Skip to product information
1 of 1

The Blackmoor Heirs Mega Bundle

The Blackmoor Heirs Mega Bundle

Regular price $17.99 USD
Regular price $35.99 USD Sale price $17.99 USD
Sale Sold out
Shipping calculated at checkout.
  • Purchase the Ebook Instantly
  • Receive Download Link via Email
  • Send to Preferred E-Reader & Enjoy!

Once you've completed the checkout, keep an eye on your inbox for an email from BookFunnel. They'll be sending you a download link for your new books. In case you don't see the email, don't forget to check your spam folders too, as sometimes it may end up there.

Main Tropes

  • Bully Alpha Romance
  • Enemies To Lovers
  • Reverse Harem


Cruel Lord is the first book in the Blackmoor Heirs series.

Saint might be my last name, but they’re determined to make me into a sinner.

My father is dead. My home is ash. And my mother and I are one step away from death ourselves. Our only protection against the Devil’s Sons MC? The St. Vincent family, who rule Blackmoor.

When I run into Cayde, Dean, and Jaxon for the first time on the steps of my new prep school, I don’t think twice about it. Even with all the rumors surrounding them, I know how to take care of myself.

But when I embarrass Cayde St. Vincent, I wind up with a target on my back. A target that, unbeknownst to me, is going to follow me way past high school.

When I wake up in their house on the university campus on the first day of the semester with no memory of how I got there, all I want to do is leave. But they’ve got me under contract.

A contract that threatens my life, and my mother’s life, if I break it.

Soon enough, I realize they want to break me.

Cayde St. Vincent. Dean Blackmoor. Jaxon King.

The three heirs to the town of Blackmoor.

And now? My worst nightmare.

Intro Into Chapter One


Two Years Earlier

This is fucking stupid.

         The same sentence has been rattling around my head since I got out of bed in my new room this morning, since I put on my new uniform, since I walked the five miles to Blackmoor High in my new, uncomfortable shoes.

         In the old days, I would have just taken the bus. I would’ve worn jeans with holes a little too big for the dress code and a questionable band shirt that some teacher would probably have shit themselves over halfway through the day, and my trusty old Docs. I’d already be at school, chewing through some cardboard breakfast pizza and glaring down any preppy twat of a girl who decided to look down on me because my eyeliner is a little too thick and my parents are a little too poor.

         But now, I’m supposed to fit in with them.

         The preppy kids. The Blackmoor High kids. All because my dad had to go and fuck up, and now my mom is working instead of staying at home with me like a good biker’s old lady. Now, instead of helping with book drives for the public high school and palling around with the other old ladies, she’s putting on a housekeeper’s uniform and scrubbing floors for fucking King Blackmoor himself, the crusty old dude living on the Blackmoor Estate.

         Well, not the Blackmoor patriarch exactly. Philip St. Vincent and his family, who I’ve never seen, are the ones living on the estate these days. For some reason that I don’t actually give a fuck about, the Blackmoor family themselves don’t live there. At least not anymore.

         I’ve never had any reason to care about any of the founding families of Blackmoor, or their estate, or the prep academy they founded, or the university, or any of the other pies I’m sure they’ve got their fingers in. They, and everyone like them, would have looked down on me and my family. Bikers. Harley-riding, grease monkey trash. Biker whores. I’ve heard all the names in the book thrown at us, at me and my mother specifically. At my old friends, back in the school that I can’t go back to now. I never gave a single fuck. All it taught me was that I had to be tougher than every bitch that wanted to bring me and my family down. And I was. Athena Saint, queen of the local high school. Everyone knew not to fuck with me.

         But in the end, it wasn’t snobby bitches and football quarterbacks gossiping that brought my family down.

         It was my own fucking father.

         Now he’s six feet under, and I’m on my way to a place where I know I’ll never fit in.

         Not that I want to.

         In fact, I’ve gone out of my way on this first day to fit in as little as possible. I rolled the waistband of my plaid uniform skirt so that it ends a little too high up on my thighs, made sure to throw my black polo emblazoned with the Blackmoor High crest into the dryer so that it shrank. Now it stretches tight over my boobs, which over the past summer went from a B to a D cup seemingly overnight, and if I raise my hands at all, it rides up to show a strip of my flat, pale stomach. I made sure to scuff my black flats too on the way out the door, just as an extra measure.

         Oh, and I piled on the black eyeliner this morning. There’s no official rule that I saw about makeup in the little booklet that came home with all of the other paperwork to enroll me, but I’m pretty sure none of the prep academy bitches are going to be made up like Avril Lavigne circa 2002.

         I hear the early 2000s are back in anyway. Not that I’ve ever tried to be on-trend.

         It’s like a different world in this part of town, I realize as I stride quickly down the sidewalk, holding on to my new backpack. I know my mother couldn’t really afford any of this shit, not the new uniforms or the shoes or bookbag or anything else, which makes me wonder why she agreed to this at all. I was doing fine at my old school. Well—not fine, but my grades were Bs and Cs, enough to get into the state college probably, if I even wanted to do that. And I got into fights, but what the hell else was I supposed to do?

         It’s dangerous there, after what your father did, my mother had said. The people who were your friends might not be your friends anymore.

         But it’s not like I’m going to have friends at this new school, either. At least at the old one, I might have managed to keep a couple. And as for the ones who might have tried to bully or hurt me over it, I can hold my own. I’m not scared of anyone.

         I grew up knowing the world was going to be against me. And I’ve never seen any reason to think differently about it.

         A car drives past, a little too close to the sidewalk, and I jump sideways. I barely heard it coming—it wasn’t the roar of a Harley engine or the stuttering growl of a beat-up truck or the groan of a too-old car that I’m used to, but the humming purr of a luxury car, a Benz from the logo that I catch a glimpse of it as it zooms past. I manage to get a brief look at the guy in the front seat—dark hair slicked back, chiseled jaw. There’s a skinny blonde girl in the passenger’s side, and I imagine she must be his girlfriend, some chick with plumped up lips and a boob job at sixteen.

         I miss everything about my old life already. I miss the homey warmth of our old house and the scent of breakfast cooking, the way that smell clung throughout the day on account of the grease stains on the range vent and the spills on the stovetop. I miss the out-of-date wood paneling, the faded carpet, the way it got hot in mid-August, the only time that it really gets hot up here in New England, and all the scents of the years before seemed to gather in the dusty air, telling stories about meals cooked and drinks had and spilled and people milling about, long before we bought the house and all the years we’d had it.

         Now there’s nothing left of it. Just ash, cleared away by now by the city. They’re supposed to be looking for who did it, but they aren’t really. Just like we all know, but we’ll never say a word.

         Our family home, just another victim of my dad’s fuckups.

         Sometimes it makes me feel like I should be less of one, just so my mom isn’t left alone again. Because God knows if I fuck up too badly, I’ll wind up in juvie or jail, and then she’ll be alone. I can’t let that happen.

         I’m the only one who can take care of her now.

         I walk through the wrought-iron gates of the school, checking my map to figure out where the administrative office is. I have a first-thing meeting with the dean before I even get to go to homeroom, probably on account of my record back at my old school. I’m sure they’re going to have a thing or two to say about it. I’ve just got to keep my head down and my mouth shut, neither of which are particularly easy for me to manage.

         The school campus is huge for a high school, all ancient stone buildings and manicured grass and paved cobbled and bricked pathways that I can feel through the thin leather of my shoes. I ignore everyone that I walk past, hating them on sight. I hate their perfectly clear skin and plumping lip gloss and neatly pressed uniform skirts, their perfectly dyed hair and high-pitched voices. I hate the guys too, because I know every single one of them is a fucking douche without even bothering to look. Every single person here, born into money and privilege and taking it all for fucking granted. They probably all hate their parents, too, whine about how their daddies didn’t give them enough allowance this week or bought them a Bentley instead of a Jag.

         I’d give anything to have my dad back, our old worn house and my comfortable life. The one that I knew the parameters of, understood, was familiar with. Not this strange and gilded world that I know I’ll never fit into.

         The interior of the admin office is all wood and brick, slick wooden stairs with iron railings, and I go up the four flights to the dean’s office. I know it’s his because the name is etched on the gold plate on the door Dean William Edgington. What a fucking name. Like a lord of the manor or some shit. And when I walk into the office, it’s clear that’s exactly how he thinks of himself.

         He’s a short, portly man in a tweed vest and slacks, with a balding head and a mahogany desk and walls lined with books older than this fucking campus. From the look on his face, I can tell that he’s going to be a massive pain in my ass.

         “Athena Saint.” He says my name like it’s something exotic and strange as I flop down into one of the dark leather chairs in front of his desk, tossing my backpack carelessly onto the wooden floor so that it makes the loudest noise possible. “A transfer from the public school.” The sentence comes out stilted, as if he’s saying something so dirty he can’t quite manage it. “Your mother is a housekeeper at the Blackmoor Estate.”

         “Yes.” I look up at him from where I’m slouched. “My admission was part of her employment package.”

         “I see. Very generous of Mr. St. Vincent. But then again, he always did have a soft spot for the less fortunate.”

         I clench my teeth. I can’t mouth off to him, I know it. My mom needs this job, and Philip St. Vincent’s protection. While we’re living on and she’s working at the Blackmoor Estate, none of my father’s old friends will touch us. After all, they work for the estate too, running protection for the remaining members of the founding families. But if St. Vincent kicks us out, we’re fucked.

         “Yes, it was very kind of him,” I grind out. “We’re so grateful.” I mean for it to sound authentic, but it comes out too syrupy, almost sarcastic. Dean Edgington looks at me from over his papers, his eyes narrowing. They’re a little red around the edges, like a rabbit.

         “You should be, Miss Saint. Now, as to your record at the old school. I see here that you spent a lot of time in the principal’s office. Would you like to tell me why that is?”         

         I shrug. “Kids like to bully other kids. I don’t like being bullied.”

         “I would say, based on this, that maybe it was you doing the bullying. Fight after fight after fight.” He makes a tsking sound as he flips through my old school records. “A lunch tray to a girl’s head, a boy’s nose broken, a skateboard to the face—my, my, Miss Saint, you certainly do have a violent streak.”

         Once again, it’s a struggle not to go off on him. That girl called my mother a whore, the boy whose nose I broke undid my bra strap and shoved his hand up my shirt while he tried to get the other one down my jeans on the bus, and then told me that I had it coming, that all biker sluts love being shoved around and taking dick, and the kid whose skateboard met his face suggested that my dad was a rat.

         My dad did end up being a rat, eventually, which is why I’m in this fucking situation. But that’s not the point.

         The point is that I didn’t fucking bully anyone. It’s always been others calling me names, trying to assault me, trying to hurt me and my family. Names might not hurt anyone in this rarefied world, but in my old world, if you don’t stop them from calling you names, the sticks and stones come next. Or, in my family’s case, a dead father and a house burnt to ash.

         “Of course, given your loss, it’s understandable why some of your more recent…outbursts occurred.” Dean Edgington sets my file down, steepling his fingers. “Setting a trashcan fire in the lunchroom?”

         “That wasn’t me.”

         “There’s reports of students who say that they saw you.”

         “Yeah, and teenagers never lie.” Nothing pisses me off more than being blamed for things I didn’t do.

         “Last time I checked, Miss Saint, you are a teenager. And an unruly one.” He sits back in his chair, eyes narrowed. “We’re not here today to go over your past record extensively. I think it speaks for itself. What we are here to do is ensure that this behavior does not continue here at Blackmoor High. Because as I’m sure you’re aware, we will not tolerate it here. Do you understand?”

         “I think so.”

         “Let me be clear.” Dean Edgington takes a deep breath, ticking off items on his fingers as he goes along. “Fighting is not tolerated at Blackmoor High. Bullying is not tolerated. Name-calling and cursing are not tolerated. Pranks and jokes like trashcan fires are not tolerated. Smoking, alcohol, and drugs are not tolerated, nor is the use of them on or off campus. Should I continue?”

         “Seems pretty clear.” I try to keep the sarcasm out of my voice this time, and I think I do an okay job. At least, he doesn’t seem to pick up on it this time.

         “Very good.” He closes my file, slides it away somewhere in his desk. He’s finished with me, his expression flat. I was a bullet point on his to-do list, a chore to be completed. He doesn’t actually give a shit about me or how I’ll be treated here or how well I’ll adapt. I’m not surprised, but it does sting a little. I hadn’t thought it would, but it does.

         “You can go now.” He offers a tight smile and I stand up, making sure he gets an eyeful of my pale belly as my shirt rides up, when I sling my backpack over my shoulder. “Oh, and Miss Saint?”

         “Yes?” I stop halfway to the door, turning to look back at Dean Edgington, a stout, sad man behind a desk that dwarfs him. I almost feel sorry for him. Or I would, if he didn’t have such a massive stick up his ass.

         “Your skirt is too short, Miss Saint. Please do something about that. Our dress code here is very strict.”

         I flash him an apologetic smile, one that I’m sure I’ll have to perfect while I’m here. “I’m so sorry,” I say contritely. “I’ll fix it immediately.”

         “Please do.”

         I have no intention of fixing my skirt. In fact, I’m already thinking about whether or not I can manage to make it another half an inch higher for tomorrow.

         With that meeting out of the way, the day ahead feels a tiny bit brighter, although not much. Looking at my old iPhone that’s four generations out of date tells me that I’ve got ten minutes to get well across campus for my homeroom, and I’m sure that being late on my first day to my first class is something that the dean will have plenty to say about. I rush down the stone steps, not even looking where I’m going as I glance in the direction I’m going to have to quite literally run in order to make it there on time.

         The result is that I run smack into someone else coming up the stairs, so hard that the breath leaves me for a second.

         Someone who smells like clean laundry and spicy cologne.

         Someone with an extraordinarily hard chest, and muscled arms that grab me as I totter sideways on the stairs, nearly falling.

         Someone who, when I look up, has a pair of the greenest eyes I’ve ever seen, like seaweed underwater, fringed with dark lashes. His skin is faintly tan, that pale brown that very pale people get after spending a huge amount of time outside, the darkest they’ll ever manage. And his hands are still gripping my upper arms.

         When I manage to pull back far enough to get a good look at his face, I realize something else.

         He’s absolutely fucking gorgeous.

         Enough to make it take a little longer for me to get my breath back, and forget that I hate every single person here.

         Including whoever this Adonis is that I just crashed into.

         “I’m sorry,” I manage to stammer out, and I instantly hate myself, too. I’ve never been the kind of girl who stammers in front of a guy. I despise girls who get like that around guys, who flutter their eyelashes and stutter and pretend to be stupid just to attract them.

         Except I’m not pretending. I’m fairly certain a number of my brain cells just…stopped working.

         It was probably the impact against his rock hard—chest.

         Oh my god, shut the fuck up!

         The guy is looking down at me now, an arrogant smirk on his face. “You should probably watch where you’re going,” he says, those green eyes locked onto mine. It sends a shudder down my spine, because he has a look in his eyes that I recognize, that I’ve seen on the faces of way too many men already in my life.

         A look that says he’s a predator…and I’m the prey.

         The difference is, I’m used to seeing that look on the faces of men. This guy is my age. So why the fuck is he looking at me like he could own me if he wanted to?

         I stiffen, glaring at him as I step back. And that’s when I see the other two guys coming up behind him.

         Two equally gorgeous guys. One is tall and well-groomed, with slicked back hair and icy blue eyes that look like they could freeze you with a glance. The other is a little edgier, with black hair that’s shaved on the sides and long down the top, and eyes that are equally dark—so brown that they almost look black. Even his uniform is a little sloppy compared to the other two, wrinkled in places, and his polo is untucked. In fact, he looks ridiculous wearing a polo at all—this guy was made for ripped black jeans and faded vintage tees. The school uniform looks like a costume on him. On the other two guys, it looks tailor-made.

         “Who’s the chick?” the black-haired guy asks, a similar arrogant smirk on his face. His eyes slide up and down my body with a possessive glint that makes me shudder, although I manage not to show it. “Nice tits.”

         “Nice legs, too,” the other guy says, the one with the slicked back hair. His icy eyes make something knot in my stomach as he comes up the stairs a step, and I can see his shoulders tense under his school jacket, like something preparing to pounce.

         I feel small, hunted. Like a frightened, cornered animal.

         I don’t like it at all. This is when I lash out. When I fight. But I don’t know what to do against guys like this. I don’t know what their weaknesses are, what will make them back down. And more than that, I just came from a lecture in the dean’s office, telling me not to fight back.

         Mine, and my mother’s lives might be literally on the line. I have to keep my mouth shut.

         Even if it means taking shit from entitled little dicks like these.

         “I don’t know.” The guy who I initially ran into lets his eyes run over me too, taking in my outfit, my pale skin. I suddenly wish I hadn’t hiked my skirt up so short. “What’s your name?” he asks, his gaze still appraising.

         I can’t seem to speak. I really, really don’t want to give these guys anything. But something tells me that they’d just find out anyway.

         “Don’t you have a name?” the black-haired guy jeers, still smirking. “What is this, your first day here?”

         Somehow, that jolts something loose in me. “My name is Athena Saint,” I snap, glaring at all three of them. “And yes, it’s my first fucking day. And now you’ve made me late. So how about you get the fuck out of my way, unless you’re going to write me a note?”

         The guy in front of me looks slightly taken aback, which is the most satisfying thing that’s happened to me all morning. “Well, Athena Saint,” he says slowly. “I wouldn’t be a gentleman if I didn’t welcome you properly to our lovely school. And I’m nothing if not a gentleman. Right, gentleman?”

         “Sure thing,” Slicked-Back Hair says, grinning wolfishly.

         “Fucking right,” Black-Haired-Guy agrees.

         “See?” Guy-I-Ran-Into looks down at me, his muscled arms now at his sides. “They all agree.”

         “And how are you going to do that?” I snipe, preparing myself for all sorts of lewd suggestions about how they might “welcome” me to the school. But his answer is surprisingly tame.

         “I’m throwing a party tonight. Back to school and all that shit. You should come. In fact, I’m personally inviting you.” He grins, and it almost seems genuine. “Whaddaya think?”

         “I’ll think about it,” I snap. “But for now, I need to get to class. Unless you like to welcome girls by holding them against their will?”

         His face darkens, and that expression, coupled with the way the guys behind him suddenly look at me too, their eyes dragging over me again, makes me wish that I’d said anything else. Offered up literally any other comeback.

         But all he says is, “See you tonight, Athena Saint.” And then he jerks his head, motioning for the other two to follow him up the stairs, which they do. But not before giving me one last long look.

View full details