Irish Rogue Read online

  Irish Rogue

  Brooklyn Kings, Book 5

  L.K. Shaw

  Irish Rogue, Brooklyn Kings Book 5

  © 2022 by LK Shaw

  Cover design © 2021 by PopKitty Designs

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  All Rights Reserved.

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  No part of this book, with the exception of brief quotations for book reviews or critical articles, may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author.

  * * *

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Special Note to Readers

  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

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Epilogue One

  Epilogue Two

  Book List

  About the Author

  Special Note to Readers

  This was not an easy book to write.

  In fact, it was damn hard for many reasons.

  It’s a rough ride that may require a warning for some readers.

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  You will find the warning on my website here:

  https://www.lkshawauthor.com/irishrogue

  Chapter 1

  If your book opened to this page, please go back to the previous page: Special Note to Readers before continuing.

  Anya

  * * *

  Not for the first time, I wish he’d kill me already.

  It would be a much kinder fate than to continue enduring the pain and torture he inflicts. But Krzysztof Gornak is neither kind nor merciful. A lesson I learned the day he bought me.

  I sit on the only piece of furniture in my room, huddled against the wall with my knees to my chest. I laugh bitterly. Almost maniacally. Room? More like prison cell. A cold shiver dashes across my neck. Goose bumps pepper my arms. The only clothing I’m allowed is a thin scrap of sheer fabric that’s meant to entice.

  To seduce.

  Still, I welcome the false sense of modesty it provides, even though it offers nothing more than if I were completely naked. It exposes everything. It’s my tormentor’s intent. His men need to see what they’re getting for their money. Bile rises in my throat. Gornak has done nothing but taunt me since yesterday.

  “I found a buyer for you,” he announces in his heavy Polish accent the second he strolls into my room. “He’s going to pay a high price for that sweet pussy of yours. And your ass. The man is massive, too. No doubt he’ll make you bleed. I better get one final taste of that tight, little hole before he ruins it.”

  After everything he’s done to me—forced me to do—I thought my tears had dried up, but there seem to be more left. Screams echo outside my room. On most days, I can ignore them, but sitting here, waiting to be taken to the next monster who will own me, they’re all I focus on. The endless wailing that serves as a reminder of who we are.

  Pets.

  Slaves.

  Fuck toys.

  Over the faint screams, footsteps plod down the hallway. The familiar creak from that one spot on the floor makes me tremble, and not just from the cold.

  My gaze darts to the door. There’s a click, and the knob slowly turns. My heart pounds. Vomit churns. I swallow it back and try to control my breathing. A narrow crack appears, then widens, until Gornak steps through, carrying something in his hand. The evil grin he wears when he’s feeling particularly sadistic contorts his face into a macabre picture. I bite my cheek, and blood fills my mouth. The copper flavor of it bursts across my tongue.

  “How’s my little pet this evening?”

  I don’t respond.

  “It’s time to go. Are you ready to meet your new master?” he mocks.

  Knowing better than to take too long, I climb off the bed and stand next to it. I stare straight ahead. Gornak moves into my line of vision. His perusal of my near-naked body makes my skin crawl. I hold my hands out in front of me like I’ve been trained to do these last six months.

  My almost-healed wrists already hurt in anticipation of the rough texture of the rope he frequently uses to bind them. Ever since the first time he raped me and I nearly clawed his eyes out. He smirks as he wraps the length tautly around them, not even attempting to be gentle.

  It abrades my sores, and rips off scabs, turning my battered flesh raw and bloody. I wince at the pain. Gornak merely smiles.

  “Let’s go.” He grabs my upper arm and drags me out of the room.

  I can barely keep up with his quick pace and trip more than once. He jerks me upright each time, yanking my arm hard enough I’m scared he’ll pull it out of the socket. Tears from the agony of my wrists and shoulder spill down my cheeks. I’m shaking with cold. And more than a little fear.

  Gornak chuckles, sending a bolt of panic through me. It’s a familiar laugh. A terrifying laugh. It’s the one he uses when he’s feeling particularly vicious.

  “Just wait until you see your new master. He reminds me of the devil himself. Covering his entire throat is a skull tattoo with eyes the color of the flames of hell. Rumor has it, it’s an exact replica of the skull from the first man he killed,” he says with glee. “It’s the devil’s own eyes, though, that are terrifying. They’re cold. Emotionless. Soulless. Like you’re looking into the face of a true killer.”

  It’s the last part that sends my terror spiking. Maybe I don’t want to die after all. We exit through a door and cross a parking garage. Gornak nearly throws me in the back seat of a car. I stumble and fall to the floor, scraping my knees across the fabric, adding more abrasions to the collection I already have.

  I scramble onto the seat, my movements awkward and hindered by my bound wrists. He and two more men climb in behind me. The driver pulls away, and the farther from my former prison we get, the more tears that fall, though I try to hide them.

  My sister’s face flashes before me. Along with the last conversation we had. Every hateful word I spewed at her slams against the inside of my brain. For six months, I’ve held out hope I’ll see her again. But lately, that bright ray of hope has grown dimmer. I’m scared that before the evening ends, and my ownership switches hands, it will be extinguished. My body continues to tremble. I will it to stop, but it’s useless.

  We trail behind another town car until, at last, we turn down an alley and come to a stop behind a single-story building. The other two occupants exit first, then Gornak. He snaps his fingers at me, and I follow behind him. My bare feet land in a puddle of water.

  From the first vehicle, three men exit. We join their group, and they all converse in Polish. I’ve picked up a few words since the beginning of my captivity, but they’re speaking too fast for me to keep up. The warm air feels good against my cool flesh, and I stare up at the night sky. I take a shuddering breath, breathing in the scents of sugar and yeast. My stomach growls.

  One of the men pounds on the back door of the building. Moments later, it opens, and a man with fear-filled eyes stands there. He steps back, and our entourage enters. Gornak speaks to one of his buddies, then turns to me. His arm lashes out, and he grabs a fistful of my hair. He yanks my head back and slams his mouth down on mine. His tongue forces its way past my lips, and his teeth gnash my flesh. I whimper in pain.

  “Krzysztof,” someone snaps.

  He releases me and smiles. Blood is smeared across his lips. His tongue swipes across them, pulling it into his mouth. He lets out an, “Ahhhh.” His gaze shifts to his comrade behind me, and he barks out an order. Then, with another glance in my direction, Gornak pivots to face his boss, who’s glaring at him in annoyance. I’ve only seen the man a few times in the common area of the warehouse, where the other women and I were forced to “entertain” the men. Thankfully, he never spent time with me.

  Gornak dips his head in acquiescence. “My apologies, Panie Wójcik.”

  “You know what will happen if the merchandise is too damaged,” the Polish leader admonishes.

  Appearing properly chastised, the five men follow the terrified man, who’d first opened the door, out of the back room we’d been escorted to.

  I move to follow them, but the remaining guard latches onto my arm. He shakes his head. I tense, unsure what’s happening. Time passes. It could be seconds o
r minutes. It’s endless and only makes my anxiety worse. My captor’s phone beeps. He glances at it, pockets it again, and grabs my arm, dragging me forward.

  I’d gotten my tears under control, but the thought of who is on the other side of the door, of the unknown fate that awaits me, brings them forth. I’m trembling. My teeth chatter. He turns the knob, and the bright light from the next room nearly blinds me. It’s as though I’m being transported to another world. A worse one. I take a few, slow steps forward and must hesitate a moment too long to take the next ones because I’m shoved none-too-gently farther in.

  The tile floor is cold on my bare feet. I keep my gaze narrowed on a spot straight ahead. I’m afraid to make eye contact with any of the multiple shadows outside my tunneled vision. We continue crossing the room until we come to a stop at a table.

  “Anya.”

  My name is said in a low and somewhat gentle tone. Shocked at the use of it, I jerk my head up, and my gaze locks onto cold, dead eyes. Oh, god. It’s him. Terror infuses itself in my every pore. Gornak grabs my arm and thrusts me closer to the demon. I can’t breathe.

  The tattooed man yanks out a gun and shoves it directly in Gornak’s face. “Take your hands off her and back away.”

  Someone behind him shifts, and my gaze darts in that direction. Power emanates from the man rising from his chair. To my surprise, there is gentleness on his face as he looks at me. He shrugs out of his suit coat and passes it to the devil still pointing his weapon at Gornak. Why isn’t he examining his merchandise? What’s he doing with that jacket? What’s happening?

  My buyer holsters his gun and slowly moves closer. I’m frozen in place. “You’re safe now. I swear,” he says in that low voice, tucking the coat under his arm. “I’m going to cut these ropes, okay?”

  I watch, paralyzed, as he raises his leg and pulls a knife out from a sheath strapped to his ankle. These men are Italian. Enemies. I’m going to die. My breathing is ragged. Except he doesn’t shove the blade in me. He saws at the binding around my wrists. Despite my terror, I can tell he’s actually trying to be gentle. Confusion sweeps over me. Who is this man? At last, the threads fall to the floor, and he puts away the knife.

  That flicker of hope inside me hums, and the light it produces flares the tiniest bit. He settles the jacket over me. I’m surrounded by warmth and the scent of woodsy cologne. My eyes meet his for half a heartbeat. His gaze has thawed. In fact, it’s warm. Gentle. His whole expression has softened into compassion. That single glimpse is all it takes. A sob spills from me, and I collapse in a ragged heap.

  Before I can hit the floor, strong arms sweep me up into a comforting embrace. I shake with tears. The man carries me away. I can’t make myself care where we’re going, as long as it’s away from the Polish bastards. Moments later, we’re in the back seat of a car. I can’t stop trembling. Or crying. Voices reach me, but it’s like I’m inside a glass bowl. They’re distorted. My body grows heavy. I fight the exhaustion, but it overpowers me.

  Rough hands grab me. My breasts. My sex. They’re touching me everywhere they can reach. I fight them off. Thrash around. Anything to make them stop. My screams grow louder until a woman’s voice penetrates through the fog.

  “Tishe, tishe, ya zdes’, Anyusha. Ne kto tebya bol’she ne obidet.”

  My eyes fly open. There’s nothing there at first and then my gaze lands on the one person I never thought I’d see again. “Mila?” I choke out around my tears, nearly leaping off the couch I’m lying on, and throwing my arms around my sister’s neck, sobbing into it.

  I cry for all I’m worth. Her tears mix with mine until neither of us have any left to shed. She pulls back, and like she did when I was a little girl, tucks my hair behind my ears. My gaze drinks her in. She’s lost so much weight, and her beautiful blonde hair is almost completely gone. It sticks up from her head in a wild mop. What happened to her?

  A small noise draws my attention. I shift my gaze away from her. It collides with the devil-man standing over us. I suck in a sharp breath.

  “Shhhh, Anyusha. He won’t hurt you, I promise,” she rushes out, trying to reassure me. “Anya, this is Pierce. He’s a…friend.”

  “You were there tonight,” I whisper.

  He nods. “You’re safe now.”

  More stupid tears fall. Is it because I believe him or because I don’t? Will I ever be safe again? It doesn’t feel that way. I’m just so tired. Mila moves to sit next to me. It takes no resistance to allow her to pull me down so my head rests in her lap. She starts singing my favorite Russian lullaby. The one she used to sing to me when I was a baby. Her fingers thread through my hair. My eyes close, and I let her voice carry me off to sleep, praying that the nightmares remain at bay.

  Chapter 2

  Five years later

  Anya

  * * *

  I never pictured myself being a wallflower. At least not before. That’s how I’ve come to think of things.

  Before.

  And after.

  But I’ve come to embrace my status. Seek it out.

  Enjoy it.

  People make me nervous. Being in a crowd of hundreds of Italians and Irish, some of whom still haven’t completely accepted me—or my sister—even after five years, is still a little terrifying. Granted, it’s only a small number, and none of them would dare say a word out loud, but their disdain is often noticeable.

  I’ve managed to escape my sister and her machinations to introduce me to various gentlemen under the guise of friendly small talk. You’re hiding behind a fake tree, that mocking voice inside my head states. I shush the stupid thing. I’m not hiding. I’m merely standing out of sight. Avoiding people while, at the same time, trying to gather my courage to approach one person in particular. It doesn’t mean I’m hiding.

  I peek out from behind my hide—the spot where I’ve parked myself. Familiar and unfamiliar faces fill the room. All here to celebrate Emilio and Brenna’s infant twins. My heart pinches. I love babies. Always wanted to have kids. Before, anyway. I push away those thoughts. My gaze lands on my target.

  Paddy Donnelly has been standing by the hors d’oeuvres table—mere feet from me—for the last ten or fifteen minutes, sipping his drink. If I didn’t know him any better, I’d say he’s hiding—or not hiding, rather—too. Not that I know him all that well, though, aside from my casual observations over the years. But his expression is oddly contemplative. Which is not his usual state. He’s almost always smiling—or smirking—as though he’s the only one in on some big inside joke.

  Nausea churns in my belly. Are you really sure you want to do this? Before the answer comes to me, a voice rings out. “There you are.”

  Shit. Someone found me. Except, it’s not me she’s addressing.

  “You’re looking lovely as always,” Paddy compliments the woman.

  “I know you’re trying to hide from me.”

  He gasps in mock horror. “I would never.”

  Her lips twitch, but she smooths them out. “Uh-huh.”

  “What can I do for my esteemed mother today?”

  Her eyes narrow, but she carries on. “I met this lovely, young woman earlier. She’s the daughter of one of Emilio’s captains and was sitting at one of the tables by herself, and I thought it would be nice if you went over and talked to her.”