The Bastard Prince (Crellids Book 1)
Page 1
The Bastard Prince
Crellids #1
Chloe Walsh
Contents
Disclaimer
Author's Note
Ashton
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Thank you so much for reading!
Translations
Other Books by Chloe Walsh
Titles Available as Audiobooks:
Social Media Links
Playlist for The Bastard Prince
Acknowledgments
About the Author
The right of Chloe Walsh to be identified as the Author of the work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright and Related Rights Act 2000.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means – electronic, mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system – without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form or binding or cover than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Published by Chloe Walsh
Copyright 2014 by Chloe Walsh
All Rights Reserved. ©
The Bastard Prince,
Crellids #1,
First published, December 2018,
Republished, December 2019,
All rights reserved. ©
Cover designed by Sarah @ Opium House Creatives.
Edited by Aleesha Davis.
Disclaimer
This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
The author acknowledges all songs titles, song lyrics, film titles, film characters, trademarked statuses, brands, mentioned in this book are the property of, and belong to, their respective owners. The publication/ use of these trademarks is not authorized/ associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Chloe Walsh is in no way affiliated with any of the brands, songs, musicians or artists mentioned in this book.
All rights reserved ©
For Tanya Ruby.
I love you, my friend.
Author's Note
Beware:
This is not a hearts and flowers romance story with a HEA. This is not romance! This is a dark and twisted story of obsession, power struggle, sinful urges and extreme violence set in a dystopian-like new world. It contains explicit and detailed sexual content and sexual violence that some readers may find hard to stomach. This story is dark, seriously messed-up, full of emotional triggers, and is not for everyone. The Bastard Prince is nothing like my previous work, so proceed with caution. Also, please note that some of the dialect is in Spanish – the H's native tongue. This story finishes on a cliffhanger ending.
Strictly over 18s.
You have been warned.
I loved him, and he left me.
Now, all that's left is darkness and pain.
A gaping hole where my heart once beat.
And an unquenchable thirst for vengeance.
Prologue
Nine years ago
Anton watched quietly as his father slit the nun from breastbone to navel with a blade.
Bright red blood oozed from her filthy, tanned skin, causing his bastard brother's birth whore to wail and Anton's stomach to churn.
She would not die from the wound, he acknowledged, as his brain worked hard to comprehend this unnecessary suffering his father was causing the mother of the bastard.
Of course, she would eventually die, the captured traitors always did, but it might take a week for infection to set in and take her life.
Still, to Anton, this seemed unnecessary.
She was suspended from the ceiling by her wrists, with her legs bound at the ankles and stretched apart, contorting her body in an obscene and painful looking X-shape.
There was no honor in this.
She was a woman of god, and while he and his brothers did not pray to a man in the sky, Anton did not feel comfortable watching the desecration of a religious servant.
It made him feel uneasy.
It made him feel less of a man.
Yegor and Vasily, his brothers, reveled in delight at the sight of her naked body, wanting more than anything to join their father in inflicting pain on the holy woman.
Anton frowned when his brothers chanted and encouraged their father and the older men to inflict more torture on the poor, defenseless creature at their mercy.
Of course, no one dared say a word against his brothers.
They were the princes of The Order and held a higher rank to all of the men in this room with the exception of their father – and him.
Anton was the eldest son, Fabio's firstborn, and a grown man now, which made him the heir.
Maybe not anymore, he pondered thoughtfully.
Something about this bastard was acutely important to their father.
Fabio had been searching for his bastard baby since he was five days old and the birth whore had stolen him away from right under his nose.
Anton remembered the fury that had overtaken his father when he discovered his baby son had been snatched away before his reckoning day – a sacred rite of passage from the code.
He also remembered the countless servants of god that had been tortured in this very room, thousands of them, from the four corners of the world, in Fabio's search to find her.
Finally, after thirteen years of relentless hunting, he found them both hidden away in a dilapidated church, in a remote village in Mexico, living in poverty and clothed in rags.
Anton would never admit it, not to a soul, but he was quite impressed with the nun's ability to evade captivity for as long as she had.
She had traipsed the bastard prince all over the world. Hiding him in churches and convents all over Italy, France, Portugal, Spain, and even her birth land of Mexico.
Foolish woman to return to Mexico, he thought to himself. She would have had a better chance back in Europe, where his father's contacts, while still in force, were not as prominent.
Fiercely protective of his birth whore, the bastard, who, at only thirteen years old had garnered quite a name for himself with the local gangs, had single-handedly knifed no less than six of Fabio's armed men in his attempt to protect his mother.
Six fully-grown, armed men!
Important men.
Men Anton had looked up to.
Anto
n had never seen anything like it before while he had watched from the safety of one of the guarded cars.
Their father, who had sat beside him in the car, had been fascinated by such displays of violence.
It had thrilled Fabio.
It had disturbed Anton profoundly.
Jethro, his youngest brother, sobbed quietly into his hand, drawing his attention back to the present.
Jethro was soft like their mother and Anton worried about his mental state often.
Jet wasn't cut out for this world.
He was too emotional.
Too human.
Anton presumed that the only reason the youngest Crellid had survived as long as he had was because of his conception.
He was a rarity.
Apparently, so was the bastard strapped to the chair.
A baby conceived through the initiation of a high-born whore was a wonderful omen. According to the code of The Order, a baby boy conceived by a virgin whore on the night of her initiation would take precedent over all other heirs.
It meant Jethro could rule before him.
It meant the bastard could rule before them all.
Another loud sniffle tore from Jethro's chest and Anton stiffened.
Smothering his frustration, Anton discreetly tucked his youngest brother behind his broad back, blocking his view of the violence.
He would have to get much tougher if he was to survive this world.
Right now, he was showing weakness.
Their father's fondness of Jethro wouldn't keep him alive if he didn’t get a handle on his feelings.
Anton had witnessed first-hand what happened to Fabio's other children, his weaker siblings, and had grown too fond of guileless Jethro to watch him suffer the same fate.
Sniffling quietly, Jethro pressed his face into Anton's back, slobbering his clean shirt with snot and tears, causing Anton to roll his eyes.
It was a lost cause.
The boy would die and he needed to make peace with it.
He would never make it to adulthood.
Folding his arms across his chest, Anton leaned his shoulder against the wall and kept his face void of emotion, not daring to take his eyes off the birth whore. He knew his father well, knew what was expected of him, and what would happen if he showed the slightest hint of discomfort.
"Mirame, Salvatore," the nun strangled out, gasping for air, as the men took her from both holes, beating her with their fists while they pumped into her.
"Do not call him that," Fabio snarled, slapping her across the face, so hard that blood trickled from the woman's mouth.
She was already marked up so badly that Anton could hardly recognize her face.
The blood on her lips only made the situation more desolate.
"That is not the name of my son, whore of god!"
Salvatore, Anton noted calmly, flicking his eyes to the feral looking teenage boy.
Salvatore was the name his mother had given him when she stole him away.
It meant savior in his mother tongue.
While he rarely agreed with his father, Anton had to admit that the bastard looked more like a Trigger than a Salvatore.
"Orad por sus almas," the bastard's birth whore continued to weep, writhing in agony, as two of the men finished up with her and shifted aside for two new guards to take their places.
The men took her without mercy.
Anton calculated that to be eighteen men in little more than two hours.
Discomfort pooled in the pit of his stomach, making him feel more than he should.
Swiftly closing off all emotion before pain crashed through him like a tsunami – he concentrated on what the nun was chanting to her child.
"No dejes que tu corazón se llene de odio," she continued to sob over and over. "No me vengues, niño!"
At eighteen, Anton was well read, having received a glorious education with a private tutor, and he managed to roughly translate her words in his mind.
"Pray for their souls," she was wailing. "Do not let your heart be filled with hate. Do not avenge me, child."
"¡Nunca rezaré por ellos!" Shaking his head, her bastard boy pulled on the chains that restrained him to the chair and choked out a heartbreaking snarl. "Mamá!"
I will never pray for them, mama.
The sounds of the boy's cries were heard throughout the compound, surprising Anton. Never in his life had he witnessed a male cry for a woman.
It was surprising.
It was…rare.
"Mostrar misericordia. Por favor," the bastard continued to snarl, cutting his flesh from the force he was using to try to free himself. "Muestra tu misericordia!" he cried out, tears dripping down his tanned and bruised face. "Te lo ruego."
Show mercy.
Please.
Show her mercy.
I beg of you.
When mercy didn’t come, the bastard howled in agony, voice breaking, making him sound like a young child.
For a brief moment, Anton debated what would happen if he fulfilled the bastard's wishes.
What would happen if he pulled out his gun and put an end to her suffering with a bullet to the brain?
It would certainly be an act of mercy.
He never could, of course, but that didn’t mean that he didn’t want to.
Though his heart didn’t beat right, Anton wasn't as heartless as his father, and the bastard's pleas were affecting him.
Distraught, the bastard moved to turn his face away, unable to watch his mother's suffering a second longer, but Tony, his father's right-hand man, held his dirty, tear-streaked face firmly between his beefy hands, forcing the boy to watch.
"If you close your eyes, she will suffer worse," Fabio warned him. "Keep your eyes on her, son. Watch exactly happens to traitors in our world."
Anton resisted the urge to tell his father that it was pointless threatening the bastard. He clearly didn’t know a word of English.
Besides, he didn’t think this was the technique to use to bring this particular boy to heel.
He would never fall in line – and especially not if they took his birth whore from him.
He was a woman lover.
Strange, Anton mused, but it was a fact.
The boy had lived amongst the opposite sex for thirteen years, taking orders and bowing down to the inferior sex. He was raised by women – nuns, of all things!
In the bastard's eyes, they were his equals. His superiors. He had displayed that belief numerous times since his return in the adoring way he looked at his birth whore. He displayed his respect every time he bowed to her like she was his queen. Like he was beneath her.
Fabio could not win that kind of respect from him with vicious acts of terrorism.
The bastard wasn’t programmed for our world.
He wasn’t weak like Jethro.
He was too strong minded.
He was too dangerous.
Anton sensed trouble laid ahead for his father.
The rape continued for many more hours until the nun lost consciousness, the bastard lost his voice, and Fabio lost interest.
Purposefully leaving her suspended, with her blood pooling on the carpet beneath her, Fabio retreated from the room with the other men, leaving strict instructions that the bastard was to remain exactly where he was.
Anton and Jethro were the last to leave the room, with the youngest Crellid bursting into tears the moment his father was gone.
"I'm sorry," he sobbed, hurrying towards where our bastard brother was still chained. "Forgive us."
Wailing loudly, Jethro threw himself on top of the bastard before Anton had a chance to stop him. "You need to yield to him," he continued to weep, wrapping his small arms around our feral half-brother. "Disown her and claim father. It's the only way he'll – ahhhhh!"
Letting out a startled yelp, Jethro jerked away from the bastard, cupping his ear.
"He bit me," he sobbed, swinging around to stare up at Anton, wide-eyed and stunned. "My ear
!" Blood trickled from his fingers as he cupped his ravaged ear. "He bit me, Anton."
Anton rolled his eyes. "He just witnessed his mother being mutilated by our father. What did you expect him to do? Hug you?"
"I…I..." Looking stumped, Jethro's eyes watered, lip wobbling. "But he bit me."
"Mataré a todos los hombres que estuvieron en esta habitación esta noche," the bastard said with dark eyes full of danger. "Empezaré con tus hermanos. Morirán a mis manos. Despacio. Penosamente. Sangriento. Yo vengaré a mi madre." He sneered, body trembling with caged violence. "Ustedes dos, me quedaré para el final. Tu, príncipe heredero." He glared at Anton. "Tú eres el peor. Puedo ver tu humanidad. Pero tú eres un cobarde. Tomaré tu corona, príncipe heredero. Me llevaré a tu padre." Hacking up a phlegm ball, he spat at the brothers, catching the youngest boy on the cheek. "Tu hogar. Tu madre. ¿Ella esta viva? Personalmente me ocuparé de que ella sufra todas las formas en que sufrió mi madre. Si encuentras a una mujer a quien amar, la sacaré de ti. ¿Tus niños? Sería más seguro no tener ninguno porque los tomaré también. Te haré pagar a todos." He narrowed his eyes, tone full of menace and wistful promise. "Tu marca mis palabras, quemaré tu mundo hasta la tierra."
Keeping his emotions in check was a skill Anton had learned very early on in life and it stood to him now as he placed his hand on Jethro's shoulder and led him from the room, not bothering to respond to the bastard's threats.