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

by Logan Fox

  Tar thick realization oozed into him like a cancer. Finn blinked hard, trying to force back Beast so he could think of something other than blood.

  There was a sob behind him.

  “Finn! Don’t!”

  And that was all it took for Beast to subside. With a silent whimper, Finn spun around. Kane slid from his hands the moment his eyes latched onto Cora.

  Lars and Bailey had their arms around her, bundling her into a protective circle. Lars must have felt Finn’s eyes on him, because the man locked gazes a second later.

  A physical shock tore through Finn. Lars’s face didn’t change — that hatred grew hard; soap stone to marble. Seconds passed, counted only by Finn’s thundering heart and the wretched, torn sounds Cora made.

  “Why the fuck haven’t you killed him yet?” Lars roared.

  Cora emerged from their bundle of arms with a choking, wailed, “No!”

  The bubble popped. Reality washed over Finn like boiling water. He grimaced, trying to force the visceral images from his head, but they kept coming.

  Kane on top of Cora.

  Cora — not fighting… because she enjoyed it.

  Finn spun back to Kane.

  The man had been waiting for him. Something heavy crashed into the side of Finn’s head. Darkness beckoned, beckoned, and almost claimed him.

  Even though he clung to his consciousness like a drowning man to a splinter of wood, his grip became too weak to keep him afloat.

  And so he sank.

  Swan Manor’s front door burst open. No one except Bailey seemed to care. He swung around, his arms still tight around Cora, and strained to hear something over the sound of Lars yelling at Finn.

  “Guys,” he said, panic tightening his voice. “Guys!”

  Finn took a blow to the head and staggered, reeling. Porcelain shattered, a piece pinging from his arm. Another landing in Cora’s mussed hair.

  Boots on marble. Then nothing.

  They were coming up the stairs.

  “Guys!”

  But it was too late.

  Lars didn’t like the way Milo fell to the floor — not one fucking bit. He didn’t like the way he just lay there, either. It made no sense. A lump of plaster wouldn’t have had that effect on him.

  His eyes flickered past Milo to his assailant, and stuck there.

  Bailey said something, but the sound of his blood singing violent songs to him deafened him. Bailey would just have to take care of Bailey.

  This guy? This fucker? That was all he cared about right now.

  All he had was a knife. But he could do some pretty sick stuff with it. Stuff he’d only ever done in self-defense in a desert where there were no witnesses. Just him, the sun, the sand, and a dead person.

  But now he wanted to make sure everyone saw. He wanted Kane’s death to be public and brutal and psycho-sick.

  Lars lunged for Kane. The man side-stepped easily enough. Something approaching mirth touched his grimace of a smile, and honest to God it stank that it made him that much more handsome.

  Didn’t they say Lucifer — the angel of light — was the most beautiful of all the angels?

  Kane definitely had Satan’s good looks. A face carved from demonic stone where evil wormed in his pitch-black pupils. The darkness of every shadow in every child’s closet. The corner of night where spiders built their secret webs. The musty black of a basement where unseen things skulked.

  Maybe he’d carve the fuck’s face off. Then he wouldn’t be so pretty anymore.

  He lunged again, and this time Kane misjudged the distance between them because Lars’s blade snagged on his shirt.

  They squared off again, but before either of them continued their knife play, Kane’s eyes darted to the bedroom door.

  Did Kane honestly think him that stupid?

  But if it was a feint, this man should have been given an Oscar. Surprise widened Kane’s eyes, and his mouth opened as if he was going to say something.

  An instant later, his expression changed into a sneer. Night. Day. “The fuck you doing here?”

  Lars swung around. An elegantly dressed man stood in the doorway. Couldn’t have been older than forty, but his silver hair looked as if it had been that way for a while. He wore a smile both genuine and surprised as he took in the scene.

  Kane coughed, sliding to the floor as if his legs had given way. Finn was coming to, but achingly slowly. Lars took a step back, lifting a hand when he noticed that the two men standing just behind the silver-haired guy were both armed.

  “Bad time?” the man said, his Irish accent thick.

  Lars did a double take.

  Holy fuck, was this Ronan King?

  Hand tailored, designer threads. Skin so healthy only a rich fuck could have afforded it.

  But his eyes.

  So pale as to be silver, and so penetratingly frank Lars felt the need to confess every dirty thought, petty crime, and murder he’d ever committed.

  Ronan cast an eye around Cora’s bedroom. “Didn’t know snuff still paid so well.”

  Snuff?

  Lars glanced at the bed, where Cora lay bound, spread-eagled, and exposed. Blood on her throat and belly, hair a mess of tangles. And then he noticed the video camera positioned on the back of the couch, facing the bed.

  Jesus fucking Christ. It didn’t look good, did it?

  Lars caught movement from the corner of his eyes. Luckily, he had a scrap of wits about him and didn’t turn to look.

  Finn was taking stock of the situation. Ronan’s cronies were so dumbstruck by what they considered the makings of a snuff film, that they didn’t even notice. Especially the guy wearing a suit as expensive as Ronan’s, if not as neatly tailored.

  “I don’t have all night,” Ronan said, that smile of his never moving an inch. “I’m afraid I’ll have ta cut the theatrics short.”

  He lifted the hand at his side, making the tiniest of gestures toward the bed.

  “Kill her.”

  37

  Mania

  Owen’s breath caught in his throat as he took in the sight of Cora. He hardly recognized her.

  The blood.

  It kept drawing his eyes. There was a line on her belly as if she’d been struck with a whip.

  A shiver coursed through him at the thought. How that must have felt. What it must have sounded like.

  He’d never been tied up. He’d always come to his punishments as a willing sacrifice. But she wasn’t struggling. Because she was in shock? Because she’d resigned herself to the fact that death was minutes away?

  That’s what happened when life dealt you a shitty hand. You either played the cards you had or folded. It didn’t help that the dealer was Death, and he saw through any poker face you showed him.

  “Kill her!”

  Owen blinked and focused on Ronan’s face.

  He hadn’t thought Ronan would end her tonight. He’d assumed he would keep her alive to inflict pain.

  That was his specialty.

  And there was the heroin deal. If Cora wasn’t alive to go to the meet, how would they secure enough heroin for Gaffer?

  “But we need her.” The words fell out his mouth before he thought through their impact. “The heroin… if she’s not at the drop—”

  Twisting, Ronan regarded him for a moment. And there it was again — that spark Owen had latched on to the first time they’d met. Hidden deep beneath perversions and needs no ordinary man should harbor… but it still there. He was still in control.

  For now.

  Ronan swung back to the bed. Cora and Bailey both tensed when his eyes fell on them. Owen couldn’t blame them — he’d felt the full fury of those eyes on him many times.

  Not that it had ever been his doing, of course.

  “I don’t need anyone,” Ronan croaked.

  King had always been careful. Whenever he left Rhodium Drive, he wore a bullet-proof vest. He always had either Owen or Will at his side, both packing multiple weapons.

  Bu
t he’d never known Ronan to pack.

  When Ronan pulled out a gleaming Smith & Wesson magnum and aimed it at Cora’s trussed up body, he took too long to realize what the man planned to do.

  He would ruin everything.

  Gaffer would fire him. Or kill him. Or both. Even Darcy would—

  Owen stood to Ronan’s right, Will to his left. Ronan curled his finger around the trigger, and Owen barreled into him from the right, his arm swung to the left.

  When some knee-jerk reaction had Ronan squeezing the trigger even though he’d lost sight of his target, that bullet went wild.

  And it took out Will instead.

  The man went down without a sound, which made the snap of the 357 echo.

  Silence reigned for long moments, stealing everyone’s breath.

  Ronan faced him with a snarl that turned his marrow to ice. He’d only seen that expression once before — the night Ronan had returned from meeting with Gaffer, where the old man had told him he’d have to get Darcy to birth a child or he could kiss his career goodbye.

  That night, Owen had felt the full fury of Ronan’s torment.

  He almost hadn’t survived.

  The thought lodged deep in his brain, rendering him paralyzed as Ronan took a decisive step toward him and raised the Smith & Wesson again.

  A roar sounded out behind Owen.

  If he’d been able to move, he would have turned. But judging from the shock on Ronan’s face, maybe it was a mercy he didn’t see the beast descend on Ronan.

  On his boss.

  His mentor.

  His Master.

  Beast growled and spat. Muscles tensed into steel ropes. There was agony, but it was buried somewhere deep. Somewhere dark. Somewhere Beast couldn’t be affected by it.

  But that had nothing to do with the visceral wounds torn through its mind.

  It was a primitive creature. Primordial at best. It knew only survival and comfort.

  It rarely received comfort without fighting for it. And this it knew to be survival.

  Every nerve in the beast’s body splintered with urgency. With agony. But it surfaced despite that. Pain was a state of mind, and Beast was mindless.

  Nothing mattered. Not his pain. Not his comfort.

  Only survival.

  And Beast knew the female was its survival. His survival.

  Theirs.

  Without her, they were nothing.

  Without her, they would perish.

  Her presence made pain bearable. Her smile chased away the shadows, filling every dark crevice with a blinding light.

  And this man — the one using a smile to hide his suffering — it wanted to end her.

  Beast wouldn’t let him.

  They wouldn’t let him.

  Cora would live… even if they had to die.

  Beast slammed into the man, and they both went down. The man had a weapon, but it was useless against Beast. He would have gnashed it in his teeth if the man hadn’t fired it in shock before dropping it.

  Blood tainted the air. It was what had roused him the first time. What had brought him back the second time. As always, it was his undoing. His release. His freedom. But he wanted more.

  Beast always wanted more.

  If he could dredge the very agony that had borne him into existence, he would.

  In fact, he tried.

  He dug deep… so fucking deep. Screams like a tortured violin filled the air, quickly evolving into an orchestral score that resonated with every lurching, pounding thump of his beastly heart.

  Claws now wet with blood.

  Snout tasting of copper.

  Flesh caught between his canines.

  Something bit into his arm. He swung around, seeing red until he’d blinked the blood from his eyes.

  More shadows. Struggling. Urgent. Familiar.

  And one, facing him, weapon in hand.

  Ready to pull the trigger again.

  But shaking.

  Shaking ever so slightly.

  This was a creature that understood pain, perhaps even welcomed it. But standing before the Master of Suffering, it realized some pain could be experienced but could never survived.

  Beast turned back to his prey.

  And together they tore the miserable fuck to pieces.

  Bailey’s stomach twisted a second before he retched onto the carpet by the foot of Cora’s bed.

  He didn’t know what surprised him more — the fact that he was the only one so far who’d puked, or that everyone in the room kept watching Finn tear Ronan apart like they wished they had popcorn to go with their torture-porn movie of the night.

  “Bailey,” came Cora’s hoarse whisper.

  He slid from the bed, found his feet when he had his back against the wall. Fumbling absently at a bond holding Cora in place with one hand, he swiped over his mouth with the other.

  Finn sat back, breath rasping. He spat out blood and flesh and then fell away from Ronan as if he’d just woken from a nightmare to find he’d never been asleep.

  “Don’t m-move,” came Owen’s quavering voice.

  He was the only one in the room with a weapon in hand. Will had dropped his when Ronan had accidentally shot him in the chest and lay in a pile on the floor, clutching his chest as if he could somehow keep his blood from spilling out through his bullet wound.

  How was he supposed to process the shit he’d seen tonight? His mind reeled so hard he felt dizzy.

  Finn’s head snapped around. He snarled at Owen, but the expression flickered away a moment later as if it had never been. Instead, Finn stared through a mask of Ronan’s blood, his eyes tracking across the room until they’d found Cora.

  “Don’t!” Owen snapped, simultaneously lunging back and training the pistol’s sight on Finn’s chest.

  He shouldn’t have bothered.

  If there was one thing Bailey knew about Finn by now, it was how single minded the man was.

  And, despite that knowledge, it was the most difficult thing he’d ever had to do — stepping away from Cora and leaving her exposed to Finn’s claws.

  Her bonds snapped like dental floss caught between teeth. Finn scooped her from the bed, crushing her to him. She made a sound somewhere between pleasure and pain before collapsing into him, body shaking as she sobbed.

  The room quietened.

  Owen’s hand dropped to his side. There was a random spot of blood on one cheek. How the fuck it had gotten there was anyone’s guess, but as if he’d only felt it now for the first time, he lifted the back of his hand and smeared it absently over his face.

  Watching as Finn tore Cora away and kissed her.

  She didn’t seem to mind the blood. Didn’t seem to care that Finn must have tasted of death. She opened to him like a night flower in bloom, and he consumed her whole.

  When their kiss broke off seconds later, no one in the room had moved, as if everyone was too terrified to draw attention to themselves.

  Because what if the beast returned? What if it somehow decided you had transgressed in some way?

  He never wanted to know that feeling.

  38

  Child of the Dark

  Santa Muerte had been watching her for longer than she could remember. The death saint’s hollow eyes were on her. Boring through her. Demanding explanations.

  Or, perhaps, another sacrifice.

  La Flaca was greedy. La Flaca was entitled. You became the saint’s slave the instant she did you a favor.

  No matter how small.

  No matter how insignificant.

  And Cora had asked La Flaca for much over the years.

  Perhaps too much.

  Had the saint feasted on Ronan King’s soul at least, or had that just piqued her appetite to new levels?

  You owe me your life, child of the dark.

  She had no doubt whose voice that was.

  Then take it! she screamed in her head, not even knowing if that demand reached the saint.

  Santa Muerte heard.
/>   In time. But you will bring me others first.

  Was the saint so lusting of dark souls she would never have her fill?

  A banshee’s screech speared into her ear drums.

  Who are you to speak of lust, darkling?

  Cora’s eyes shot open, the echoes of Santa Muerte’s hissed curse rebounding in her mind.

  It took precious seconds for her gaze to adjust. When it did, she scanned the room’s every shadow, hunting for hollow eyes and a perpetual grin that held no mirth.

  But Santa Muerte was gone.

  Cora’s eyes fixed on a shard of porcelain.

  Her statue of the Lady of Shadows.

  It had been broken. Shattered. Those pieces lay scattered over the floor.

  But the skull was intact.

  Intact… but cracked.

  That same crack she’d seen in Javier’s dungeon what felt an eternity ago.

  The world fell away, only to return brighter, harsher, more bitter than before.

  Cora blinked, eyes narrowing against the light.

  A wall enveloped her, confining her, protecting her. It crushed her bones and forced the last inch of air from her lungs.

  But she welcomed it.

  Let it crush her.

  Let it starve her of life.

  She didn’t want to feel anything ever again.

  Because that had been her mistake, hadn’t it? Giving in to pleasure. To pain. Letting lust and love and hedonistic desire consume her.

  Now she was spent. Broken and torn. No one could put her together again. No one would even know where to begin.

  Except Finn.

  He knew the shape of her.

  He knew how her pieces fit together.

  Which was why, when he kissed her, she kissed him back. It didn’t matter that his mouth was filled with blood. It didn’t matter that his body felt more like a beast’s than a man’s.

  Nothing mattered.

  Except him.

  And she let him have her. She gave her broken self to his hunger. She fed him, one last time, and silently hoped he would devour her entirely.

  At least, then, there would be no more pain.