Page 89 of Shameless Royalty

The silver band on Malachi’s finger, still worn the way he put it on—heart facing inward.

His heart is mine despite everything. Despite knowing my father sees him as a pawn. Despite being beaten, despite everything telling him to fucking run. Something inside me snaps. Not with anger. Not with violence, but with something worse, and I fucking crumble.

My knees hit the floor before I can stop myself. I wrap my arms around his waist, pressing my face against his stomach, my body shaking as I hold onto him like he’s the only thing keeping me tethered to the ground.

I’m the fucking Irish Crown, and yet I’m kneeling before the one person with zero influence in my world, but with every bit of influence over me. Malachi doesn’t realize this yet, but with me on my knees, that makes him the most powerful player in this game.

He has me. Without even trying, he has me.

His fingers slide into my hair, his breath catching. “I’m sorry,” I murmur, my voice barely above a whisper.

His hands tighten against me, his fingers flexing. “Connor—”

“I should’ve been here,” I rasp. “I should’ve protected you.”

His fingers press against the back of my head. “This isn’t your fault.”

My throat burns. “It fuckin’ is.”

He exhales shakily. “Then don’t make it worse.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, my fingers digging into his sides, careful not to press too hard, not to cause him any more pain. But fuck, it kills me. It kills me that someone put their hands on him. It kills me that my own father let it happen. It kills me that I wasn’t here.

I press my lips against his stomach, breathing him in, grounding myself in him. His fingers tighten in my hair, his other hand sliding down to cup my jaw, pulling me up just enough so he can look at me again.

I tilt my head up, gazing at him, searching for something—anything—that will tell me this isn’t breaking him, that he’s not slipping through my fucking fingers.

His blue eyes soften, and for the first time since I walked into this room, I feel like I can fucking breathe again. He brushes his thumb over my cheek. “Don’t go to war with your father for me.”

I clench my jaw. “How the fuck can I not?”

His expression flickers with something sad, something that makes me want to turn and rip the fucking walls down. “Because if you do,” he says quietly, “you’ll lose him.”

I stare at him, my chest heavy and my breathing uneven. “I don’t give a fuck.”

“Yes, you do,” Malachi whispers, and I hate him for knowing me that well.

I exhale harshly, looking away, my hands still gripping his sides. How does he know me so well already? How did he get so far inside of my head that he knew it would kill me to lose my Da?

Malachi sighs, his fingers tightening in my hair. “Connor.”

I grit my teeth, my rage still there, still burning. “Yeah?”

His voice is quiet when he says, “Stay with me.”

I close my eyes. Then I nod, and just like that, I choose him.

I chose him.

The realization settles in my chest like a fucking stone, heavy and unmoving.

I stay on my knees for a moment longer, my breath uneven, my hands still gripping his waist, being careful, so fucking careful not to hurt him any more than he already is. But my rage is still there, still simmering, threatening to rip its way out of my throat.

I swallow it down, barely.

Slowly, I lift my head, looking up at him. “Lift your shirt,” I say, my voice hoarse but steady.

Malachi hesitates. His fingers twitch at the hem, and for a second, I think he might refuse. But then he exhales sharply, biting the inside of his cheek, and winces as he grips the fabric, peeling it up over his ribs.

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