Their Cartel Princess: The Complete Series: A Dark Reverse Harem Box Set Page 28

  “I’m sorry.”

  Finn blinked hard, as if coming to. He glanced at her, threw back the last of his brandy, and set his mug down. “For what?”

  She shrugged. “For this.” She waved around the cabin. “For everything. If it wasn’t for me—”

  He squeezed her ankle, and then flinched as if he’d just realized he was touching her. He hurriedly took his hand out from the blanket and rose, piling the excess wool on top of her.

  “Hungry?” he asked, without meeting her eyes.

  “Starving.”

  He smiled at her then, and a wave of warmth washed over her. Not from the fire, or the blankets, or her thick clothing. But from the light that touched his eyes.

  “Why’d I even ask?” he murmured as he walked past her into the kitchen.

  The frenzied sounds of the blizzard outside the window filled the cabin. Finn had brought back two plastic pouches and a soot-blackened pot. He emptied the pouch contents into the pot, added some bottled water, and gave it a quick stir with one of the fire place tools from the stand beside the mantel place before hanging it on a hook set inside the fireplace.

  Cora shivered; more from the thought of how cold it must be outside than with actual cold. The blankets and warm clothes had drawn the ice from her bones. Even her toes felt normal again. The brandy had helped a lot—it made her feel warm and slightly woozy. She still had some in her mug, and sipped at it as she watched Finn idly stirring the pot.

  He was such a solid block of a man, as if chiseled from the same hard stone as the fireplace. Orange stone now, with the firelight dancing over his face. He dished up their rehydrated food a few minutes later and handed her the warm bowl.

  “Macaroni and cheese. Don’t try and enjoy it—that’s not the point.”

  She lifted her spoon, letting some of the gloopy mixture slide back into the bowl. “What is the point, then?”

  “Nutrients. Warmth.”

  She grimaced at the bowl and ate an experimental spoonful.

  Finn gave her a wary look when she let out a soft, “Mmm.”

  “You’re fucking kidding me,” he said.

  “It’s not bad. A bit chewy, but…” She ate another spoonful, and then settled back in the sofa, staring at the flames as she emptied her bowl.

  They put their bowls down on the coffee table at the same time, and Finn gave her a frown as he settled back on the sofa.

  Wood crackled, the sound nearly drowned out as the wind hurled snow against the cabin and shrieked through the eaves.

  “Turning into a blizzard out there,” Finn said.

  “Shit,” Cora murmured. There was nothing to see out the black window, but she could imagine clouds of snow pummeling that thick glass.

  She wriggled her toes under Finn’s thighs again, and the corners of his mouth lifted a little. He stroked the arch of her foot, and glanced at her. For once, he didn’t seem angry or irritated or on high alert. The only thing she could see on his face was…resignation.

  “Bet you wish you hadn’t taken this job,” she said softly.

  He half-turned toward her, but his eyes didn’t leave the fire as if he was entranced by the flames. “Hm?”

  “You could have been home by now,” she went on. “Not stuck in a blizzard with me.”

  “Home,” Finn murmured to himself. “Bet you think the same of me.”

  “What? Of course not. If it wasn’t for you—”

  “You’d have been in Texas by now. Bailey by your side.” Finn threw her a quick, unreadable look. “You’d have preferred that, wouldn’t you?”

  “If it wasn’t for you, I’d probably be a prisoner by now.” Cora frowned at him. “Not in Texas.”

  Finn shrugged. “For all we know, I’m overreacting.”

  “I know I’m safe.” Cora reached across her legs and brushed her fingertips against Finn’s sleeve. He flinched at the touch, and turned to her. “And it’s because of you. That’s all that matters.”

  “That’s all that matters?” Finn said, his lip slowly lifting into a sneer. “I disobeyed a direct order from my client—your father.”

  “If you hadn’t, I might be—”

  “Might being the operative word,” Finn cut in. “I’ve never fucked up a job like this—”

  “That’s all this is to you?” Cora whipped away her hand and dragged her feet out from under his thigh. “A job?”

  Finn pushed the blanket off his lap and went to go stand by the fire. He rested his arm against the mantel and leaned in as if trying to absorb the fire’s heat.

  “Answer me,” she said. “For once, Finn. Just be honest with—”

  Finn’s sardonic laugh cut through her words. “We both know this stopped being a job when I fucked you.”

  Heat flashed onto her cheeks. The way he spoke that word made her insides clench and she had no idea if it was with pleasure or pain. Finn pushed away from the fire, turning to her. She crowded into the sofa when he bore down on her. There was a strange light in his eyes; a swirl of anger, frustration, confusion.

  One hand grabbed the sofa’s arm, the other the cushion behind her shoulder. When he leaned in, it was like he was trying to absorb her aura. He filled her world, blocking the warmth from the fire, the snow batting against the black window, even some of the blizzard’s ferocity.

  “What I did to you is unacceptable,” he murmured, so close that his breath stirred stray strands of hair against her throat. “What I want to do to you.” His eyes flickered over her face, drinking her.

  “I—” she swallowed hard. “It was my choice—”

  He barked a laugh. “You had about as much choice as a kitten in a bag, drowning in a river.”

  “You think I can’t make my own decisions? Huh? I kissed you first. I wanted you to—”

  Finn slid his hand behind her neck, yanking her forward. His mouth was soft and warm against hers, the stubble around his lips sending a tremor through her as it scraped her skin. Just as she began leaning into the kiss, Finn scooped her off the couch. He urged her legs around his waist, gripping her against him as he maneuvered her through the cabin as he headed upstairs.

  She broke off their kiss to gasp for air, grabbing his shoulders and grinding herself against his stomach. It was supposed to make her stop aching for him, but it didn’t help. He made a frustrated sound, taking the stairs two at a time. His hand slid up the back of her sweater, and tangled in her long-sleeved shirt.

  He dropped her on the bed, and it creaked in protest as she bounced. He was on top of her a second later, smothering her with his weight, raining kisses on her neck as he undressed her.

  He’d just managed to take off her sweatpants and sweater when the wind gusted.

  Outside, something cracked like a rifle shot. A second later, the cabin shook with a thunderous crash that made Cora yell in surprise.

  The lights went out, throwing the bedroom into utter darkness.

  Finn grabbed her hips, squeezed her.

  She let out a strangled, “What—?”, as she tried to calm her pounding heart.

  “Sounds like a tree hit the roof.” Finn sat up, his warmth leaving her almost reluctantly. The bed creaked when he climbed off and went to the dark window. He was a black shape against that gray, swirling darkness. “Must have taken out the power line.”

  Cora swiped her hands over her face. “That can’t be good.”

  “It’s not. The generator should have kicked in by now.”

  “Shit.”

  “Shit, indeed,” Finn muttered. “Stay put.”

  As if she’d just planned a shopping spree and her limo was waiting outside. She glared toward the sound of him taking the stairs and then stopped when she realized he couldn’t see her.

  He came back a minute later, an aura of light preceding him. A small lamp hung from his fingers, looking child-sized compared to his bulk. He set it on the nightstand and went to the bedroom closet. He grabbed a parka from the closet and zipped it up over his sweater. With so many
layers, he looked indestructible. The parka’s white, fur-lined hood hung around his shoulders—so pale that his face looked more tanned in comparison. His eyes bluer.

  He checked his pistol before shoving it back into his belt and then glanced around at her, considering her with a faint frown for a few seconds. He went over to the nightstand, hesitated, and then handed her the Taurus she’d set down on it earlier.

  She took it from him, flinching at how cold it was. “Where are you going?”

  “Have to see what’s wrong with the generator. It’s just around the back. Won’t be long.”

  Cora wriggled the gun at him. “Yet you feel the need for me to arm myself?”

  “There’s a blizzard outside.” Finn shrugged. “If I’m not back in fifteen minutes, you’ll have to come look for me.”

  “Forget it, Finn. We don’t need the generator.”

  “You want to shower. I doubt the water heater’s warmed up yet.”

  “I don’t care. Don’t go. Stay—” Cora bit off the rest of that whiny sentence. Why the hell was she being like this? Finn was a fucking man—he could look after himself. And so could she. She’d been with this man for less than a week, and already her independence had been eviscerated. She ejected the Taurus’s clip and showed him the empty magazine.

  “It’s empty.”

  “Only three people in the world know that.”

  He must have seen the question in her eyes. Finn gave her a grim smile. “You, me, and the devil makes three.”

  6

  Meth or heroin

  The barn was big enough to be drafty. This early, it was still gloomy and cool inside. It hadn’t been used for livestock in a long time—the predominant miasma hanging in the air was that of dirt and sweat and blood. Zachary West stood for a moment, closing his eyes as he drew deep on that scent.

  Dust motes swirled when his lieutenant, Ailin, closed the door behind him and Rodrigo. He didn’t need either of them at his side, but they followed him as loyally as his pitbulls, Lady and Blue. He’d left the dogs outside—a signal to anyone coming to seek him out that he was not to be disturbed.

  Here, the shadows moved like living things.

  A fluorescent light flickered on, slicing shadows into geometric shapes. The cold white light illuminated a dark, bowed head, drooping shoulders, and torn, once-fine clothing.

  Antonio Luis Rivera—AKA Tony Swan—lifted his head at Zachary’s approach and watched him with guarded apprehension as he drew near. The man’s eyes were set in dark, sunken pools; a gaunt face streaked with dirt and dried blood. But still those black eyes flashed with anger and pride.

  “They tell me you refuse to eat,” Zachary said as he came to a halt in front of Antonio.

  Antonio didn’t refute the claim. As yet, the man hadn’t uttered a single word. Hadn’t let out more than sounds of pain—muted at that—while Ailin and Rodrigo had tried beating him into compliance.

  Zachary had known that wouldn’t work. A man like Antonio would never break under torture. But the physical violence proved a different purpose. It showed ‘El Solitario’ that, to Zachary West, violence was at least one avenue he’d readily explore in order to extract information.

  Antonio had to know this implicitly, if the next part of his plan was to work.

  The man was on his knees, chained to one of the barn’s support beams. Those chains rattled as he forced himself straighter. He was obviously too weak to come to a stand as he had yesterday when Zachary came to see him.

  “If you don’t eat, Mr. Rivera, you will grow too weak to tell me what I need to know.”

  He crouched. Antonio had spat on him the last time he’d come down to the man’s level, but he doubted there was enough saliva in his mouth for a repeat performance. He not only refused to eat, but refused water too. He would force both down the man’s throat soon enough, but perhaps in his weakened state he would be more susceptible to negotiation.

  “We are drawing near to her. Are you sure you won’t reconsider my offer?”

  Antonio glared at him, but didn’t reply. He never did.

  “Do you still remember what I promised the first day you arrived?”

  Antonio’s only response was another glitter of bright and brittle anger.

  “I recall being very explicit about what would happen if I laid my hands on your daughter before you give me the information I require. Do you remember?”

  A flicker—not despair, but something close to it—extinguished that fire. A lesser man wouldn’t have seen either the anger or the despair, but Zachary had taught himself to read people a long time ago. It had been a survival trait back then—knowing when the person who held your life in their hands was sober, drunk, angry, depressed, or horny. He’d seen several emotions flooding Rivera’s eyes since he’d been trussed up in his barn. That flicker of despair hadn’t been the first, nor would it be the last.

  Zachary reached into his pocket, but didn’t draw out his hand. Rivera’s gaze flickered almost imperceptibly to his pocket, no doubt wondering what was inside; a lock of his daughter’s hair? A photograph? Her finger?

  “She left Sierra County yesterday.”

  Rivera showed no surprise at the revelation. The capo had had a lot of time to think, down here between the floating dust motes. A lot of time to piece together events and reach his own conclusions.

  Zachary drew out the votive candle he’d retrieved from Eleodora’s duffel bag. He set it on the floor between him and Rivera.

  The man didn’t look down, but his gaze bore into Zachary as if he wished he could read his thoughts. Dried blood flaked from the stretch of skin between his nose and his top lip. More coated his chin.

  “Seems she’s upholding cartel tradition,” Zachary murmured. “But how much longer will Santa Muerte protect her from me do you think? A day? A week?”

  Zachary laid a gentle hand on Rivera’s shoulder. The man didn’t flinch, didn’t move away, but his eyes burned with venom.

  “If you don’t eat, Mr. Rivera, then you won’t have the strength to defy me. To beg me to stop when I bring her here.” He lifted a hand, taking in the dingy barn. “When I have my men rip the clothes from her body and desecrate every inch of her skin.”

  He tightened his hand, and Rivera dipped his shoulder to get rid of that touch. Zachary smiled, rose up, and dusted his hands as if he’d touched something foul. He overturned the votive candle with the tip of his cowboy boot. It rolled, coming to a rest against Rivera’s knees.

  “I’ll leave you to pray to your Death Saint,” Zachary said, his voice heavy with disgust. “Perhaps she’ll grant you a last reprieve and take your life before I find your little Eleodora.”

  He paused, body illuminated by a shaft of light.

  When he glanced back at Rivera, the man was staring down at the votive candle, mouth trembling.

  “Or, perhaps not,” Zachary murmured. “As I understand it, Santa Muerte is known to have a strange sense of humor.”

  Rivera flinched, and squeezed his eyes shut.

  Lady’s tail churned up dust when Zachary stepped into the sunlight, while Blue only gave him a look of solemn acknowledgment. Heat struck him like a warm wave after the chill and gloom of the barn. He paused to scratch Lady behind an ear, and then turned to Ailin. The man chewed a toothpick, but tugged it out of his mouth when he found Zachary staring at him.

  “Have you found him yet?”

  Ailin shrugged. “His men are loyal. They’re keeping their mouths shut.”

  “Then force them open.” His voice grew hard. “Use pliers if you have to.”

  Rodrigo hurried forward as they began walking back to the farmhouse. “They fear El Guapo’s wrath, Don Zachary.”

  “Then make them fear mine instead,” Zachary said, heading for the farmhouse again.

  “He’ll talk,” Ailin said hurriedly. “Soon as we find—”

  “Yes,” Zachary cut in, voice a low, toneless growl. “Which I’m sure will happen any day now.”

&
nbsp; His phone rang. He glanced at the caller ID and his lips turned into a mirthless smile as he answered. “Speak of the devil.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment,” came a sonorous voice from the other end of the line.

  Zachary smiled to himself. “We haven’t located her yet.”

  “I told you not to exert yourself,” came the smug response. “She’ll come when she’s ready. That little bird is stretching her wings, but soon she’ll tire of the outside world. And then her new cage will be waiting for her.”

  He despised how poetic the man on the other end of the line was. He always spoke in metaphors, turning every sentence into a sonnet.

  Zachary gritted his teeth. “Have you reconsidered my request?” For a moment, deja vu flashed through him. Hadn’t he just uttered those exact words to Antonio? His smile turned true at the thought.

  In the sudden silence, the crunch of boots on dried grass seemed louder. As did the call of a Jay hidden in a nearby Acacia.

  “I considered you more persuasive than this, Zachary.”

  “Mr. Rivera is as tough as an old root. If I know what it is you’re after, I could be more effective.”

  And he’d know what this devil of a man was after, too. When he’d agreed to meet, he couldn’t have been less impressed by the man’s appearance. But there was a cruel and devious mind behind those dark eyes, and the need for vengeance had long since rotted it.

  “Information is information. Does it matter how the ones and zeros are composed? I need the archives. Antonio knows what they are. He knows how valuable they are, which is why he’s holding back.”

  “I see nothing on his face when I ask him for the archives,” Zachary said.

  A small group of men crossed their path, most turning to nod their heads in greeting. A few of them wore bright yellow hardhats, incongruous against faces scarred from street fights.

  A sigh came through the phone. With great reluctance, the man said, “It’s a list of names, amongst other things. Connections.”