Page 5 of Shameless Royalty

I glance at the bars on the window, the thick iron mocking me. Even if I could get them off—which I can’t—I’d have to drop two stories down. Best case, I’d break my leg. Worst case, my neck.

A sigh escapes before I can stop it. My father’s always said the world isn’t fair, and I suppose this is proof of it. I’m being punished for crimes I didn’t commit, for a legacy I didn’t ask for. And the worst part? I don’t even know what’s coming next.

Hours pass, the light outside shifting from gray to dim. My stomach growls, reminding me I haven’t eaten since… hell, I don’t even know when. Time’s hard to track when you’re locked in a cage.

The sound of footsteps outside the door snaps me out of my thoughts. I sit up straight as the lock clicks and the door creaks open. A blurry version of Connor walks in, a tray of food balanced in one hand, a familiar case in the other. My glasses case.

“Dinner’s served,” he says, kicking the door shut behind him. He sets the tray down on the desk next to the door and tosses the glasses case onto the bed beside me.

I grab them, fumbling to put them on. The world sharpens instantly, and I blink a few times, adjusting. When I finally look at him, he’s leaning against the desk, arms crossed, watching me like I’m some kind of experiment. His smirk is firmly in place along with a cigarette dangling from his lips. God, that stupid, arrogant tilt of his mouth that seems permanently plastered to his face.

“You bring everyone glasses with their meals, or am I special?” I ask, keeping my voice steady.

He chuckles, a low sound that seems to vibrate through the room. “Special, obviously.”

Of course, he says it like that. Like he knows exactly what kind of effect he has on people. I glance away quickly, hating myself for noticing. Hating him for existing in a way that makes it impossible not to notice.

He’s stupidly handsome. Unfairly, even. Blond hair shaved short on the sides but long on top, looks effortlessly messy in a way that no man has any right to pull off. His green eyes are sharp, watching me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle.

The tattoo on his neck I couldn’t really make out before, is a crowned skull tattooed, half-hidden beneath the collar of his shirt. And when his hand flicks the ash off his cigarette, I catch the jester hat inked on his ring finger, right next to a signet ring.

Even his smirk—a feature I’ve already determined is the most annoying thing about him—doesn’t detract from his face. If anything, it makes him look… worse.

Not worse. More.

Goddammit.

“See somethin’ you like, Babyface?” he asks, his voice snapping me out of whatever spiral I was about to tumble into.

I scowl, my face heating. “Don’t call me that.”

He grins wider, leaning back on the desk, his shoulders stretching the black fabric of his shirt in a way that makes me grit my teeth. “You keep sayin’ that, but you don’t give me an alternative.”

“TryMalachi,” I snap.

He doesn’t move, he just watches me like I’m his entertainment for the evening. “Malachi,” he says slowly, like he’s testing it out. “Nah. Doesn’t suit ya.”

I blanch at that stupid explanation.“What the hell does that mean?”

“It’s too… serious,” he says, tapping his temple like he’s thinking hard about it. “You’re not a Malachi. You’re more of a—”

“Don’t you dare say Babyface again,” I grit out and his eyes seem to sparkle with mischief.

His grin turns into a full-blown laugh, one that sends a spark of irritation through me. “Touchy li’l thing, aren’t ya?”

“I have a name,” I snap. “Use it.”

Connor shrugs, completely unfazed by my outburst. “Fine. Malachi. But I still like Babyface better.”

I huff out a breath, walking toward the tray of food and retreating to the bed with it before my brain decides to betray me again.

It’s nothing fancy—bread, a bowl of stew and a bottle of water—but it smells better than I’d like to admit. My stomach growls again, loud enough for him to hear.

“Don’t hold back on my account,” he says, clearly amused.

I glare at him but sit back on the bed with the tray. The first bite is cautious—I half-expect it to be poisoned or spiked with something—but it’s just food. Hot, good food.

Connor watches me eat, his smirk never quite fading. It’s unnerving, having his attention on me like that. He looks at me like he wants to annoy me more, his stupid tattoos on fulldisplay, his stupid hair catching the light in a way that makes it look even more unfairly perfect.

---