Claimed by the Ex-Con: An Ex-Con Second Chance Contemporary Romance Novel Read online

  Claimed by the Ex-Con

  Ambrielle Kirk

  Claimed by the Ex-Con

  * * *

  Copyright © August 2018 by Ambrielle Kirk

  Cover Design by Pixel Perfect

  Typography by RAN Designs

  ISBN-13: 978-1726093347

  ISBN-10: 1726093344

  * * *

  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, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, places, incidents, and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or person, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

  Contents

  Story Summary

  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

  Epilogue

  Bonus Epilogue

  Message from Ambrielle Kirk

  Preview: Kept by the Woodsman

  The Next Arrow Lake Alpha

  Newsletter

  About the Author

  Story Summary

  I’ll break any man to protect her, but can I keep her safe from the real monster—me?

  Two damaged souls. Two pure hearts. An obsession that never fades.

  I was sent to ruin her life.

  * * *

  I took one glimpse at her gorgeous hourglass figure, and instead, I want to make her mine.

  * * *

  She wants out of this life, and an outlaw with a violent past like mine would only break her. But I can’t resist her beauty or her innocence, so I bargained to keep her.

  * * *

  When it’s time to seal the deal—to collect what’s mine—I let her slip away. I think she’s lost forever.

  * * *

  By sheer luck, I find her. After all these years, she still has the same pull over me. I’m not losing her again.

  * * *

  She’s part of my past and my present, so running from my past isn’t an option.

  * * *

  When I look into her eyes, I see my redemption. She’s my future and she already owns my heart.

  Chapter One

  Khloe

  Dusk was setting in. Mama always used to have a saying about dusk.

  When dusk painted the sky, the earth was settling down for the night. All the worries of the day would soon fade away along with the sunset.

  Dusk was Mama’s favorite time of day. You know, that tranquil time of the evening when the crickets would come out and begin singing their serenade of love songs to each other, chirping in the trees. When the transition from a soft bluish glow on the horizon would suddenly dissolve into a canopy of stars in the sky, illuminated by a bright, milky moon.

  I missed Mama. My heart still ached for her. I was only a kid when she died. The scent of her perfume still wafted through my memory on occasion. I didn’t have any pictures of her. She didn't like taking them, but I promised myself that I'd never forget her face. She was beautiful, even when the makeup came off. I recalled telling her once how pretty she was without cosmetics, but she insisted on wearing it. Turns out, it was all a cover-up…

  But I didn’t want to think on that now.

  When I was just a little girl, and when I knew Mama's boyfriend was gone, sometimes, I'd run to her room in the middle of the night. I'd swaddle myself into a cocoon under her sheets and nuzzle up to the pillows that smelled like her. It was comforting, but that life seemed like a million years ago now.

  I was a twenty-two-year-old seamstress, living by myself in a mid-sized city where the faces were unfamiliar and the quiet silence of the nights alone in my apartment were deafening. I didn’t mind it. It was par for the course. I was still chasing away the demons of my past that desperately wanted to haunt me no matter how fast I ran.

  “Ouch!” I winced and drew in a sharp breath. Damn. It had happened again for the second time in a half hour span.

  I had accidentally pricked myself with the seam gripper yet again. I was getting tired and loopy, drained of energy from the day. I stood up and stretched while I sucked on my throbbing left thumb.

  The taste of blood from the tiny prick in my skin was bitter, like chewing on a penny. I walked to the bathroom and flicked on the light switch. The bathroom mirror was a little rusty around the edges. I rented the retail shop, so it wasn’t up to me to jazz up the decorations or modify the space. Not like in my apartment where I tried to give it a nice, personal touch. For once, it felt great to have something that was mine—for the time being.

  I ran a hand through my silky, jet black hair. It had taken me hours to blow dry and straighten it yesterday, but I barely had a social life. My tired gray eyes stared back at me in my reflection. My mama’s eyes.

  I must have pricked myself deep because the sting wouldn’t fade. I plucked a paper towel from the roll and wrapped it around my swollen thumb like a makeshift bandage.

  "Not done yet. I need to finish this order.” I sighed as I trudged back to my little chair in front of my workstation adorned with sewing machines and seamstress tools.

  I was working late to complete an order for a new client, and I wanted to impress them. Word of mouth spread fast around smaller cities. I had a reputation to uphold.

  I planned to drop ship the package to the buyer in the morning. The veil was lightweight, and the lace was intricate—a mantilla. I was proud of the work I'd put into this project, and I was so close to the finish line that I could taste it.

  I glanced around the small, yet practical shop that I’d been renting for several months. It was enough for me, since I was a one-woman operation, at least for now. Business was booming, and I had built up quite a swell of clientele. I was proud of what I had accomplished in such a short time but had miles to go before I would be able to humbly vouch for myself as being labeled as successful.

  Before I decided to rent the shop, I’d worked out of my tiny apartment. It was fine for a little while, but over time I continued to accrue more and more tools and sewing machines, and I had nowhere to put the completed projects before shipping them out to excited customers.

  I’d bounced from city to city before finding this smaller neighborhood that seemed like it had a lot of potential to fit the bill of what I was looking for. And, I almost had enough money saved up to buy myself a new car. The future looked bright.

  Looking back a few years ago, I would never have imagined that I’d even survive for this long. Maybe I should elaborate. The thing is, I came from a dark and sinister past, crippled with threats and fear.

  That Mama I was referring to? Yeah. About that. She was murdered. Brutally murdered by a man she had been dating. I watched my Mama get attacked, beaten, raped and just about every other vile, detestable thing anyone could do to a woman. I was only a child, but I felt helpless. I had barely learned how to shoot a gun. Unfortu
nately, my past wasn't behind me now…my nightmares felt real.

  But I’ve been hopeful. I never wanted that shady future to become my own. I didn’t want to be another statistic and a casualty in the crime world. Ever since my Mama died, I made a vow to myself that I would never mix myself up in that tangled world ever again.

  I came close once, but I escaped my fate. When I was eighteen, my grandfather owed money to a cartel, an underground organization funded by criminal activities. He never told me what he owed them money for, but I suspect he was part of the cartel, either directly or indirectly.

  My knowledge on that subject was murky at best, but I knew that my grandfather had agreed to more or less pay them for something, but when it came time to hand over the money, he didn’t have it. I was there that day. My Mama had gone into town with her boyfriend to find work. I watched him plead and beg for his life, afraid that I'd lose him. My Mama and I relied on him. She wasn't working at the time, and we were barely getting by. I ran out into the kitchen and threw myself in front of him. The mobster must have felt sorry for me, and later on, my grandfather told me I should’ve never done that. Either way, it had worked. The mobster struck a deal with him: he’d have to work for them without compensation until his debt was paid. He thanked them for his life, and every once in a while, a courier from the cartel would come to collect a package from him. I never saw what was in the package. He kept the contents under wraps.

  Things started getting better. My Mama was employed, we had food and money, and everyone was happy. Or at least I thought. Then I lost her. The days after her death were the darkest times of my life. I barely talked. I had no friends since most of the kids at school wouldn't speak to me because of who my family was. I almost flunked out of high school. When I picked up sewing, the peace it provided me was my saving grace.

  The mobsters from the cartel had no sympathy for us. They kept sending the same guy to collect their packages, until one day, they sent someone new. I remember the first time I saw him, pulling up in the yard on his Harley. He was young, but he looked deadly and savage. I’ve never been able to forget him. Not just because my grandfather sold me to him to pay yet another debt he racked up and couldn’t fit the bill for, but because he was…mesmerizing. And different.

  So I saved my grandfather’s life twice. I’m not sure if fate played a role in my luck, but my grandfather died before the deal was done and the outlaw never came to collect me. I traveled around, attempting to maintain a low-key lifestyle for myself. For now, my plan was working, but I knew it was never going to be foolproof. There were always cracks in the foundation, no matter where I went.

  That didn’t mean that I had to sleep with one eye open, but I always needed to be aware of my surroundings.

  A sound coming from outside my shop startled me.

  It sounded like someone was walking up the sidewalk. A hard object tapped on the glass windows on the front of my shop. I couldn’t see who or what it was because I had already pulled the curtains closed. The hair prickled on the back of my neck.

  The door to my shop opened even though I was sure I had locked it. I was afraid to turn around. I swallowed hard and bit the bullet. As soon as I spun around, I sighed with relief.

  It was just Martin. Martin Flemming was my underlying sleazy landlord that hid behind a swanky beige business suit where the jacket was always at least a size too big for him. He was attractive and all, but I hated the way he always flirted with me. He was not shy in the slightest and made hitting on me one of his full-time hobbies.

  I took it all in stride. I bit my tongue and elected to keep the waters between us as professional as possible. I had no interest in his advances and declined them as if I were shooting a tennis ball off a racket, bouncing them to the other side of the court.

  Martin turned around and locked the door before coming further into the shop. I really hoped he wasn’t planning on staying too long. I had things to do.

  He loved to waltz in here, proclaiming deep pockets and high stacks of cash, but I never saw anything of the sort. Besides, he was always knocking on my shop door at nine in the morning sharp every first of the month. If he was such a high-roller, why was he so desperately trying to collect from me like clockwork like a bottom feeder?

  I huffed quietly and waited for him to announce his reason for being here.

  “Hey there, sexy girl,” he said with a whistle and a wink as he strutted further into the room. “Your hair looks perfect like that. Did you finally visit the salon?”

  “Uh…thanks. And no, I did it myself,” I mumbled.

  He walked around the back of my stool and hooked his thumb under one of the straps of my top. He didn’t take the hint. It was like he couldn’t take the hint.

  “A woman like you shouldn’t wear this second-hand stuff, you know,” he said. He smelled like he’d been drinking heavily.

  I was surprised about how much information he had retained about me. I had been introduced to Martin by the second-hand clothing shop owner across the street when he informed me that Martin had vacant units for rent. Even before that, I had browsed the shop almost monthly for clothes and other things I could afford.

  Either way, I had no problems buying from second-hand shops. Some of the garments I purchased were designer-labeled and gently used. Hell, some of them even had the original price tags attached when I bought them. Either way, I thought I looked just fine.

  “Stop.” I swatted his hand away and instinctively wrapped my arms around my chest.

  He dropped his hand to his side. “If you insist…”

  “What can I help you with, Martin? Rent was due last week and I already paid. Remember? I always pay.”

  “I know.” Martin placed his hands on his hips and slowly circled around some garments I had draped across the back of a chair. “What are you working on?”

  “A bridal veil for a client,” I mentioned and shifted my weight uncomfortably.

  I needed Martin to leave so I could finish up the project and go home. I did my best to tolerate Martin. This shop was my one-way ticket to a new life outside of the realm of crime. I didn't necessarily have to butter Martin up, but I certainly had to appease him to keep the lease on the shop.

  Martin opened his mouth to say something, most likely of the shady sort, when the sound of something pelting violently against the door ripped through the air. Gunfire pattered on the walls. It sounded like a machine gun. I shrieked and immediately ducked, protecting myself by snaking my arms over my head.

  The door was plowed down by a man wearing a maroon hoodie. His face was shadowed. Shattered glass crunched under the sole of boots. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a few more men in the mirror’s reflection charging into the shop.

  A shelf holding up supplies that I’d stacked neatly into little containers tumbled to the floor. Seamstress gear showered the floor. They were shooting the place up. I held my breath and stifled another scream.

  Suddenly Martin's body landed hard on top of mine as he grabbed me to yank me under a desk. A mannequin that I used as a go by for sewing began rocking back and forth, eventually landing on my head.

  I clutched my head and tried to breathe through the blur of pain. At first, I thought these were hitmen, hired to kill me. But that assumption quickly faded as a pair of men stretched their weapon-laden arms out and pulled Martin up by his jacket.

  “Please…” he stuttered. “Don’t…kill me.” He held his hands up and begged for mercy, spitting and making a disgraceful scene.

  One of the men lifted his boot and impaled it right into Martin's gut, nailing him right in the abdomen. Martin went down in one swoop, crying in agony as he resorted to the fetal position. I watched in horror as one other man yanked him up by the hair while the other drove punch after punch at Martin's face that was becoming more battered and bloody by the second.

  “Give us the protection money,” the one in the black jeans demanded in a gruff voice. I couldn’t see any of their faces.


  I tried not to cry, thanking myself for trusting my instinct that Martin's front was all on the surface. He wasn't some wealthy business tycoon after all.

  Protection money. I recognized that lingo from growing up around crime. Martin must have been bowels deep in some kind of mobster deal that went terribly awry. No wonder he was always at my door begging for my rent check. Apparently, he was backed up in payments to these mobsters, and he was paying dearly at the moment.

  “I’ll get it…I’ll get it next week,” Martin whimpered, shielding his face from more blows.

  “You said that last week and the week before that, prick. Did that brand new Mercedes parked out front pay for itself?”

  “Please…”

  “You heard me,” one of them roared. “If you don’t pay up, you’re as good as dead.”

  “I…don't…" Martin sobbed. "Money…have…. nothing…" His lips were swollen from the punches, and his words were barely decipherable.

  I took a deep breath and froze as one of the men’s eyes landed on me. We locked gazes and the breath in my lungs suspended. He pulled me up by the arm and I squealed in protest.