Page 11 of Shameless Royalty

I let out a heavy breath, leaning forward again. “And what if he fights back? You’ve seen him, Da. He’s not exactly the quiet, obedient type.”

“Then you’ll handle it,” he says, his gaze locking on mine. “You’ve done it so far.”

I snort, shaking my head. “Yeah, because he’s been too busy sulkin’ to actually cause trouble.”

Da raises an eyebrow. “And whose fault is that?”

I glare at him, but he just smirks faintly, clearly enjoying the dig. I let it slide and stop arguing because there’s no point. Once Da’s made up his mind, it’s done. Set in stone.

“Fine,” I mutter and run a hand through my hair. “But if this backfires, it’s on you.”

Da’s lips twitch into the faintest hint of a smile. “It’s always on me, lad.”

I don’t laugh. Don’t smile. Instead, I turn and head for the door, the frustration still burning in my chest.

“Connor.”

I stop, my hand on the doorknob. “Aye?”

Da’s voice softens, just slightly. “You’re a good man. Don’t lose that.”

I don’t respond. I can’t. So, I leave the room, his words chasing me down the hall like a shadow.

For once, I don’t know if he’s right.

Chapter 7

Malachi

Fourdays.

It’s been four bloody days since I last saw Connor Cunningham, and it’s starting to piss me off. Not that I miss the cocky bastard. Hell no. But the way he’s disappeared, like I’m not worth his time anymore, is grating on me in ways I don’t want to admit.

Every time the door opened, I tensed up, expecting him to stroll in with that irritating smirk, tossing out another nickname to get under my skin. But it was never him. Just some faceless bloke who brought food and never said a word before locking the door behind him.

Now, after four days, I let my guard down. Connor’s probably off doing whatever criminals like him do—drinking, fighting, plotting world domination. Whatever it is, it clearly doesn’t involve me anymore. Good riddance.

Still, the silence gets to me. The waiting. The not knowing what’s coming next. It makes the walls of this place feel smaller somehow, like they’re closing in.

I’m picking at what’s left of the food from earlier, barely tasting it, when the door creaks open again. At first, I don’t look up. I’m used to the routine now—footsteps, tray, door slams shut. Same as always.

“Lunchtime, Babyface.”

I freeze, my fork clattering onto the plate. The voice is familiar, but it’s missing something—the teasing edge, the arrogance. It’s flat, almost tired. I look up, and there he is, standing in the doorway with a tray in hand. Only he doesn’t look the same.

His lip is split—swollen and dark against his pale skin. His left eye is blackened with a bruise blooming across the socket. His usual cocky smirk is nowhere to be found, replaced by something grim and almost hollow.

“What the hell happened to you?” I ask before I can stop myself.

He shuts the door with a soft click, then he walks over to the desk and places the tray on top of it. “Nice to see you too, Malachi.”

I visibly blanch—his voice is lacking the usual sharp edge and he just called me by my name. What in the hell?

I get to my feet, unable to keep the questions from spilling out. “Who did that? You look like you got run over by a lorry.”

Connor chuckles dryly, leaning against the desk. “A lorry would’ve been quicker. Try a few pissed-off blokes and a bad fall.”

I narrow my eyes, studying him. He’s playing it off like it’s nothing, but the bruises tell a different story. “Why? What happened?”

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