by Sienna Blake
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My Irish Kings:
A Reverse Harem Mafia Romance
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A Quick & Dirty Novel
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Sienna Blake
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My Irish Kings: a novel / by Sienna Blake. – 1st Ed.
First Edition: November 2018
Published by SB Publishing
Copyright 2018 Sienna Blake
Cover art copyright 2018 Cosmic Letterz. All Rights Reserved Sienna Blake. Stock images: depositphotos
Editing Services by Leanore Elliott
Proofreading services by Proof Positive: http://proofpositivepro.com.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Contents
Contents
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Waylyn
Magnar
Waylyn
Magnar
Waylyn
Magnar
Waylyn
Magnar
Waylyn
Magnar
Waylyn
X
Magnar
Magnar
Waylyn
Jace
Waylyn
Waylyn
Magnar
Waylyn
Waylyn
Waylyn
Jace
X
Magnar
X
Waylyn
Waylyn
Magnar
Waylyn
Waylyn
Magnar
Waylyn
Magnar
Waylyn
X
Waylyn
Magnar
Waylyn
Waylyn
Waylyn
Waylyn
Epilogue
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Dear Readers
Excerpt of Three Irish Brothers
Excerpt of Dark Romeo
Books by Sienna Blake
Acknowledgements
About Sienna
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My Irish Kings
A Quick & Dirty Novel
Five years I’ve been kept under the control of Ireland’s most vicious gang leader. Now that I’m eighteen, he’s forcing me to marry him. I’d rather die a thousand deaths.
I escape to the only place I can be safe—the home of my captor’s biggest rival, the Irish Kings.
There’s X, the living weapon with a haunted past. His vicious touch helps release all this anger in me.
Jace, the teddy bear with a warrior’s heart. His melodic Irish brogue is a balm to my soul.
And Magnar King, their intimidating leader. Whose eyes flare with hunger when I’m near, yet backs away like I’ve burned him when we touch. He doesn’t remember me. But I remember him.
They’re all so different. But they all make me feel safe. They awaken needs in me—strange needs.
I want all of them.
But I just might need all of them to heal.
***This is a smoking hot yet emotional reverse-harem romance, a full-length, standalone novel. Three sexy Irish brothers-in-arms who aren’t afraid to share and take their special woman to the ends of her pleasure.
Sienna’s Quick & Dirty series consists of standalone novels which are hotter, dirtier and quicker than her other novels.
For Z,
For staying by my side when I was hospitalised.
For being my family when I was without.
Love you, always.
Waylyn
Yer man:
n. An Irish phrase, a loose pronunciation of “your man”. Used to describe a male or interchangeably with “he”.
I never thought I’d be stowing away in the back of the florist van days before my wedding.
But here I am.
Lodged between boxes, sitting curled in the tightest ball I can manage, my pant legs growing damp from a puddle of spilled water.
If I am caught…
My mind flashes back to earlier, to Keegan’s breath on the back of my neck, his fingers clawing into my flesh.
“You are mine.”
I shudder, a chill running down my spine as if he were watching me this very moment.
My heart slams in my chest. My hands are shaking. I can’t believe I’m doing this. But staying…marrying him…the consequences will be worse.
So much worse.
Just breathe, Waylyn.
I left my shower running when I snuck out of my room, but it’s only a matter of time before someone comes to check in on me and realises I’m gone.
The van trundles down the long driveway. It’s approximately ten seconds to the gate. I often count them on the rare occasions that Keegan takes me out of the grounds of his mansion.
Just a few more seconds to freedom.
If I make it past the gate.
Three…
Two…
One…
The van slows and my heart rate accelerates. There’re usually two guards stationed at the gate at any one time. More today because of all the traffic from the wedding services and deliveries.
I listen out for footsteps, but this van is like a dark cave and any noises outside are muffled. My breath hitches at the sound of the back door being opened.
I curl away from the light.
“What’s in the back there?” a gruff male voice says.
“Just empty boxes.”
I assume that’s the driver.
“Eddie, get back in there and check,” says the same voice from before.
“Feck off. You git up there.”
A torch flashes into the van. For one swollen moment—I don’t breathe. I don’t move.
“Ahh, go on.”
The van door slams shut. I release the greatest sigh of relief ever when the van starts moving again. So much so that a tear slips from my eye.
I’m free.
For what feels like hours I sit in a huddle at the back of the van. Keegan’s mansion is in Malahide, a coastal area north of Dublin. I didn’t think about where I might end up. I was so focused on just getting the fuck out of the place that had been my prison for five years.
Finally, the van stops, then reverses at an angle. I think the driver is parking.
I have to make a run for it. If yer man finds me here, I know he’ll send me back to Keegan.
I creep out from my hiding place and position myself near the back door, praying that it’s not locked from the outside, biding my time.
The van jolts to a stop. I hear the engine shut off.
Now, go now!
I tug the handle and shove at the door. Thank God, it flings open. I don’t hesitate. I leap from the van and run down the street, dodging passersby, all giving me strange looks. I hear yelling from behind me, but I don’t slow down, not even to look back.
Never look back.
I dodge left and right, crisscrossing through lanes and skinny cobbled streets. I keep going for long after the yelling fades, long after the driver quit running after me,
long after my lungs burn and my legs scream for me to stop.
Still, I keep running.
Running away from Keegan. Away from my prison. Away from the last five years.
I half collapse against a brick wall, ignoring the stares of people nearby waiting for a bus.
“No need to run, girl,” an older lady says to me in her warbling tone, “the number 16 won’t be coming for another four minutes.”
“Thanks. Not waiting. For bus,” I manage between deep breaths.
I don’t have money for bus fare. Nothing. Keegan never let me have any money. If I wanted anything, he had to buy it for me.
My breath steadies, the immediate tension slides from my shoulders. It doesn’t leave completely, though. I need to figure out what to do next. But first, I need to figure out where the hell I ended up.
I look around, the dusk light making everything look hazy, the sunset blazing across the underbelly of clouds in the sky.
Thank God. I’m in the Dublin city centre, as I’d hoped. I can see the giant spike that marks the centre of O’Connell street soaring from over the tops of the buildings. I’d been in the city centre a few times, only ever with Keegan.
I have no family left. No friends. No money. On my own out here, it won’t be long before Keegan tracks me down.
There is only one place I could go in this whole country.
Only one man who can keep me safe.
Magnar
Yer wan:
n. An Irish phrase, a loose pronunciation of “your woman”. Used to describe a female or interchangeably with “she”.
It’s tough being King of Ireland’s most notorious gang.
It feels like I’m in a dogfight almost every day. Some days, the punches just come out of nowhere.
“Keegan O’Connor just announced his wedding,” Jace says.
“I’ll send him a gift,” I say.
A bullet, that’s what the asshole deserves.
Keegan is the leader of the Revolutionist’s Army, our nearest rivals. Once upon a time when his predecessor Renkin McCallister held his position, we’d…well, our two gangs had never been friends, but we’d had what you could call a gentleman’s agreement to stay the fuck out of each other’s way.
This all changed when Keegan took the throne.
A lot changed when he took that throne.
“He’s getting married in less than a week,” Jace clarifies.
Less than a week? Talk about shotgun wedding. I frown at my cousin, practically my brother, and my right-hand man. “Didn’t realise he was engaged.”
“He wasn’t as far as I can tell. Yer wan just appeared out of nowhere. Boom. Suddenly, they’re getting married.”
“It sounds…suspicious,” X says.
If Jace is my right-hand man, X is my weapon, my silent sword arm that extends long into the cruel night.
“You think everything sounds suspicious,” Jace says, a lightness to his tone.
“Tell me I’m rarely wrong.”
Jace remains silent.
I rub my forehead. I fucking hate surprises. Surprises are just excuses for poor planning and poor intel. Two things that get a man in my position killed.
Not that I have long left anyway.
Tick tock.
“My little birdies tell me that even his closest were shocked by the news, King,” Liam says.
Liam is the only one of us around the table who I didn’t grow up alongside, but he is like a brother to me. Just like every man around this table.
When we need to talk business, my brothers and I meet in a secure room in the basement level of our headquarters in Dublin. It’s dim and dank, but it’s secured by a fingerprint scanner, soundproof and bug-proof. Which is what really matters.
I glance over to Liam, but my gaze bounces back off him. Still to this day, I can’t look him in the eyes properly. It’s like staring at the sun. They are the same grey eyes as his sister’s.
God rest her soul.
“Who is she?” I ask.
“Name’s Waylyn Grace,” Jace says.
“Who?” I ask, racking my brain for some piece of stored information on Keegan’s bride. Usually, when the heads of the underworld marry it’s for political reasons, joining two families together or consolidating assets into a family.
Jace and X eye each other as I sit across from them. On the table, a pile of papers and espresso cups are sitting between us.
I let loose a growl, my usually well-kept emotions leaking out. “Don’t look at each other. Look at me. The girl. Who. Is. She?” I turn to Liam and give him a look. If any of us would know, it’s Liam.
“I don’t know,” he says.
“Why the hell not?”
“Relax, King. I’ll find out,” Liam says, stretching his long legs out. He is the only one sitting askew at the round table.
Relax, baby, you stress too much, I can almost hear Caitlin saying to me.
I let out a long breath, my shoulders sagging, tiredness rushing in to replace the drop in adrenaline. I haven’t been sleeping well this past week. I never do this time of year.
“What I do know,” Liam says, “is the guest list. Select players of the underworld, from the Veronesis of the US to the Celtic Vikings of the north.”
“I take it the Tyrells aren’t invited, then,” Jace says.
The feud between the Tyrells and the Veronesis are well known even from this side of the pond.
“We should storm the wedding. Kill every last one of them,” X says, his dark grey eyes glittering with bloodlust.
Of course, X would say that. If I gave him permission, he’d storm the wedding himself armed to the teeth.
“What do you say, King?” X says, turning to me. “A chance to end Keegan once and for all. Even Kilfane would show up to that one.”
Kilfane was once my closest friend and one of my brothers. He came into the family later but his loyalty and intelligence quickly earned him my trust. And undying friendship.
I haven’t seen him since he left the Kings. He’s the only man I’ve ever let walk out of the organisation. Sadness tinges my memories over why, and I have to brush them aside before they carry me away.
“No storming the wedding,” I say. “The security around Keegan’s mansion is going to be legendary on the day, no doubt,” I say, cutting X off before he can argue. I get a confirming nod from Liam. “I’m not sending our men into a suicide mission, even if it means putting Keegan six feet under where he belongs.”
X scowls for a split second before his blank mask slides back on. He nods at me, accepting my decision.
I’m always a little unnerved at how quickly he can frost over his emotions. “Okay, Liam, you find out more about Keegan’s new missus anyway.”
Liam gives me a salute.
“Jace is going to suss out alternative lines of distribution along the east coast,” I continue, recapping the meeting and signaling the end. I am ready for this night to be over.
“And you,” Jace says, as we stand up and gather our things, “are going to get some sleep.”
“Yes, Ma.”
“Those bags under your eyes have been there for days now. Are you eating your greens?”
“Feck off.” But I have a small smile on my face.
Jace is the mother hen of the group. He’s been blessed—or cursed, if you ask him—with a kind-hearted babyface that makes him look much younger than his thirty-six years. He’s tried to make up for it by getting full sleeves tattooed on both arms and working out almost every day to harden his body, but his soft heart shines through. When the women who hang around us get rejected by X or me, they run to Jace and cry on his comforting shoulder. Always the friend, never the boyfriend.
I grab my leather jacket from the back of my chair, black and worn. Had it for almost a decade and it still serves me well. Frayed edges, thinning on the elbows and a bullet hole in the shoulder from where I took one five years ago, but I won’t give it up. The boys banded together one Christmas t
o buy me a new one. It is still hanging in the back of my closet with the tags on it.
We exit the elevator and head into the lobby, a simply furnished space with a few couches and two guards sitting on desk duty. The only difference between this lobby and an office building’s is the bulletproof glass surrounding it.
The Irish Kings own the building, a converted warehouse in Ringsend. It is our headquarters and home. Most of our men have their own places, but these doors and beds are open to any member. Fully fledged or newbie.
“You going to crash here, King?” Jace asks.
I spot X nudging Jace and giving him a look. X remembers what tomorrow is.
I see the moment Jace realises. I turn away from them so I don’t have to register their pity. “I need a few days,” I call back over my shoulder, shrugging my jacket on, barely feeling the rough leather.
It’s not that late. Just past 11 p.m., but I need to be home and alone before midnight.
~* * * *~
My penthouse is only a two-minute bike ride from HQ, in Grand Canal Dock. It takes up the entire top floor of a twelve-storey building and has a great view of the Dublin skyline, including the two distinctive white-and-maroon striped chimneys of the now defunct Poolbeg power station. I bought it years ago when the area used to be less gentrified. Now the headquarters of some of Europe’s largest companies have sprung up, and the area is bursting with fancy cafes and yuppies carrying the latest Apple phone and yummy mummies dressed in lululemon pushing Bugaboos along the willow-fringed canal.
I usually get a few looks when I roar past on my bike. Not so much this late at night.
I stumble in through the front door. Perhaps if I weren’t so damn tired, I would have noticed the alarm had already been disabled.
Perhaps I would have spotted the small pair of ladies’ runners by mine at the door.
I do notice the figure lying in my bed when I turn my bedroom light on, though.
