Page 49 of Shameless Royalty

He exhales, long and slow, and then, finally, he leans back, giving me space. “For now,” he says.

It’s not a promise. It’s a fucking threat. Connor studies me for another long moment before shifting off the bed completely to stand beside it. His hands flex at his sides like he’s resisting the urge to reach for me again.

I don’t move. I don’t trust myself to.

He runs a hand through his blond hair, exhaling again. “You should sleep,” he says, voice gruff.

I laugh dryly. “Like that’s gonna happen.”

His lips twitch, but there’s no real amusement behind it. “Try.”

I don’t answer, and after a few seconds, he turns toward the door. But just as he reaches it, just as his fingers brush the handle, I make a mistake.

I speak. “Connor.”

He stops, but doesn’t turn. And I see the way his shoulders go tense, the way his fingers tighten around the doorframe. I swallow hard. I don’t know what the fuck I’m about to say, but I can feel the words crawling up my throat anyway.

“I—” I shouldn’t say it. I shouldn’t fucking say it. But my voice comes out before I can stop it. “Stay.”

The tension in the room shifts instantly like a wire pulled too tight, ready to snap.

Connor doesn’t move for a long time. Then, slowly, he turns his head just enough to look at me over his shoulder and shakes his head. “Go to sleep, Malachi.”

The door clicks shut behind him, leaving me alone with the mess he’s made of my head—and my heart.

Chapter 26

Connor

IsitinmySUV, drumming my fingers against the steering wheel, my eyes flicking between the brown paper bag in the passenger seat and the house looming in front of me. I shouldn’t have had to do this.

If Malachi wasn’t such a stubborn little shite, he could’ve just told me what meds he needed, and I would’ve had them sorted days ago. But no, he had to make it difficult, had to pretend he was fine even when it was obvious he wasn’t.

So I did what I had to do—I got his script myself.

It took a bit of sneaking around, but it wasn’t hard. I went back to his apartment that Da’s still paying for so shite doesn’t look sus and found his old wallet tucked away in the drawer of his bedside table. Inside was an old prescription folded up behind some cash, and while I don’t make a habit of going through people’s things, I wasn’t about to sit back and let him spiral when I could do something about it.

Now I have the meds, and I should be taking them straight to him. But instead, I’m gripping the steering wheel so tight my knuckles ache, and my mind running a hundred miles an hour.

The scars on his back. The way he flinched when I asked who did it. The way his whole face shut down when he realized I saw them.

I exhale sharply, shoving the pill bottles into my leather jacket and stepping out of the car. The cold air bites at my skin, but I barely feel it. My mind is already two steps ahead—already making the decision before I fully realize it.

I don’t know why I feel nervous about seeing him. I shouldn’t. I’ve stood in front of my father a thousand times, lied to his face when I needed to, argued with him when I thought he was wrong, and taken orders from him without hesitation.

But this isn’t about business. This isn’t about a job or a mission. This is about Malachi, and that makes it different. Declan Cunningham knows me better than even Mihai does, but the thing about my father is he has a killer fucking poker face.

So even when I lied in the past, I knew he figured me out. Shite.

I roll my shoulders back as I step into his office, shutting the door behind me. He’s behind his desk, phone in one hand, a glass of whiskey in the other, his expression locked in that constant state of barely contained irritation. He’s been like that since Cat got taken, and even though we got her back, I know the weight of that hasn’t left him.

He sees me and lifts a hand, signaling for me to wait while he finishes his call. I use the moment to steady myself, shoving my hands into my pockets as I glance around the room. Same as always—dark wood bookshelves lined with ledgers and files, the permanent scent of whiskey and smoke hanging in the air. It’s comforting in a way.

“Sort it, or I’ll find someone who will.” He hangs up without a goodbye, tossing the device onto the desk before looking at me. His green eyes study me for a second before he leans back in his chair. “What is it, lad? You look like you’re about to tell me you crashed my car.”

I snort. “That was one time.”

“And I haven’t forgotten,” he says, smirking slightly. “Go on, then. What’s on your mind?”

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