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

by Logan Fox

  Milo paused, filling Cora as Lars pulsed inside her, making it so tight in there it surprised him he could move at all.

  A rush of raw energy surged through him. He bit the side of Cora’s neck, sucking hard at her skin. She shuddered hard, mewling like a kitten as she came down from her high.

  Lars stayed inside her, going soft as he nibbled her neck and chin. She tried catching him in a kiss, but that would give him away, so he dodged her as best he could.

  Milo gave them both a decent respite, but then he eased back inside Cora.

  She moaned and began rocking her hips. Lars pulled out, but he knew it would drive him fucking crazy just watching, so he brought his body flush with Cora’s, slid two fingers inside her, and used his thumb to work her clit.

  The sound she made whispered through him like a tropical breeze. He wanted to kiss her so badly that he moved his mouth toward hers.

  Milo must have seen, because a hand darted out to catch the front of his throat, halting him.

  His eyes felt heavy-lidded when he looked at Milo over Cora’s heaving shoulder. Their gazes met and locked.

  Milo’s thumb brushed over Lars’s mouth, sending a shiver through him. He dragged him closer, their mouth crashing together beside Cora’s head. Trapped between them, she mewled for release.

  Lars stroked her harder, adding another finger to the two inside her.

  “Dios Mio,” she whispered, sounding high as fuck.

  In that moment, he couldn’t decide which was hotter — Milo’s fierce kiss, or the way Cora felt when they trapped her between them.

  Their prisoner. Their slave.

  The girl they’d given their lives for… and would again in a heartbeat.

  Shell-shocked and desperate to climax again, Cora tried to rock her hips in rhythm to the relentless thrust of the cock fucking her. He — was it Lars or Milo? — filled her so entirely, she was about to burst with pleasure. Fingers pumped deep into her core, a harsh thumb working whip lashes of hedonistic pleasure through her entire body.

  She was close again, but so was whoever it was fucking her from behind.

  It was so easy to forget what was coming, with her men wrapped around her and so determined to fill her with unending pleasure. Her mind rocked, teetering on the brink of holy exorcism, and all she could do was to hold back so she wouldn’t come before the man who owned her in that moment.

  A hand grappled with her hair, pulling her head back. Kisses rained on her throat, her chin, her shoulders. Two sets of mouths crashed over her lips, too mingled for her to tell who they belonged to.

  The musk of her men mingled with her own arousal, a perfume so intoxicating the room began a slow spin.

  The fingers on her clit slowed, and she crooned for them speed up again. Her pussy clenched around the fingers spearing so masterfully inside her.

  Fingers wrapped around her hip bones. That cock driving into her forced gasp after gasp from her with each powerful thrust.

  “I’m so close,” she gasped, trying desperately to free her hands from the ropes tangled around them. But they’d strung her up for a reason — so she couldn’t touch herself, or them.

  She had to endure this punishment. It was hot as fuck for them to watch her squirming — powerless and at their mercy — while they took everything they wanted from her.

  As hard, as fast, and as brutal as they wanted.

  One set of lips had been working its way down her body. It teased one nipple, then the other. Bit and nibbled at her belly. Ran a sensuous tongue down from her belly button.

  And flicked against her clit with utter indolence.

  She gasped, bucking her hips forward. The man behind her groaned deep in his throat, wrenching her hips back so he could burrow deeper into her.

  Cora surged forward, only to be drawn back. The violent movement sped up. A harsh mouth sucked and bit at her when she shot forward, a cock pounded into her from behind when she was wrenched back.

  Her mind snapped like an elastic band. Every muscle in her body clenched as she tossed back her head to let out a wrenching gasp that was half pleasure, half shock.

  Hands grasped roughly at her breasts. Lips drew at her clit. And a cock slammed into her. He pulsed inside her, coming with her. A groan rattled through the man’s throat, and she recognized him in that instant.

  Only Finn sounded that magnificent, that beastly, when he came. Like an animal she’d thought soothed bursting into a violent frenzy.

  She’d thought him tamed, her Finn, but he would always be holding himself back. Making sure he didn’t hurt her. Protecting her.

  He’d have to understand that she was doing the same thing.

  Protecting them.

  Finn. Lars. Bailey.

  Kane.

  All her men needed her protection. Who was she to turn any of them aside when they needed her most?

  If it meant a sacrifice, she’d gladly make it. As long as they came out fine, she would give every ounce of her soul to them.

  For whatever Santa Muerte thought it worth.

  11

  Stud & Doe

  It wouldn’t be the first time Ronan’s cleaning staff had to get rid of bloodstains in his office.

  “Get him up,” Ronan said.

  Bailey lay quivering on the carpet, a string of blood and spit dribbling from his mouth.

  He glanced at the phone in his hands. La Sombra sounded nothing like he’d expected. Obviously, he’d caught her off guard. She’d been expecting Bailey, not him. But the panic in her voice, the way she’d tried to stamp it down…

  Owen hauled Bailey to his feet, and Ronan came to stand in front of him. Movement caught his eye, but he didn’t turn; Shayla cowered in one corner with a stern set to her mouth. She’d surprised him by pulling a switchblade from her tiny purse. If she hadn’t told Bailey to relax, he’d have garnered a shred of respect for her. But she’d revealed herself as weak.

  Had she expected him to treat Bailey like a guest? He was leverage, nothing more.

  Except… that wasn’t entirely accurate, was it?

  “Do you think she’ll come, Bailey?” he murmured.

  Bailey’s chin touched his chest. With what appeared to be the monumental effort, he lifted his head. “Fuck you,” he managed, but in a weak, pained voice.

  Had Owen punched him that hard, or was Bailey softer than he looked? There were tattoos on his arms where his shirt hiked up. He’d seen the glint of a killer in those gray eyes.

  But he couldn’t process pain. Maybe his job was cushier than Ronan imagined.

  If it was a job.

  “If I told ya I won’t harm her, will that make you feel better?” Ronan asked, studying Bailey as his words sunk in.

  The man dropped his eyes as if he knew Ronan was waiting for his reaction.

  Interesting.

  “Take him to the guest room,” Ronan gave Owen a nod. Owen left with Bailey in tow, and Shayla took a reluctant step forward. He held the cellphone out to her. “Will should be here shortly. Give him this. He knows what to do with it.”

  Shayla stared at the phone like it was a coiled snake and then reached for it. He snagged her fingers, crushing them against the casing. Her eyes flashed wide and fixed on him, confusion drawing a crease between her brows.

  “How long’ve you known ‘im?” he asked.

  She blinked at him as if thrown by the question. “Uh… fifteen… fifteen years.”

  “You realize I will kill him if she doesn’t come to me.”

  Shayla paled at this, but then she stuck her chin out. “She will come.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “They’re fucking.”

  He cocked an eyebrow at this, but she didn’t seem the least bit embarrassed by her statement.

  Someone willing to betray an old friend… for what? To get into his good graces? Ambition was one thing, but he despised turn coats.

  “Then I accept your gift,” Ronan said in a hard voice. “Just don’t expect
anything in return.”

  Her eyes went wider with each word, her mouth tighter. She swallowed and tugged at the phone. He released her, and she took a step back. Dropping her gaze, she muttered, “I’ll get this to Will.”

  Her eyes were still down by the time she left.

  Ronan let out a sigh, pressed a thumb to one of his temples, and glanced at his watch.

  Wasn’t Darcy ovulating in a few days? Christ, but he wasn’t in the mood. Not when his wife stared at him with those fearful, doe-like eyes. If she’d given him a fucking heir, he wouldn’t have to mount her like a goddamn stud.

  He poured himself two fingers of whiskey, hesitated, and then added another. Staring out the window at the street below, he let the taste of the single-malt wash away some of his foul mood.

  In another two years, he could legally divorce her. He’d have done it already if they hadn’t married in Ireland. Old Gaffer was such a fucking traditionalist, it would be a black mark against Ronan’s name if he dared get rid of her sooner. Who’d have thought such influential stock — the daughter of the infamous O’Donell — would be barren? They’d done tests. The doctor said there was nothing wrong with her eggs, or her womb.

  So why the fuck hadn’t she given him a child yet?

  He emptied the last finger of whiskey, grimacing. It was sacrilege, slamming back such a good malt.

  There was never enough time to savor anything these days. If only he could buy time with all those digits in his bank accounts.

  12

  Jealous Much?

  Shayla’s fingers ached where Ronan had pressed them against the cellphone. She put the phone in her purse and shook out her hand, glowering at the office door over her shoulder.

  And, unfortunately, catching sight of Ronan’s wife, Darcy.

  She froze mid-step and forced herself to stop. The woman was two yards away, and she’d seen Shayla. It would be rude to just keep walking.

  Shayla plastered on a smile as the woman came within range. Darcy had anywhere between five and seven years on Shayla, which made her a handful of years younger than her husband. She wore her auburn hair to her shoulders and curled around her porcelain features. No makeup, but it was obvious she tinted her eyebrows from brown to black.

  “Afternoon,” Darcy said, sounding so officious Shayla barely reined in a sneer. “And you are?”

  “Shayla Doyle.” She stuck out a hand after a moment’s hesitation.

  Did the woman even remember her? Admittedly, they’d only ever been in the same location once. The same day she’d first seen Ronan and realized he was the person she wanted to work for.

  A mafia shindig — one of Graham ‘Gaffer’ O’Connor’s nieces or some shit had gotten married — which by some twist of fate she and Ronan attended. He’d gotten up to make a speech, and that moment changed her life forever. She’d followed him around like a puppy dog the rest of the night, trying to see who he associated with.

  His wife — she’d eventually found out her name was Darcy — clung to him like a needy barnacle the entire evening. But just before they’d left, a guy came up to Ronan and whispered something in his ear.

  That man had been Owen. And, just like Ronan, had been impossible to speak to.

  But Owen’s brother, Will, had been a much easier target than Owen. All it took was buying Will a few drinks, flirting a lot, and she had a job.

  And then Bailey had fallen into her lap like mana from goddamn heaven.

  “Darcy,” the woman said, as if anyone in the Irish mafia would be clueless. “I’m Ronan’s wife.”

  A little flutter of smugness grow in her belly.

  Jealous much, bitch?

  “It’s so nice to meet you,” Shayla enthused. “Your house is so lovely.”

  “Thank you,” Darcy said, but her voice sounded strained. “Well, it was nice—”

  “And your husband…” Shayla clucked her tongue. “What a gentleman. We definitely need more of them around these days.”

  Darcy’s face became stiff. “Why yes, we certainly do. Well, if you’ll—”

  “It was ever so nice seeing you, Darcy.”

  The woman flinched as if Shayla using her first name had been a physical blow. According to rumor, she was some posh breed of aristocrat — a direct descendant of Klondike O’Donnell or something. Her nose was definitely facing the right angle for that to be true.

  Shayla walked away, doing her best not to sway her hips. Being annoyingly friendly was one thing, but if Darcy thought for a moment Shayla had her sights set on Ronan… wives had a way of getting their husbands to do things.

  Like firing the gorgeous new help.

  13

  Irish Coffee

  Cora waited until both Lars and Finn’s breathing transformed into those of a heavy sleep before wriggling carefully out from between them. Wincing, she gingerly opened her nightstand drawer and took out her Taurus and left the drawer open. She padded over the carpet and into the bathroom.

  There was no time to get other clothes. Plus, she didn’t want to risk waking them. Instead, she just gathered her t-shirt dress from the bathroom floor and left.

  When she was downstairs in the manor’s foyer, she allowed herself a sigh.

  She touched the outline of Lars’s phone in her breast pocket. There was only one jacket on the rack; Bailey’s Pantera hoody. Grabbing the pair of gumboots she sometimes wore to the stables, Cora slipped out of the house.

  She took out Lars’s phone to check the time. Quarter past ten.

  Shit.

  She found his search engine app and looked up the number for a local cab company.

  A stone sank to the depths of her stomach.

  She gave her lips a nervous swipe and shivered as a cool breeze brushed against her exposed knees and thighs. Shayla hesitated and then stabbed her thumb over the ‘call’ button.

  She requested a cab, cast a hesitant glance at the manor, and crunched her way reluctantly over the gravel drive as she returned the phone to her pocket. The Taurus went into the hoody’s kangaroo pouch — it wasn’t as if she had a belt to stick it behind.

  The further she went, the darker it became, until the two lamp posts on either side of the ornate gates that opened to Swan Manor reared ahead.

  The gates swung open at her approach.

  For a moment, she stood staring at the outside world. One she’d passed through those gates, there could be no turning back.

  A flicker of movement caught her eye. She squinted, trying to see what moved in the darkness of the trees lining that country road leading away from the manor.

  A slender figure stood among the trees. It was impossible to see a face, but she was being watched.

  Santa Muerte turned and disappeared.

  Cora took a jarring step forward. Then another. Another. She was through the gate a moment later, her body doused with ice as if she’d passed an invisible barrier.

  Fuck, they were going to be so pissed off at her.

  The thought chased through her mind on repeat as she strode down the road leaving Swan Manor.

  The rope looped around Kane’s neck went taut as someone hauled at the other end. He shot to his feet, desperate to balance on the uneven surface beneath him. With a sack over his head and arms bound behind him, he had no way of stopping himself from pitching over if his handler urged him along too quickly, or if he tripped over something.

  The drive had taken fifteen, maybe twenty minutes. Surprisingly smooth, too. Calm almost. Whoever had driven him to his current location hadn’t been in a hurry.

  Had it not been for the gag in his mouth, he would have had a few choice words for his captor. For one, it was fucking arctic out, and he was still only in his goddamn boxers. Second, he was hysterical from thirst.

  Third… Well, he had enough problems already. No need to add to the bunch. Besides, dying of concussion or thirst seemed more of an immediate problem than skipping his meds for a day or two.

  Or five?

  How long
had he been in that warehouse?

  His rope handler tugged, and he almost fell on his knees at the unexpected motion.

  “Keep up,” came the irritated drawl.

  Will, the guy who’d been keeping an eye on him since he’d arrived at the warehouse. Was he being taken to King, the man with the crazy eyes and incessant, hypocritical smile?

  Mercy, he wasn’t sure if he was ready for that.

  He should have known Ronan King had a commanding presence. But he reeked of some twisted madness — a struggle that turned a rational human into a monster with no empathy, no guilt, no conscience.

  All for drugs. Money. Power.

  The wind stopped buffeting against Kane as if they’d entered a shielded alleyway. The stench of stagnant water confirmed his suspicion as did the creak of a disused door. He walked into a narrow hallway that reeked of musty air and the hint of old food. Frying onions replaced it.

  Another door opened. Talking, laughing, the clatter of pans and cutlery and crockery crashed over Kane.

  A very busy kitchen. One that didn’t even grow quiet as Will led him through it.

  Because sweaty, hooded men on the ends of ropes was a regular occurrence in whatever fucking hell hole he’d been brought to.

  The kitchen sounds faded, replaced with fresh, cool air. A sweet flowery scent filled his nose.

  He recoiled, but Will brought him to order with a ruthless tug on his rope.

  The light kept changing too. Dark in the alleyway, bright in the kitchen, subtle and warm wherever he was at the moment.

  Another door. No more sickeningly sweet flowers. Cool, smooth wood under his bare feet.

  And then another chair. More ropes.

  Will left him there, hooded and gagged.

  Had they abandoned him for too long, then it might not have been the same person they unmasked. But, luckily — or not — when footsteps came back a few hours later, and Will ripped the hood from his head, he was still there.