Their Cartel Princess: A Dark Reverse Harem Romance Box Set

by Fox, Logan

  Cora touched trembling fingers to her cheek. When her golden eyes focused on him, they boiled with rage.

  “Owen’ll see ya out.” Ronan turned, sipping at his glass as he moved around his table to take his seat behind the computer.

  The girl looked like she still had something to say. Kane grasped a hold of her elbow, drawing her back. She jerked herself out of his grip, stared blue murder at Ronan, and then flounced from the room like a child throwing a tantrum.

  Ronan’s gaze flickered up at the last moment. They caught sight of Kane, turning to stare inside the office as Owen led them down the hall.

  The man lifted a hand, and drew his thumbnail over his throat, giving Ronan a slow smile as he disappeared down the hall.

  Ronan leaned back in his seat as he drained his glass. Then he barked out a laugh and shook his head.

  Commoners always forgot themselves. He took out his cellphone and sent a message to Owen.

  As long as he had Bailey, he could click his fingers and Cora would come running to him, like the little bitch she was. But it was always good to have a backup plan.

  His gaze darted to the wet bar against the wall.

  How long until Owen came back? Ronan stood, working a crick from his neck. There was a knock at his door, and he went to open it — intent on leaving his office for the night, anyway.

  Darcy stood in his way.

  “What do you want?”

  Her expression faltered before she propped up one side of lopsided smile. “You ran off so fast… I didn’t get a chance to tell you about my surprise.”

  He slid his eyes down her bird-like body. If it hadn’t been for her lineage, he’d never even have agreed to meet her. But it turned out she’d been perfect to birth his heir.

  Except she wasn’t, was she? She was as barren as she was pitiful.

  But, until Owen returned, she’d have to do.

  She opened her mouth again, but he grabbed the front of her throat and dragged her into him before she said anything. His lips crushed hers, drawing a surprised squeak from her. She tore away her mouth, gasping for breath as if he’d been trying to drown her.

  It had probably felt like it to her.

  “You’re hurting me,” she murmured, eyes wet and shining with fear.

  “Why are’ya so fucking useless to me, Darce?” he said, stepping forward as he dragged her in front of him. She struggled as pitifully as she mewled at him to release her. “I shoulda gotten rid of you a long time ago.”

  “Ronan! Please! I’m—”

  But he didn’t care what she was. He knew everything there was to know about Darcy… even the fact that she’d been fucking Owen behind his back.

  It amused him — watching them fawning over each other thinking no one noticed. Honestly, it astonished him that they thought he couldn’t see something so fucking blatant right in front of nose.

  He’d been putting up with it. It seemed to make Owen happy. Fuck, it even made Darcy happy. But he’d been too lax. Others were noticing. People were starting to talk.

  And the last thing Ronan King needed in his fucking life was more drama.

  She cried out when he shoved her into her bedroom, tripping and falling to the carpet like a wounded animal.

  He slammed the door closed behind him, and Darcy screamed.

  Such a pretty sound; it was a pity no one else heard it.

  * * *

  Owen climbed the stairs to the third level of Rhodium Drive. He took them slow — not because there was no rush, but because he so appreciated the mansion’s immaculate architecture. The designer excelled at creating interesting plays between shadow and light — irrespective of the time of day. At night, down-lights and spotlights were all hidden from view. You only knew they existed because of the geometric shadows they cast. Splinters and fragments against a backdrop of the organic chaos that were vines and orchids.

  This would be his, one day. He knew it like he knew it was air he breathed.

  He walked past the guest bedrooms, only one of which was currently being guarded. He gave a nod to the man, who returned it with a touch of reverence.

  Yes, they would all be his, too. One day. And he was willing to wait. Patience was hard coded into his DNA. He’d waited seventeen years before escaping his mother’s abusive clutch. He would wait just as patiently for her to die from consumption.

  Of course, they didn’t call it that anymore. But he knew she’d drink herself to death, just as he knew he’d encouraged it from the day she first beat him.

  A slow, wretched death for a miserable, evil woman.

  His kind of justice.

  He knocked at Ronan’s door, and heard the faint, “Come,” a second later.

  Ronan stood at the window, a tumbler in one hand and a cigar in the other. Celebrating his success, no doubt.

  Had he already fucked Darcy tonight? Had it been less of a chore and more of a pleasure tonight, driving into her like the man he must have felt every inch of?

  Owen’s cock pulsed at the thought, hardening just a touch. He would listen to them sometimes. Those nights that Ronan didn’t feel safe. When he ordered Owen to stand guard inside their room.

  It was just so Owen could watch. It made Ronan feel more like a man, making him watch.

  Just like he used the whip to enforce his masculinity on Owen.

  A small price to pay for the freedom Ronan had afforded him. A very small price indeed.

  “They called a cab.”

  “One of ours?”

  “Of course,” Owen said. “He’ll notify us of the address as soon as he’s dropped them off.”

  “Good,” Ronan murmured, taking a sip from his glass. “Cigar?”

  “No. Thank you.” Owen dipped his head. “But I wouldn’t say no to a glass of scotch.”

  “Help yourself,” Ronan said, watching Owen over his shoulder as he went to the bedroom’s wet bar to pour himself a glass. He would have preferred a Sazerac, but scotch came a close second. Especially this Dalmare scotch — Ronan imported it directly from the distillery in the Scottish Highlands. He’d be a fool to pass it up.

  He’d be a fool to pass anything up that could get him one step closer to the top.

  He probably had that in common with Shayla. He’d spotted her a mile away; the first time Will had mentioned her. Tits, ass, and a sassy mouth. In that order.

  Which was exactly how Shayla wanted men to think about her. Because then they wouldn’t question her motives, or her level of intelligence.

  He had an advantage.

  His whole life, he’d had a very intimate relationship with pain. His. Others’s. He no longer thought of it as bad, or good, but rather graded it according to its intensity.

  Unsurprisingly, his body responded in strange ways. Light pain annoyed him. It made him itch, made him want to scratch it deeper into him. A medium pain made him come alive. Taste, smell, touch… As if he’d popped ecstasy, and it had just kicked in.

  Agony transformed him into God.

  “Gaffer called,” Ronan said, breaking Owen out of his thoughts. Owen sniffed at his glass, inhaling the single malt’s hint of cinnamon and vanilla before turning to Ronan.

  The man had moved closer, standing in silk socks and suspenders as he watched Owen over the rim of his glass. If it was to hide his smile, it failed. But perhaps Ronan knew that.

  He was by far one of the most intelligent men Owen had ever met. And one of the most broken, too.

  “What did he say?” Owen asked, fully facing Ronan as the man walked closer. His eyes were drawn to a tiny spot on Ronan’s collar. It was too small for him to be sure, but was it blood?

  “A little bird told him I was putting the final touches on my heroin shipment.”

  Owen shrugged a little. “Did he sound pleased?”

  Ronan’s smile crept higher. “It’s exactly what that cock sucker wanted. If he wasn’t crippled, I would have expected him to turn cart wheels.”

  Owen allowed himself a tiny smirk i
f only at the thought of white-haired Gaffer doing anything more athletic than bringing a fork to his mouth. Strange, how someone like Graham O’Connor could keep his position here in Mallhaven. He almost never came down from his house on the hills. Was never present at any of the meetings except for those held by the Council of Nine. But his word was law. His decisions final. And he would only turn over his position once Ronan had secured Kansas… and an heir.

  Which would never happen if he kept fucking Darcy.

  A broken man, Ronan King. Broken in more ways than one. And too damaged to admit to himself that the problem wasn’t that he had a barren wife… but that nature had never intended the likes of him to procreate.

  Not with anyone.

  Ronan drained the last of his scotch, popping the cigar between his teeth as he slid down his suspenders. Owen took another sip of his scotch and then turned to put it on the table. When he turned back, the rich, intoxicating smoke from Ronan’s cigar filled his lungs.

  Ronan grabbed Owen’s jaw so hard, he had to force himself not to lunge out an attack on the man.

  That had been the hardest lesson to learn; how to become defenseless.

  “Real cute hoor lately, ain’t ya?” Ronan whispered, pushing him hard into the table. Owen caught himself and straightened his spine. “Don’t think I’m letting ya off easy.”

  As if that’s what he would want. Ronan knew a greater punishment would be to send him away for days at a time. To deprive him of the cathartic release they both so desperately needed.

  “Are you going to cry this time?” Ronan asked, hands fumbling at his belt as he gave Owen’s head a shake.

  “No, sir,” Owen managed through the tight grip on his jaw.

  “Y’gonna take it like a fucking man?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good.” Ronan said the word through a sneer. He jerked Owen away from him, shoving him so hard between his shoulder blades he tumbled to the floor.

  He could have sprung up and had a fist in Ronan’s groin an instant later. But he stayed on the carpet, touching the tender spot on his jaw where Ronan’s fingers had dug into his flesh.

  Because Ronan liked him on his knees.

  Submissive.

  Injured.

  Defenseless.

  Leather slithered against fabric as Ronan ripped free his belt. Owen didn’t turn, didn’t look — but he didn’t have to. Ronan was folding his belt in half that he would—

  Snap.

  A shudder tore down Owen’s spine at the sound.

  Snap.

  He dug his fingers into the carpet, swallowing hard as every muscle in his body tightened.

  “Take it off,” Ronan said, his voice back to its usual cheerful cadence.

  Owen’s hand shook a little when he began unbuttoning his shirt. Sometimes, he would take too long, and Ronan would rip it off. A day later, a replacement would arrive for the shirt he’d destroyed. Ronan bought everything for him. Clothes, vehicles, electronics. All he had to do was ask.

  And, sometimes, he didn’t even have to do that.

  Ronan doted on him like the child he seemed convinced he’d one day have. Perhaps he knew, somewhere deep inside, that there would never, ever be a son for him to shower with gifts. With love.

  With lashes.

  He had taken too long. And Ronan was too far gone even to tear his shirt free. Instead, a lash caught Owen to his right side, wringing a gasp from him at the suddenness of that fiery lick of pain.

  Ronan was saving his strength. That had been, if not a soft blow, then a medium one at best.

  Owen closed his eyes, letting a shuddering breath escape his lips.

  There would be blood tonight. And Ronan wanted to see it eating through his white shirt, slowly spreading with each additional whip of his belt.

  He was never allowed to speak. Never allowed to beg.

  Another crack of the belt. It met his flesh with a sullen thud that made his cock press hard against his pants as his breath rushed out in furious ecstasy.

  If he’d been allowed to speak, he would have begged Ronan not to hold back.

  32

  Most Wanted

  Bailey pushed a pea around his plate before abandoning his meal altogether. He’d barely been able to get anything down today — not with the mix of anger and worry bubbling away inside him.

  No one else had contacted him since Shayla had left. Banging on the door and yelling made no difference to whoever was guarding him. And the serving woman who’d brought him a trolley laden with food had been as mute as if Ronan had cut out her tongue.

  Fuck, maybe he had. It wouldn’t even surprise him.

  There was a light knock to his bedroom door.

  Bailey’s head snapped up in surprise, and he glared at the door as he got to his feet. It opened a second later.

  Shayla stuck her head around the door, gave him an almost apologetic smile, and then slipped inside with a nod to whoever was still outside.

  Telling them ‘she had this.’

  Well she shouldn’t think for a minute he was no longer a danger to her. For this shit she’d pulled, he wouldn’t even blink an eye at putting a gun to her head.

  He probably wouldn’t be able to pull the trigger, which was beside the point. He’d put the fear of God in her, and that would be enough.

  “What?” he asked, voice grating.

  Shayla lifted her hands as if in surrender. “Please, Bailey. Just hear me out, would you?”

  “I don’t want to hear any of your fucking—”

  “It’s not about me. Not about us.”

  He blinked at her. When had any of this been about them? There was no them. That shit was so old, an archeologist would get a hard-on just thinking about it.

  “What—?”

  But she cut him off again, hurrying forward as if afraid he’d dismiss her before she got her words out. “It’s Kane.”

  Bailey sank back into his chair. Shayla slowed, and carefully sat opposite him, giving his still full plate a sideways glance before settling on his face again.

  “You hear something?”

  Shayla’s eyes did a little dance before she focused on him again. “His name is Simon. Simon Jones.” She put her hands on the table, nudging his plate out of the way before lacing her fingers together and leaning a little closer. “His parents — they were both DEA.”

  “But not him?”

  She shook her head, and opened her mouth, but he cut her off.

  “He in touch with his parents? Are they onto Cora?”

  Shayla looked taken aback at the question — she blinked owlishly at him for a moment before giving her head a hard shake. “They’re dead. They were murdered by the Jalisco cartel.”

  “Shit,” Bailey murmured. “When?”

  “A few years ago. Simon had been about to be promoted to a street cop when it happened.”

  “He’s a cop?”

  “Not anymore.”

  “What happened?”

  Shayla shrugged a little. “He failed his psych exam.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Jesus, what do you think, Bailey?” Shayla reached for him, but he moved away before she could touch him. “He was the one that found them. You know what cartels do to DEA, right? It was fucking brutal. And he found them. Of course he failed — I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s completely psychotic after that.”

  Psychotic.

  Kane — no, Simon — the psychotic ex-cop that had a bone to pick with cartel—

  “That’s not all.”

  He swung to her, for a moment wishing he’d never asked her to look up anything. Ignorance was bliss, right?

  “He’s on the FBI’s watch list.”

  “What?” He heard the incredulity in his own voice, and Shayla crossed her arms hard over her chest as if daring him to call her a liar.

  “They want him for murder.”

  Bailey tore a hand through his hair. “Let me guess — he offed someone in the cartel?” />
  “Several someones,” she said, her mouth twisting. “But not just that. He’s the prime suspect for a like ten murders across the country. Nothing to do with cartel.”

  “Who?”

  “Hookers. Drunks.”

  Bailey’s stomach twisted itself into a knot. He’d known it. He’d fucking known it all along.

  “Fuck,” Bailey spat, pressing his knuckles to his mouth as he glanced out the bedroom window. Night had fallen already — a distant street lamp highlighted the trunk of a massive oak tree on the other side of the street. A pair of men — nothing more than shadows upon shadows — made their way up the street. Strange… there seemed to be something familiar about—

  “Cora!”

  Because he’d been so caught up about Shayla’s news, he hadn’t even stopped to consider the fact that Cora was with Kane. Murderous, psychotic Kane.

  He glared at Shayla. “Is she back?”

  Shayla nodded.

  Relief washed him in ice, but it also left prickles in his fingertips. “You think you can speak to Ronan? Let me see her? I need to know she’s—”

  “She’s not here anymore,” Shayla said, the words sounding as if she had to drag them from her throat. “Ronan sent her home a few minutes ago.”

  That should have been good news. But the way Shayla’s face had set like stone…

  “With Kane,” he murmured. Bailey spun and ran to the bedroom door and bashed at it with his fist. “Hey! Hey!”

  Shayla caught his arm. “Ronan won’t let you go.”

  Bailey jerked free his arm. He bashed at the door again.

  It opened, the muzzle of an assault rifle aimed flush for his stomach. “You’re making a noise,” the guard said casually.

  “Please. I have to speak to Ronan.”

  “Ronan’s busy,” the guard said. His mouth twisted a little as if he wished he didn’t know what Ronan was up to. “Not to be disturbed.”

  Bailey surged forward. The guard pistol whipped him with the rifle, sending him toppling to the floor.

  Fucking dumb ass move. Christ, the guy could have shot him. But, obviously, he had orders not to.