Their Cartel Princess: The Complete Series: A Dark Reverse Harem Box Set

by Logan Fox

  No, not that way. This way. Toward the food. Aren’t you hungry, human? I’m hungry.

  And, true enough, the dog licked at Cora’s bloody hand again, as if to reinforce the fact. The dog’s pronounced ribs and jutting hip bones suggested that Lady could eat a horse.

  Possibly, while it was still conscious.

  With Lady guiding her, Cora eventually made it into the dining room. A long wooden table, piled with dirty dishes, filled most of the room. She sat in the first available seat, glad at the respite. Walking was too difficult right now.

  Lady put her head in Cora’s lap, and Cora attempted to pat her. When the dog’s ears pricked up, and her tail began to swish with renewed enthusiasm, Cora looked up.

  El Lobo stood in the doorway.

  He wiped his hands on a dish cloth, and absently draped it over his shoulder as he walked toward her.

  Every cell in her body wanted to flee, but instead she just watched him approach. Her lips moved, trying to yell for help, but not a sound left her.

  “I see you’ve met Lady,” Zachary said.

  Maybe it was just the light in the room that painted such dark smudges under his eyes, but he looked tired.

  Her mind raced back to the bloated body on the bed.

  No, it wasn’t just the light.

  “Are you hungry?” he asked.

  As if he’d been speaking to it and not Cora, Lady let out a low bark. Zachary’s eyes darted to it, and he tsked the animal under his breath. Then his gaze was back on Cora.

  “No,” she said. Her voice sounded like it came from far away. A hollow echo.

  Zachary waved a hand at the dirty dishes, the unswept floor, the stained carpet. “My apologies for the state of the place—I had to fire my employees.”

  “Oh.” The voice was hers, but she definitely wasn’t in control of it. If she had be, she’d be screaming at this calm, tired man to let her go. To tell her what he wanted with her.

  But she already knew.

  She wasn’t bound—which meant he was comfortable in the knowledge that she couldn’t run away. They’d driven far, but they were probably still in America. Did that mean he was confident no one would find her?

  A tear slid down her face, but both the salty liquid and the cheek it trailed down belonged to someone else.

  “All of them?” she asked.

  “They weren’t performing, you understand?” Zachary said, coming closer. He wore a button up shirt with beige-colored slacks. The shirt’s long sleeves had been rolled up to mid-arm. The skin of his left arm was disfigured with the marbled scars of burn marks. The right had been bound with a bandage, now stained with blood.

  So she had cut him. Not that it mattered. Nothing she ever did mattered. She was weak, and pathetic. An idiot who’d assumed she was untouchable. Unbreakable.

  “That’s sad,” her robot voice said.

  “It is,” Zachary agreed, with a bob of his head. Then, through a sigh, “It really is. But, at least we have some privacy.”

  Was that why he’d brought her here? To fill this large, empty house? Maybe he was lonely, despite his two dogs. Despite the body in the bed.

  “Who’s sleeping?” she said.

  “What?” Zachary came to a stop a foot away from her and tilted his head, as if confused by the question.

  “In the bed.” Why couldn’t she stop talking? She didn’t want to know who was in the bed. She wanted to call for help. Make a run for it.

  Would her men ever find her? Had Zachary left a clue that would help them track her down?

  But, judging from Zachary’s newly pressed clothes, the careful parting of his brown hair, the intent way he studied her…

  El Lobo didn’t make mistakes. El Lobo didn’t leave clues for others to find.

  “Is Marco still sleeping?” Zachary asked with a laugh in his voice. “That boy…he loves to lie in.”

  “He sure does.”

  The surrealism of the moment drenched her mind like anesthetic. Here she was, having a polite conversation about a dead body with her kidnapper. And, worst of all, they were both pretending he was still alive.

  “Is he going to join us?” she asked. “For dinner?”

  “No.” Zachary’s voice dropped a little. “I don’t think he’ll feel up to it.”

  “Okay.”

  A nose pushed into Cora’s palm, and she looked down. Lady began licking her hand again. The dog had gotten most of the blood off her except a little by her cuticles—dripping red popsicle—and the crease of her thumb.

  She heard a scraping noise, and when she looked up, Zachary was inches away, having taken a seat beside her.

  A normal person would have screamed.

  She just blinked at him and asked, “When are you going to kill me?”

  28

  Masquerade

  Finn emerged on the first floor of the hotel, fighting a sneeze. It was dusty up here, and mold clung to every particle of air that made it into his nose and lungs. Santino waited outside a door a few yards down the hallway, facing Finn and Bailey as they came closer. Neo’s lieutenant gave Finn a nod before opening the door and standing aside so they could enter.

  It was a husk of a room; bare and peeling walls, debris congregating in the corners, a rickety chair in the middle of the otherwise empty space.

  A man sat on the chair, arms and legs cable-tied to the wood. He wasn’t wearing a gag, but from the tight set of his wide mouth, he didn’t plan on speaking any time soon.

  “This him?” Neo asked, pointing a limp hand in the man’s direction.

  “Bailey?” Finn glanced at Bailey over his shoulder.

  Gray eyes narrowed, and then Bailey moved his gaze to Finn and gave him a curt nod. Finn lunged forward, drew back an arm, and caught the guy a solid punch to his jaw.

  Beside the crack of knuckles against bone, there was no other sound in the room.

  Fuck; he’d expected at least a grunt of pain.

  Instead, the man straightened his head and grinned at Finn with a Hollywood smile that lit up his eyes.

  “You search him?” Finn asked, hand already diving inside the man’s suit.

  “Didn’t want to touch him until you got here,” Neo said immediately. “You hear anything about Cora yet?”

  Finn shook his head. “You?”

  “Nothing. I don’t know how they could have gotten her out. Front’s still locked.”

  “And the back, by the kitchen?”

  “That doesn’t go anywhere, does it? I mean, you’d have to climb a fence to—”

  “You think a fucking fence is going to stop someone?” Bailey snapped from behind him.

  “Listen—” Neo began.

  “Enough!” Finn straightened, sharing a glare between the two of them. “You two, out.”

  Both Bailey and Neo’s eyebrows shot up.

  “But—” Bailey said.

  “Now.” It came out as a low growl. Either that or the look on his face was enough to convince both men that they’d be safer outside than in here with him.

  His beast purred appreciatively, eager to sink its claws into the man tied up in the chair without witnesses to interrupt.

  Which was exactly why Finn wouldn’t allow himself a second punch.

  A second would lead to a third, a third to a fourth…and what good would a corpse be to him?

  As soon as the door closed behind Neo and Bailey, Finn went to work searching the man. This brought their faces close together. The man made no attempt to hide how he scanned Finn’s features, and Finn didn’t bother looking away. His beast grew more and more restless the longer they maintained eye contact, as if unhappy with the slowly building apprehension tainting the air.

  “What’s your name?” Finn asked.

  “Peter.”

  “What’s your real name?”

  A flash of what could have been surprise glittered over the man’s dark eyes. His lips slowly curved into a smile. “Peter,” he said again, slower this time.

&nb
sp; “Fine, Peter.” His fingers touched something, and he pulled it out a second later. A bag of small white pills. “What are these?”

  “Rohypnol,” Peter replied cheerily.

  Finn’s heart gave a slow, hard thump against his breast bone. “You drugged her?”

  Peter’s eyes were bright, intelligent, and wrong. Finn’s beast sniffed at the air, and recoiled.

  Those weren’t the eyes of a sane man.

  “She was drugged,” Peter said, “But not by me.”

  Finn closed his hands over the package. “And Lars?”

  “Who?”

  “Tall, blond guy.” A sneer found its way onto Finn’s mouth. “You two could have done a fucking photo shoot together?”

  “Oh, him?” Peter’s eyes gleamed. “Yeah, that was me.”

  Calm. Focus. Fucking zen.

  A corpse would be no good to him.

  “Where is she?” he spoke carefully, but couldn’t help the way his words shook.

  Peter studied him for a second. “Don’t know. Someone took her.”

  “Who?”

  “Don’t know. We were all wearing masks.”

  “You’re not alone?”

  “Everyone at the party,” the man corrected. Then his gaze slid away from Finn, studying the room, the gaping windows, the moon hanging in the sky. It was the sole source of illumination in the room, but it was bright enough that it did a spectacular job of highlighting the man’s features. “But, also, I’m not alone.”

  A blow torch of irritation flowered inside Finn’s chest. He grabbed Peter’s throat, giving it a warning squeeze while he tried to ignore the howl of his beast.

  “How many?”

  “An entire SWAT team.”

  Finn studied him for a second. “You’re lying.”

  Those eyes gave away nothing. “There’s a pocket hidden in the lining of my jacket. Right along the inner seam. Has all the proof you need.”

  Finn didn’t break eye contact as his hand darted inside the man’s jacket. He felt along the lining until his fingers touched a reinforced seam. He slid his hand inside and touched metal.

  The DEA badge felt too heavy in his palm when he drew it out.

  Finn looked up at Peter again.

  Long dark hair, dark eyes.

  “You put the tracker on Gabriella’s truck,”

  Finn said.

  It wasn’t a question, but Peter cocked his head and drew his brows together. “Was that her name?”

  Fuck.

  The DEA, just as Bailey had suspected. It wasn’t a surprise, of course. If the DEA had caught wind of Javier’s announcement, they’d have been eager to try and locate ECV’s new capos. Especially those that didn’t have as much experience in laying low as their veteran forerunner, Javier.

  But how the fuck had they found out about this place?

  Finn slowly turned to the door. Then he glanced back at Peter. “How’d you find out about this party?”

  “One of the guests,” Peter said innocently, his smile never shifting.

  “Who?”

  Peter studied him for a moment before giving a small shrug. “Zachary West.”

  Finn’s face prickled hot and cold as blood drained from it. “Fuck,” he muttered urgently, squeezing the badge so hard that it cut into his palm as he ran for the door.

  When he flung it open, Bailey’s lifeless body toppled into the room.

  29

  Not today

  The clink of cutlery against porcelain forced Cora’s eyes open. She blinked a few times before she could focus on what had made the noise.

  She had a plate in front of her. A piece of steak, bloody-rare, oozed pinkish blood onto the pale porcelain. Tiny little red roses flecked with gold rimmed the plate. Someone had a knife and fork over her plate, and they were sawing away a small slice of fillet.

  “Open,” came a voice beside her.

  Cora lifted her head. Her eyes widened at the sight of Zachary, sitting beside her at a long dining room table.

  Her mouth fell open, and he slid the piece of meat past her lips. His attention was solely on her lips until she closed her mouth around the fork. Then he sat back, arms resting against the edge of the table as he gave her a warm smile.

  There was a warm, heavy weight on her feet. When she tried to move them, she felt it breathing.

  Lady.

  Memories popped into her mind like bubbles from a drowning body snapping open on the surface of a stagnant lake.

  The party.

  A car.

  Miguel in the trunk.

  Blood and a knife.

  Smoke in the air.

  Someone undressing her.

  Flies. A body.

  New clothes.

  Stale perfume and sweat.

  Lick, lick, lick.

  Dinner. Dirty plates. Zachary’s smile under shadowed eyes.

  Not today. That had been his answer to her question.

  Not today.

  But today was almost over, wasn’t it?

  Cora looked down. She could remember the events her memory provided…all except the undressing and the new clothes.

  She wore a satin blouse, cream with pearl buttons. A tight skirt that sat just above her knees. When she moved her head, hair didn’t brush her shoulders, but sat heavy and tight on her head.

  The scrape of metal against porcelain wrenched her head up. She watched Zachary slice another bite of beef and bring it to her mouth.

  She ate; chewing, but not tasting.

  “Do you like it?” Zachary asked. His eyes moved over her outfit. “It looks good on you.”

  She couldn’t maintain eye contact, so she looked over the dirty table again. Enough dishes for a full house, but emptiness pushed in around them like fog.

  Whoever was controlling her mouth asked, “Where is everyone?”

  The slightest flinch on Zachary’s face. Irritation? Confusion? “I had to let them go. They weren’t performing their duties.”

  “Where did they go?”

  “Don’t worry.” Zachary’s gaze bore into her. “We’re not staying long.”

  The weight on her feet stretched and let out a long sigh before going limp.

  She didn’t want more meat. She didn’t want Zachary to feed her. She wanted out of here, away from him, back with her men.

  If they’d ever take her back. They didn’t deserve a failure like her. She’d put them through hell, and still expected them to follow her.

  She’d never be a leader. How could she expect them to follow her?

  Her hand thumped down on the plate, rattling cutlery. The dog resting on her feet jerked up.

  “You don’t like it?” Zachary asked, a frown on his face.

  He couldn’t have been older than thirty five, but his eyes carried a lifetime of suffering in those voids.

  “Not hungry,” she said. Her fingers were clumsy, but she managed to drag the steak off her plate. It slapped onto the floor, spraying watery blood on the side of her leg.

  In a flash, the dog laying on her feet darted out from under the table and snatched up the meat in yellowing canines.

  “Lady, no!” Zachary pushed back his chair, but by the time he got to his feet, the dog had already swallowed down the meat. It immediately dropped to its haunches, cowering as Zachary took a step toward it.

  “It was hungry,” Cora said, holding out a hand.

  Zachary looked up at her, confusion drawing his eyebrows together and parting his lips. “I have trained my animals not to eat from anyone else’s hand,” he said through gritted teeth.

  Her thoughts were slowly stabilizing. Neurons that had lain dormant began firing again. Her body might still be useless, under the influence as it was, but she still had her mind. That had to be worth something right?

  “She ate it from the floor,” Cora said.

  She pushed back her chair, and came to a jerky stand.

  “How dare you—?” Zachary began.

  “I don’t want to be h
ere anymore,” she said. “I want to go home.”

  He blinked. Then he threw back his head and laughed. He straightened his head a few seconds later. His mirth tapered off as he dragged fingers through his hair.

  Cruel, dark eyes scanned her face. Zachary stepped forward, shoving Lady aside with the side of his shoe. He cupped Cora’s face, tipping it up and giving her another one of his unreadable stares.

  “Then we’ll go home, little Elle.”

  30

  Peter Piper motherfucker

  Lars opened his eyes, and spent a few seconds staring up at a dusty, ancient ceiling fan as he tried to figure out what had woken him. Maybe it was the passive-aggressive headache currently taking his brain to Pound Town. He winced and pressed fingertips to his temple. Getting his elbows under him, Lars propped himself up and carefully took in his surroundings.

  Ancient leather sofa - check.

  Peeling wallpaper - check.

  The smell of moldy carpets hanging in the air - check.

  Good, so at least he was still in Cora’s haunted hotel. Things hadn’t gotten so out of hand that he’d woken up on someone’s yacht, or on a park bench — wearing just his boxers — in the middle of winter.

  That had been a fun party, but the excruciating bout of bronchitis that had followed almost made it seem not worthwhile in the end.

  He fumbled at his belt, but his radio was gone.

  That probably wasn’t a good sign.

  “Fuck, shit, damn,” he muttered, when sitting up produced a stab of pain through his head.

  How much had he had to drink?

  Why couldn’t he remember how much he’d had to drink?

  He’d gotten royally pissed before in the past—to the point where taking a nap on a park bench had seemed a good idea at the time—but he’d always, and most unfortunately, been able to remember every last detail…right up until the point he passed out, of course.

  But now? Nothing.

  Manning the door for Cora…that drudgery he could recall, no problemo. Some of the fanciful masks and outfits he’d let in.

  He risked standing. When his head stopped swimming, he managed to get to the door and stick his head out.