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

by Logan Fox

  God, he’d hardly changed. There were more lines on his face, but he was the same Bailey who’d taken her virginity back in that halfway house in Brooklyn.

  He was nothing compared with Ronan King. Where Bailey was the straight-A boy next door who’d always open the door for you, Ronan exuded the danger of a chiming railway crossing.

  And who in the fuck was Cora?

  Shayla shifted in her seat, ripping down her seatbelt and then pursing her lips when the violent action made it stick. She released it and put her car into gear, watching Bailey until he’d disappeared around a distant corner before pulling away.

  Coincidences were bullshit. Especially when people from her past came back to haunt her.

  Shayla slid another cellphone — this one a gleaming smartphone — from her handbag and set it up on the car’s hands-free kit.

  Will didn’t answer when she dialed his number.

  A traffic light turned red for her, so she pulled her mustang to a stop and tapped her bright yellow nails on the steering wheel.

  If this Kane guy had been snatched somewhere in New Mexico, then Ronan had to know about it. She had no way of speaking to Ronan — her contact was Will. If Ronan King needed her to do something, then the instructions were passed to her. She only knew she worked for Ronan because Will had slipped up a week or two ago when she’d bumped into him at a nightclub.

  Business, that time, had been transporting a package of what she assumed were drugs or arms from dead drop one to dead drop two in the middle of the night. In less than an hour she’d wound up in that small nowhere town. It had just gone midnight, and she was still wired from the drive and the four cups of coffee she’d had.

  She’d spotted Will in the crowded dance club on Ingot Lane.

  He’d been drinking heavily before she arrived, and he threw back a few shots of rum with her. He was a slurring, handsy mess before she extricated herself, but not before he let slip about King.

  Shayla had pressed him until he’d become belligerent and then pressed him some more.

  Ronan King. The sub-boss of the Mallhaven Mafia

  That’s who her orders came from. A mob whose territories included New Mexico, Kansas, and Chicago.

  The light changed, and Shayla put her mustang in gear. She tried Will again, but he still didn’t answer. If she’d known what to say, she’d have left a voice message.

  Hi, Will, I wanna know if you kidnapped some guy who claims to be a DEA agent? Also, do you know a woman by the name of Cora?

  God, even hearing those words inside her own made her doubt her sanity.

  But she’d just caught sight of a tiny breadcrumb out here in the creepy forest. If she looked close enough, she could find another, then another… all the way out the other end.

  Shayla’s lips perked into a small smile. If Will refused to speak to her, she’d have to speak to him. Luckily, Mallhaven was only an hour or two’s drive away… especially if she opened up the mustang on the freeway. She’d once had to fetch a parcel at one of the abandoned warehouses in that tiny town. It wouldn’t be a coincidence if Will happened to be there right now.

  Perhaps too busy interrogating a one Kane Price for him to answer his phone.

  And if she could follow these little breadcrumbs all the way… well, maybe — just maybe — she’d be able to introduce herself to Ronan King. Why wouldn’t he be amenable to her moving up the ladder if she could give him something he needed?

  For a moment, the thought that what Ronan King needed might be Bailey made her stomach twist in on itself like she’d eaten bad Chinese. Her nails strummed against the steering wheel and darted to the turn indicator.

  She slipped onto the freeway, breathed deep, and settled back for the ride to Mallhaven.

  4

  A Debt Owed

  The only sound in Swan’s manor dining room was that of cutlery scraping against crockery. Tonight, Cora’s chef had prepared a lasagna for her and the men. Not exactly gourmet, but Finn and Bailey would complain whenever something unpronounceable arrived on their plate.

  “Where’s Bailey?” Cora asked, pausing for a sip of soda water. Liquor was a no go. She’d only ever taste wine again when she was forty, and Baby Girl — the interim name they’d coined for the life growing inside her until they could agree on something — had stopped breastfeeding.

  “Don’t know,” Finn said. He took a swallow of his beer. “Lars?”

  “What, like I keep his diary?” Lars lifted eyebrows at Finn, but then returned to his plate, eating as voraciously as always. “I heard him leaving on his bike earlier. Maybe he went for some air.”

  “Should we call him?” Cora asked, putting down her cutlery. Finn’s eyes immediately jumped to her, and he paused as if considering whether to reprimand her for not eating.

  “He’s a big boy. I’m sure he can take care of himself,” Lars said through a mouthful of food. “Which reminds me, are we all on the same page about Kane? Him being a big boy too? You know, taking care of himself?”

  Silence filtered between them. Cora stared at her plate as she pushed a slice of pasta around with her fork.

  Finn eventually spoke although he sounded reluctant too. “I think we’ll sleep on it.”

  “Sounds like something my grandmother would do,” Lars murmured, but quietly, as if the comment had been meant for his ears alone.

  Cora wanted to smile, but she couldn’t get over the visceral image of Santa Muerte, silhouetted against the bushes. Visions of the death saint hadn’t been as rare as thoughts of Kane, unfortunately. La Flaca appeared to her at least once a day, usually when her eye caught on the deepening shadows in a room.

  It was probably a hallucination, brought on by the stress of pregnancy.

  Except it felt more like a constant reminder.

  A debt owed.

  A sacrifice demanded.

  She’d asked much of Santa Muerte and had given little. After all, how much did Zachary West’s soul account for in the afterlife? In ancient Egypt, would his heart have been as light as a feather, or as heavy as a cantankerous serpent?

  Silence stretched between them again. She glanced up at each man — Finn with his blue eyes and serious countenance. Lars — hair hanging in his eyes and a perpetual smile on his wide mouth. So disparate, yet she knew both cared for her as deeply as Bailey did.

  So why wasn’t he here?

  “Kane can take care of himself,” she said. The words tumbled out, and she was as surprised to hear them as Finn and Lars were.

  Cora sat back in her upholstered chair, grabbing the flute with her soda water and bringing it to her lips.

  But it was a lie, just like everything else in her life these days.

  Except her men. They were the only genuine thing she could trust in.

  So why make them suffer? She didn’t need another man in her life — hell, she had three already — and Kane was a trouble maker.

  “You sure?” Lars asked warily.

  She shrugged, hoping the gesture looked natural. “He’s DEA. I’m sure whoever’s in charge of his—” she wiggled her fingers “—assignment or whatever, would be more use than me.”

  She expected the men to agree. To laud her common sense and eat with abandon.

  They didn’t. They watched her like they were waiting for a punch line.

  She gave a decisive nod, and pushed away her plate. “Can you cancel or… disable your account?” She asked of Lars.

  He gave a slow nod, glancing first at Finn as if for confirmation.

  “Not yet,” Finn said.

  “But—” Cora began.

  “Not yet.” Finn sat back in his chair and downed the rest of his beer as he stared at Cora. “I don’t think this guy’s going to give up that easily.”

  “Well, let’s not give him the choice. If we close the only line of communication—” Cora began.

  “No.” This came from Lars. She turned to him, flustered at his refusal to support her. “He’s right, princess.” Lar
s kept his head down, dissecting a triangle of lasagna as if he was executing a strategic military maneuver. “If we abandon the chess board, we don’t have a fucking clue what piece he’s going to move next.”

  Cora shot to her feet, cheeks already aflame. “Turn it off.”

  Lars’s eyes shot up to hers—irises the color of summer grass. “Is that an order, La Sombra?”

  She hesitated. She hadn’t used her authority in close to a month. Perhaps because she hadn’t been willing to pay the price… or to suffer the consequences.

  Lars liked his ropes.

  Finn had a strong arm.

  And Bailey…? He’d learned to tease her to the edge of sanity with his tongue.

  But there’d been a sanction on roughhousing for the past few weeks. The only way she got it these days was slow and gentle.

  Like she was made of fucking crystal.

  She sagged. “Then I’ll sleep on it.” She emptied her soda water, wishing it was tequila instead, and slammed down the flute so hard she was shocked it didn’t shatter.

  Cora spun, heading for the dining room’s exit. To the master bed to shower, then bed.

  Behind her, Finn whispered, “You go right ahead and do that, La Sombra.”

  Bailey sat his bike beside the mile marker of the road that led to Swan Manor. The rain came and went, leaving humidity in its wake. It had been hours since he’d met Shayla, but he could still feel the pressure of her lips against his. Could still taste hazelnut in his mouth.

  The meeting had been a mistake. But if he hadn’t, he’d never have discovered Kane’s lie.

  He dithered from one extreme to the next, trying to figure out which was worse — knowledge or ignorance. Betraying Cora, or letting her risk her life for a fraud?

  He had to tell her. How, when… he still had to decide because he couldn’t tell her about Kane without mentioning Shayla, couldn’t mention Shayla without bringing up Kane.

  Bailey ran fingers through his hair and slowly put on his helmet.

  This was the third time he had driven down this road tonight. The other two times he’d turned back to Phoenix, unable to bring himself to close the last mile to the manor.

  He could stay over at a hotel, delay the inevitable. But Cora might think he’d spent the night with Shayla. Sex, instead of just a kiss.

  Somehow it didn’t seem to matter how deep his betrayal was. She’d be pissed knowing he’d met someone in secret. That they’d shared an intimate moment when she alone was supposed to be the recipient of all intimate moments from here on out.

  Bailey righted his Ducati — another present from Cora — slammed his heel against the kickstand, and tore down the road. His fingers tightened against the grips until his knuckles shone white — he despised riding with gloves, even when it was cold out. He preferred direct contact with the machine.

  But tonight, the air sliced over his exposed skin like icy razors.

  He’d speak to her in the morning. Perhaps try to phone Shayla first and see if she had more info. Shit, he’d have to wait—he couldn’t meet Shayla again after telling Cora.

  No.

  He’d wait until after he’d called Shayla and found out everything there was to know about Kane. And then he’d ‘fess up. Let Cora take everything into consideration before deciding whether to go after him or not.

  When he got to the manor and stepped inside, a hush lay over the interior.

  They’d be in bed by now and he knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep. Not now… probably not for several hours. So he headed for the only place that still felt like home: the kitchen.

  5

  Down. Open. Wider

  Shayla ducked her head, peering through her windshield as she tapped her nails on her Mustang’s steering wheel.

  A warehouse reared into the black night, blotting out stars. No light shone from inside, but she recognized the row of tiny windows just beneath the vast, flat eaves of the warehouse’s roof.

  It looked deserted. No, scratch that — it looked abandoned.

  Mallhaven wasn’t a large town; its industrial region consisted of four city blocks intersected by an aptly named Dredge Avenue and Sluice Avenue. The warehouse was the last on Dredge Avenue, one side open to a small, vacant lot and a cul-de-sac at the end of the road.

  She tried Will’s number again. No answer.

  Shayla glanced around. It was almost ten at night, but she’d only passed two cars on her way into Mallhaven. No one stirred on the barely lit street. Grabbing her handbag and shoving her phone inside, Shayla got out of her Mustang and gently closed the car door behind her.

  The air smelled fresh here, even in the middle of the warehouse district. Tinged with moisture, pines, and damp soil. Maybe there was a stream nearby.

  An owl hooted, and she flinched at the sound.

  A breeze slid past, toying with the hem of her gypsy skirt so it brushed her knee-length, calf skin boots. Probably the worst attire for a quick visit to a warehouse, but there was no point delaying — even to change clothes. She gripped her tan leather jacket, shrugged under her handbag’s strap, and clacked her way across the silent street.

  The warehouse’s bay doors were closed and secured with an enormous padlock. A regular sized door — once red, but now a faded and flaking orange — caught her eye. She went over to it, glanced around, and reached for the door handle.

  It swung open. She froze, eyes fixed on the ominous gleam of dark metal. The person holding the Beretta was in gloom, but she recognized his voice when he spoke.

  “Well, then. How’s the form, Shay?” Will said slowly. “Can’t say I was expecting ya.”

  “I tried calling—”

  “Sure ya did.” His thick Irish accent almost made him sound pleasant. “And when I didna answer, you decided to drive through here on some kind of whim?”

  Shayla realized she’d lifted her hands in self-defense and hurriedly dropped them to her side. “Can I come in?”

  “Nope.” Will beckoned with the Beretta. “But you can fuck off back the way ya came.”

  “I need to speak to you.”

  “’Nother time, maybe.” Will gave a stiff laugh. “I’m kinda busy.”

  “Busy with Kane?”

  It was a long shot. A breadcrumb she didn’t have proof existed. But when the Beretta dipped just a fraction of an inch, she knew the guess had paid off.

  “How d’ya know about him?”

  “Can I come in?” she said, instead of answering.

  Her heart thundered at a hundred miles an hour.

  Coming here without an invitation was dangerous. As was revealing she knew who was inside the warehouse. But if she wanted to climb that slippery ladder to becoming Ronan King’s confidante, she couldn’t be a coward.

  Will signed. Then he flicked the Beretta in her direction. “Come back with food, and I’ll think about it.”

  “Food?” She glanced both ways up the street. “Where am I supposed to—?”

  The crash of the metal door shredded apart her question. She wanted to give the resolute barrier the finger, but as she turned, something caught her eye. She looked up. In the nooks formed by the brick perimeter of the door, sat a security camera. So, instead of flipping him off, she wiggled her fingers in a coy little wave and turned back to the Mustang.

  She found a twenty-four-hour convenience store on Prospect Street. She’d expected nothing better than meat pies and stale donuts, but the smell of fresh coffee and baking bread hit her right in the nose.

  The kid behind the register was friendly too.

  Small towns. Too much of a good thing.

  Shayla knocked on the warehouse door a few minutes later, stilling her foot when it began to tap out the seconds. Will opened for her an eternity later, sweeping an arm as grandly as if he was inviting her into his mansion.

  She sneezed the second after she’d taken her first lungful of musty air and followed Will through a cramped hallway and up a pair of steel stairs with her boot’s stiletto heels cl
acking. He led her to what might have been the foreman’s office; a panel of windows — only two still intact — faced the warehouse floor. A desk with a phone, a laptop, and a small bar fridge took up one wall, a television bolted to the wall, the other. And one rickety looking chair to fill the intermediate space.

  Shayla put the bag on the desk and peered out the window.

  Although the warehouse was as big as a mansion, it definitely wasn’t lux enough. Discarded crap lay piled up in the distant corners, some left haphazardly across the bare concrete floor.

  Near the center of the vast space, she could make out a silhouette tied to a chair.

  “That him?” she asked, pointing through the window to the captive below.

  “You tell me,” Will said.

  Shayla jumped and spun around. He was right behind her, one hand leaning against the desk beside her, the other coming to rest on the window pane next to her head.

  “I… can’t tell from up here.”

  “You sounded pretty sure of yaself earlier,” Will mused. His green eyes flickered over her face as if wondering how much she knew.

  Should she pretend to know a little, or a lot?

  “Let’s eat,” she said, ducking out from under Will’s arm and opening the bag. She’d snagged a fresh bear claw and one of the cups of coffee.

  Will kept his eyes on her as she bit into the pastry, tracking her when she moved around him to stare out the window again.

  Was that Kane — the man Bailey was so interested in? How had he ended up on the Mafia’s radar?

  A hand landed on her shoulder. She tried to disguise her flinch by taking another bite of her pastry. It was fucking delicious, but she had a hard time getting the bite to go down how. She didn’t dare recoil from Will’s touch, of course — insulting him would mean leaving here with nothing.

  “He tell you he’s DEA?” The words were out of her mouth before she knew she was going to speak them.

  Will’s grip tightened as he turned her to face her. “What the fuck do you—?”