Page 101 of Shameless Royalty

A broken, strangled noise escapes him. “I—I hurt him.”

I hum. “Hmm. And why did you do that, Ronan?” He clenches his jaw, trying to look away, but I take my knife and stab it into his thigh, and he screams. “Why?”

His chest rises and falls in rapid, shallow breaths. He knows there’s no way out. He knows I want the real answer. And eventually, his lips tremble, and he gives it to me.

“Because,” he rasps, “he had what I wanted.”

I let the words sink in, let the truth settle in my chest like a slow-burning flame, and when I finally move, when I finally react, it’s not with an explosion of rage. It’s something worse.

I smile.

“You wanted to be him,” I murmur as I brush the tip of my knife against his bottom lip.

A shudder wracks through him, but I don’t let him answer. Instead, I shift the blade, sliding it down the center of his chest, pressing just hard enough to break the skin, to drag a thin, beading line of red all the way down his sternum.

Ronan cries out and I grin, watching the fear bleed into his eyes. “No one could ever be him, Ronan,” I whisper before I dig the knife in harder.

He screams again, and it sends a shiver down my spine. The sound echoes through the basement, but I don’t stop. I carve the lesson into him, slow, methodical, making sure he feels it, making sure he fucking understands that this isn’t just revenge—this is justice.

By the time I’m done, Ronan isn’t even capable of begging. His voice is gone, hoarse from screaming, his body wrecked beyond recognition. I take a step back, wiping the blade against his already ruined shirt, exhaling slowly through my nose.

Then I crouch in front of him again, tilting my head. “You should have been smart,” I say, my voice still laced with condescension. “You should’ve known better. But instead, you touched something precious to me.”

His eyes flutter, barely focusing, his lips parting like he wants to say something. Beg, maybe. Apologize.

But I don’t care.

I rise to my full height, roll my shoulders, and step back, turning toward the door.

“Put him in the incinerator and film it,” I order, flicking a glance toward my father’s men stationed in the shadows. “I want him screaming.”

One of them nods, stepping forward, but I don’t look back. I push the basement door open, step into the hall, and exhale slowly, rolling my neck as I close my eyes.

My blood is still hot, still burning, still itching with the remnants of rage, but the weight in my chest has eased just slightly. It’s done, I made sure of it.

Chapter 41

Connor

Iwalkawayfromthe basement, each step I take echoing in the long, empty hallway, the silence broken only by the faint murmurs of my father’s men carrying out my orders.

The weight on my chest has eased, but I don’t feel relieved—not really. Revenge feels good in the moment when the anger burns hot and the pain demands blood, but afterward, it settles like a bitter taste. Like regret, almost.

I climb the stairs, my boots heavy against the hardwood floor. My hands are steady—I’ve done worse things, things that should haunt me, but don’t. And yet this feels different.

I used to trust Ronan to kneel for me, to give himself over without reservation, and somehow it led to this. To Malachi being hurt and scarred.

My jaw tightens again, and I remind myself he’s gone. That bastard can’t hurt Malachi ever again. But the images linger in my mind—the blood, the sounds of pain, Ronan’s desperate pleas that fell on deaf ears. A lesson learned, permanently.

Reaching my room, I shut the door firmly behind me and let out a slow exhale, my muscles tense and tight. Stripping off my clothes, I toss them onto the floor, trying to ignore the way the blood splatter sticks to my skin, dry and crusted and wrong.

Fuck, I need it off. I need it gone.

I step into the bathroom and turn the water on full blast, heat rising immediately, steam filling the small space. I let it build until I can’t see clearly through the fogged mirror.

When I finally step under the spray, it stings against my skin, the heat biting into me, washing away more than just dirt and blood—it’s like washing away the last of Ronan’s pathetic life from my skin.

But no matter how clean I get, how much blood and grime disappear down the drain, I can’t erase the knowledge that Malachi was hurt because of me. Because I was careless. Because I played dangerous games without considering who might get caught in the crossfire.

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