Page 124 of Shameless Royalty

Aiden doesn’t talk much about his life, but I know enough. His father is someone important in the Irish mob—not at the level of the Cunninghams, but well-respected. He hasn’t said anything about whether or not he’s involved in that life, and I haven’t asked. I don’t want to know.

I shut my door, pressing my back against it for a second before sighing and dragging myself to bed. The mattress dips under my weight as I settle onto my side, staring at the bare wall in front of me.

This is my life now.

Wake up. Go to class. Study. Exist. Repeat.

It’s not a bad life; it’s not even a hard one. But something about it feels… unfinished. Or maybeI’mthe one who feels unfinished.

I close my eyes, willing my brain to shut the fuck up, but sleep doesn’t come easily these days. I listen to the faint strumming of Aiden’s guitar from the other room, the sound is slow and careful, like he’s playing for himself and not for an audience.

It reminds me of someone, and I fucking hate that.

I sigh and shift onto my back, staring at the ceiling instead.

Where the fuck does my life go from here?

Chapter 50

Connor

Theestateloomsinfront of me, its stone walls familiar and unchanging, a monument to the life I was born into. But as I step out of the car, boots crunching against the gravel, I don’t feel like I belong here anymore.

Five months away, five months of blood and war, of death and destruction, and now I’m just supposed to walk back in like nothing’s changed? Like I haven’t changed?

I roll my shoulders, suppressing a wince as pain lances through my side. The bruises and stitches are nothing compared to the weight in my chest—the cold, empty hollowness that’s settled there and refused to fucking move.

The mission was a success. The Volkovs no longer exist. Their empire is dust. Their blood is still under my fingernails. We sent a message loud and clear—no one fucks with the Five Crowns and lives to tell the tale.

So why the fuck don’t I feel victorious?

I don’t wait for anyone to greet me. I walk through the front doors, nodding stiffly at the men stationed along the halls, ignoring the way their eyes track me, the way they whisper when they think I can’t hear them. I know what I look like. I know the wreckage I’ve become.

Da is waiting for me in his office, as expected. He leans back in his chair, studying me with that sharp green gaze, the one that sees too fucking much.

“You look like shite,” he says, lifting a brow.

I smirk, but there’s no real humor in it. “Feel like it too.”

He gestures for me to sit, but I don’t. I stand in front of his desk, arms crossed, waiting for whatever debrief he has planned.

“You did well.” He doesn’t offer unnecessary praise—never has, never will—but there’s a weight to his words that means more than any empty congratulations.

“The job’s done,” I say flatly.

“Aye,” he nods, fingers tapping against the desk. “And yet ye look like a man who just lost a war instead of winnin’ one.”

I don’t have an answer for that.

He exhales through his nose, watching me too carefully. There’s something in his gaze, something knowing, something amused even, and it puts me on edge.

I breathe out a long sigh. “If you have something to say, Da, just fuckin’ say it.”

He smirks. “Not a thing, lad. Get some rest. We’ll talk soon.”

I narrow my eyes, trying to read whatever the fuck that look means, but I’m too fucking exhausted for these games. I nod once, turning on my heel, already heading for my room.

But my feet don’t take me there.

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