuckles, staring out the window.

  “We did the right thing. Fuck it, I thought you’d be glad we’re out of there. You were badgering me from day one about—”

  “Why wouldn’t I be glad?” But Lars sounded anything but happy about the situation. He turned his attention back to the road, still looking sulky. Because of leaving the villa…or something else? They’d have to speak about what happened last night, and he’d have preferred it happened once he’d had chance to decompress, but they still had a long road ahead.

  “Look, Lars.” Finn could hear the discomfort in his own voice, and it irked him more than what he was trying to get out of his reluctant throat. “About last night—”

  “Something’s coming,” Lars said, deadpan.

  Finn let out an irritated sigh. “She’s as safe as she—”

  “You fucking numbskull—” Lars pointed through the windshield. “Something’s coming.”

  His eyes snapped back to the road. Far ahead, what could have been a dust cloud stained the sky pale brown.

  “Another car,” Finn said absently, but his beast began pacing in eager anticipation, picking up on something in the air. Violence, or the threat thereof. And happy that something would sate its urges today.

  “Coming pretty damn fast,” Lars muttered. He took his pistol out of his holster, but kept it dangling in a casual hand. Javier had been more than happy to return their weapons, even taking a moment to admire Lars’s Glock with that wide, fake smile of his.

  Ahead, dust boiled into the sky. Their truck was going forty already, so the oncoming vehicle must have been going at least fifty. Suicidally fast, for this terrible road.

  “Maybe it’s our rental,” Finn said, knowing it wasn’t. “Martin said someone would meet us with—”

  “Doesn’t feel right.” Lars cocked his Glock, his arm now stiffer than before. Ready to aim and shoot in a second.

  They crested a low rise and, less than a mile ahead, saw a massive, dented Ford F250 barreling down the road toward them. Almost as soon as their vehicle went over the rise, the Ford slammed on brakes. It bounced over the ridge in the middle of the dirt road as it swerved to block the road.

  “Fuck,” Finn spat.

  His pistol was in his hands. He shifted his left leg, keeping the steering wheel in place as their truck slowly decelerated so he could aim through the windshield at the stopped Ford ahead.

  “We rolling out?” Lars asked quietly.

  “Yeah.”

  He put his hand on the door handle, ready to throw it open and jump from the truck. Better out and mobile than trapped inside. Last he checked, the windshield glass didn’t look thick enough to be bulletproof. One good shot, and Lars would be sitting beside a fucking corpse.

  Ahead, the back door of the Ford flew open. From the corner of his eye, Finn saw Lars shift his aim. He kept his pistol straight at the driver’s side window. If he saw movement there, he’d shoot.

  Something long and floppy was thrown from the backseat. A rolled-up carpet?

  “Fuck,” he said again, and Lars was a second behind with a breathless, “Jesus.”

  The Ford kicked up dust as it swerved to face back the way it came, and then sped away.

  Finn brought their truck to a gradual halt several yards away from what could only have been a trussed-up body. There was a second of silence in the cab, and then Finn blinked hard, leaning forward and squinting through the windshield.

  “Did it just move?” he asked, but Lars was already out the passenger door. “Christ, be careful!” he hollered after Lars, but the man had obviously been struck deaf.

  Bomb.

  The word echoed through his skull like a message straight from God. Finn tore open his door and ran after Lars. “Wait, Lars! It could be a—”

  A dark head wormed its way out of the carpet. It turned left and right, hair mussed and eyes wide. Tracks down either cheek could have been tears or sweat.

  Lars went to his knees and rolled the carpet over in the dirt and dried grass, despite a string of Spanish from the guy stuck inside. When Finn arrived, the whole thing had been unfurled. A Latino boy, no older than seventeen, pushed himself to a sit, and then tried to stand. His legs caved an instant later, but he did his best to kick away from them, yelling blue murder.

  Not in fear, but anger. Those brown eyes blazed with something infernal, his face near white with fury.

  A young face. Strikingly good looking.

  “Shit, Finn. Say something Mexican to calm him down.”

  “I don’t know—” but then he cut off, because he knew at least a handful of phrases. More now, since he’d met Cora.

  “Por favor,” he called out, raising his hands. The guy was obviously unarmed—if he had been carrying, he’d already have shot Finn and Lars. Or the people who’d brought him here.

  Finn’s eyes dashed up, but there were no vehicles in sight. No bomb, either, unless it had been hidden up the guy’s ass.

  Not impossible, but unlikely. They’d all have been blown to bits already.

  The guy paused, but only long enough to try and get his legs under him again. He fell down, sobbed, and slumped onto his stomach.

  “Por favor,” Finn said agai
n, knowing he was getting the phrase at least partly right.

  He looked up, trembling. “What now? You kill me?”

  Finn shook his head. “No.” He lifted a hand, waved it. “No killing.”

  The guy gave an exaggerated shrug. “So now?”

  “What’s your name?” Lars said slowly.

  The guy looked over at him, as if he was considering what the point was in replying. Then he squinted briefly up at the sun, gave his head a shake, and muttered, “Angel.”

  “Angel,” Lars said. “Who were those men?”

  The guy spat again, but it looked like he didn’t really have the saliva to spare. “Pedazo de mierda,” he murmured, and then as if realizing they didn’t know what he meant, said, “Piece of shit.”

  “Okay,” Finn said. He came closer, and crouched about three feet away from Angel. “You hurt?”

  Angel shook his head. That anger was back in his eyes but, judging from the dark circles under them and the way his body shook, it was perhaps the only thing keeping him alive.

  Lars tugged at Finn’s sleeve. He looked up at the man, and followed him a few feet away. “Let’s get the fuck out of here,” Lars whispered, eyes darting meaningfully to Angel before turning back to Finn.

  “We should take him to Martin.”

  “What, we suddenly working for that prick?” Lars snapped.

  Finn put his head to the side. “This is cartel business. It has to be.”

  “Which is none of our fucking business, remember?”

  He opened his mouth to argue, but Lars was already striding away. He crouched beside Angel again, who looked ready to try and get to his feet again, and asked, “Where’s your home?”

  Angel laughed bitterly. For someone so young, the acerbity of that sound scraped fingernails down Finn’s spine. “Home?” Another laugh, this one in real mirth. The guy flung up his hands and then let them fall into the dust. “Okay, gringo. You take me home.”

  Finn got to his feet, and put out his hand. Angel looked at it suspiciously and then took it, letting Finn help him to his feet. He didn’t bother dusting himself off, but he did run a shaky hand through his hair. The other was limp at his side and wound with a filthy, blood-stained bandage.

  “How far is it?” Finn asked as he began leading Angel back to the SUV.

  “Hmm…”

  Detecting something—sarcasm, condescension, who the fuck knew?— in the guy’s voice, Finn turned back to him.

  “How far Mexico?” He pronounced the X like an H, and gave Finn a bleak, jaded smile to go with the question.

  “Jesus,” Lars muttered as he passed the pair. “Still keen on your good deed of the day?”

  “Let’s just take him to Martin, then. Javier can—”

  “Javier Martin?” Angel’s eyes lit up with recognition. “Si, Javier Martin.”

  Lars glared at Finn.

  “Cartel business,” Finn said, and gave Lars a humorless smile.

  “Then let him walk. It’s just a few miles.”

  “So the tower guards can gun him down? Last time I checked, they didn’t like surprise visits.”

  “Fuck,” Lars muttered, spinning away and swiping a hand through his hair. Finn caught something like, “…fucking Grimm story we got ourselves mixed up in, I don’t…”

  Angel’s black eyes swarmed with hatred. He reached under his shirt, to the waistband of his dusty jeans, and Finn knew Lars would have a pistol trained on the side of his head before his eyes flashed up.

  The guy’s hand slowed. “No gun!” He sounded irritated now. “Message. Message for El Guapo.”

  A message boy trussed up in a carpet like a dead body? His beast was snapping and whining at the end of its tether, wanting to rip out the lies from this guy’s warm, still beating heart. But Angel didn’t look like he was lying. He looked dehydrated, scared as hell, and exhausted. And, under all of that, the kind of sad as if he’d lost someone he cared deeply for.

  He drew out a sweat-stained envelope.

  There was no name on it. It could have been addressed to anyone. Who would know it was him that opened—

  Lars snatched the envelope from Angel’s fingers, hesitated, and then lifted the tab and carefully tore apart the seal. He drew out a note, folded once.

  Lars read it. His eyes were blank when he handed it to Finn. A floral scent wafted up from the paper as he snapped it open, thumb on the fold.

  Antonio Rivera is alive, but not for much longer. Antonio has informed me, under great duress, that the archives are in the hands of his daughter. I will trade his life for the archives. Send his daughter to me with the files before six p.m., and Antonio is yours.

  There were GPS co-ords at the bottom of the note.

  Finn almost crumpled the note in his hands, but Lars plucked it away and smoothed it out again, sliding it back inside the stained envelope.

  “Let’s get this over with,” Lars said, gesturing for Angel to walk to the SUV.

  He watched them go. Stared at Lars as the man got behind the driver’s seat and Angel climbed in the back. It took him several seconds to force his legs to go forward. His jaw was so tight, a pain was starting to throb in his skull. Lars turned the truck around, heading back to Javier’s compound.

  Back to Cora.

  He slammed a fist into the SUV’s dashboard. Beside him, Lars gave him a tired look and shrugged his shoulders as if to say, ‘Why fight it?’ So he punched the dash again, receiving a flash of pain for his efforts.

  “Go ahead, break it. Not like it’s ours,” Lars said dryly.

  Finn ran hands down his face.

  Why the fuck couldn’t he escape her?

  43

  Thrown

  Javier’s land had one thing—and one thing only—going for it. It was endless. But it was dry and dusty. Colorless. Even the sky was a pale blue, as if every pigment of color had been leeched from the world.

  They hadn’t even said goodbye.

  Cora blinked hard, clearing her eyes of sudden tears, and tried finding something to focus on that wasn’t a bush or a rock. In the far distance, still hidden behind a heat haze, was what could have been a ridge of low hills. Or just a pile of stones. There were probably vultures out here. They’d circle whenever something died out here—which probably happened often—and then tear whatever was left—

  “Elle?”

  She snapped her eyes to Javier. He leaned forward on his gelding, peering intently at her from under the shade of his elaborately tooled cowboy hat.

  “I’m sorry,” she began, but he gave a dismissive wave and straightened in his saddle. He had the easy-going sway of a trained rider, but she didn’t like how wickedly sharp his spurs were. Or how he’d dig them into his gelding whenever the animal didn’t obey him fast enough.

  “You seem distracted,” Javier said. “Which is understandable. You must have a lot on your mind.”

  “No, just…” she tightened her grip on the reigns and tried to let her body rock with her horse’s slow walk, but for some reason she couldn’t find her usual rhythm in the saddle. “I’m worried about Papá.”

  “Yes,” Javier mused quietly. “I am too, my dear. I am too.”

  The land began to incline slightly, and Cora gripped her gelding with her knees to keep her position in the saddle, leaning forward slightly. The horse sped up into a faster walk.

  It had been antsy from the moment she’d seen it in the stables; prancing back and forth, hardly letting the groom saddle it. She’d worried if it would be a fierce ride, but it turned out the horse had just been anxious to get out.

  Javier’s gelding had reared. And, even now, there was a less than domesticated air about the horse as it constantly tossed its head and tried to eye Javier on his back.

  “Do not worry,” Javier said. When she looked up, he was still staring ahead, but his smile grew as if he could feel her eyes on him. “I prefer they have a little of the wild left in them. What’s the fun of riding a truly broken horse?”

&
nbsp; Her heart thumped in her chest at the thought that she might be riding an unbroken horse. But her steed seemed calm compared with Javier’s. From the way his arm muscles bunched as he kept the horse in check, it had to have been exhausting riding him this far already—and they hadn’t even made it to whatever mysterious destination Javier had in mind.

  “I’m glad we have this time alone,” Javier said.

  She could read nothing from his tone, but it didn’t stop her from twisting her reigns in her hands as a wave of uneasiness swept over her. Suddenly, her jeans felt too tight, and the button up shirt she’d changed into for the ride too hot in the brightness of the day. Javier had urged a dark cowboy hat onto her head to ‘keep the sun off her beautiful skin’, but the headband itched where it made her sweat.

  “What is it?” she asked, trying for an even voice.

  “You must understand that there is a possibility neither of us will see your father again.”

  Her heart turned to stone, and then sank into the bracken pool of her churning stomach. She licked her lips, and took a water bottle from her saddlebag so she could again hide sudden tears. One escaped her tightly squeezed eyes, but she hurriedly dabbed it with the collar of her shirt before she straightened and took a long drink from the bottle.

  “I know this isn’t something either of us wants to think about, but—”

  “Got it,” Cora said, perhaps a bit too harshly, for Javier gave her a hurt look and said, “Elle, I loved your father like a—”

  “So what happens if he’s dead?” she cut in, squinting to look at that distant break in the horizon. “Do I inherit a few million or something?” She’d meant it to sound glib, but instead she just sounded spoiled.

  Javier laughed. It was a deep, belly laugh that must have traveled half a mile. She forced herself to give him no more than a scant look. He had a smile on his face, and gave his head a rueful shake as he draped his reign-hand over his pommel. His gelding seemed to have resigned itself—for now at least—and was no longer fighting for control.