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

by Logan Fox

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 if 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 sur
prise 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.

  Pain speared through Bailey’s head as he scrambled up. Shayla slipped past him, cowering behind the guard as if she feared for her life.

  “Ronan!” Bailey bellowed, aiming his voice down one side of the hallway, then another. “Ronan!”

  The guard sneered at him. “He can’t hear you.” Then he kicked the door closed in Bailey’s face. The lock latched, and then silence.

  Bailey bashed his fist against the door, more to get rid of his pent-up frustration than anything else.

  She made it back, but that might have been Kane’s plan all along. Getting her to himself, so he could take revenge on her for his parent’s deaths. Wrongfully so, but he doubted the man was operating logically.

  Bailey headed to his bedroom window. He opened it and stuck his head out. If he hadn’t been on the third level of Ronan King’s mansion, he might have attempted to climb out. But there was just one window ledge… and then a whole lot of air to fall through before he’d hit the ground.

  He gritted his teeth, straightening as he backed into the room. Then he blinked and focused at the oak tree across the street. It was hard to find now — the street lamp had gone out. He stayed put, watching as invisible fingers dragged down his back. But nothing out there moved. There wasn’t even a breeze tonight.

  He stripped the coverlets from his bed, but even if the silk wouldn’t just slip right out of their knots, there was nothing to tie his makeshift ropes to.

  Nothing he trusted his life to, anyway. And he wasn’t doing Cora any favors breaking his back tonight.

  If she was still alive.

  He squashed the thought with brutal force, slapping the heel of his hand into his forehead.

  When he opened his eyes, the room was pitch black. He spun around and realized it wasn’t just the light in his room that was off. The near-silent hum of the air conditioner had been silenced.

  There was a clink outside the bedroom window. Bailey edged closer, frowning as he tried to peer over the window ledge.

  What the fuck?

  Another clink, this one sounding closer. Metal against stone.

  A second later, a hook flew through the open window, dragged over the pale carpet and slithered up the interior wall like a metal snake. It snagged the lip of the window ledge with a faint ‘snick’ and froze as if realizing Bailey had spotted it.

  He rushed over, sticking his head out the window. Below, he saw a mop of blond hair. Lars waved urgently at him, giving the rope attached to the grappl
ing hook a hefty tug as if to prove it was safe.

  Bailey swung himself over the window ledge, grabbing the rope in both hands and easing himself down the side of the wall. He’d only gotten about a yard when the mansion’s generator started up with a soft roar. Lights came on from every side, bathing him in white.

  “Hurry the fuck up!” came Lars emphatic whisper from below.

  Bailey gritted his teeth and repelled as fast as he could down the side of the building. With a kick, he let the rope slip through his fingers. The impact when he slammed with his heels back against the wall jarred him, but not enough for him to lose his grip.

  He’d just reached the bottom when Lars tackled him to the floor.

  “What the—”

  “Shut it!” Lars rolled over him, clapping a hand over his mouth and putting a finger to his lips. Bright green eyes darted away, following the sound of a car driving down the road. A second later, Lars peeked over the hedge he’d thrown Bailey down behind, and beckoned him to follow as he hurried across the road.

  The street lamp under the oak wasn’t back on. Neither were any of the street lamps. But Ronan King’s mansion glowed — security lights shining from every conceivable angle.

  “Gotta hurry,” Lars said, and sprinted up the road.

  Finn appeared from the shadows, giving Bailey a shove to get him moving and then speeding after Lars.

  It was shocking how fast that big guy could run. Bailey had trouble keeping up, especially when they hightailed it through a park and down a side street. An SUV sat parked there, headlights blinking to life when Lars came within key-fob distance.

  They all three scrambled into the truck, Finn grabbing the back of the passenger seat’s headrest as he threw it into reverse and screamed down the road.

  “Christ, you think they’re following?” Bailey yelled, when Finn spun the car in a tight circle that sent him crashing into the door.

  “They have to be,” Lars said, ducking his head so he could peer out the back windshield. “Fucking cameras everywhere. We have a few seconds head start, so let’s just hope we can get out of here in time to lose them.”

  “Fuck,” Bailey said, taking huge hits of air for his burning lungs. “How did you—?”