Page 132 of Shameless Royalty

I don’t let him.

I force myself to smirk, tilting my head. “What, did you finally get bored of playin’ soldier? Thought you’d drop in, see how your little pet is doing?”

His jaw flexes. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” I arch a brow. “Don’t act like I don’t give a shit? Because I don’t. You left, Connor. I moved on. That’s what happens.”

His eyes darken. “You’re the one who left me, Malachi.”

The words punch the air from my lungs, but I scoff, crossing my arms over my chest. “No. I left a fuckin’ cage.”

His fists clench at his sides, his breathing uneven. “I didn’t want that for you.”

“Then what did you want?” I snap. “Because you sure as hell didn’t give me a fuckin’ choice. You locked me up, gave me a ring, told me I was yours, and then fucked off for five goddamn months without a word.”

He flinches. Actually fucking flinches.

I shake my head, trying to shove down the lump rising in my throat. “You don’t get to show up now and act like this is some grand fuckin’ reunion. You don’t get to say my name like it still means somethin’.”

His chest rises and falls too fast, his lips parting like he wants to argue, wants to fight, wants to fucking fix something that can’t be fixed.

I step back and his entire body tightens. I don’t know what I expect him to do. Maybe argue. Maybe smirk, throw out some arrogant line, or try to get under my skin like he always does.

But he doesn’t. Instead, he does something worse… he looks wrecked.

Like he’s barely breathing.

Like he’s spent five months drowning.

Like I just drove a fucking knife through his ribs.

“Malachi,” he murmurs again, voice strained. “Please—”

“No, Connor,” I say, my fingers tightening around my books. “You should go.”

His jaw flexes and his throat bobs as he swallows. “Not until you hear me out.”

“I already heard you.” I force myself to hold his gaze, not to waver. “You made your choice, Connor. You left,” I say and I turn sharply, stepping past him.

But his voice follows me. “Malachi, don’t.”

I keep my steps even, my grip tight on my books, my breaths measured. One foot in front of the other.Don’t look back.

I can feel him watching me.

The weight of his stare is heavy against my back, like a thread pulling taut, stretched so tight it might snap at any second. But I don’t turn around. I don’t let myself. My heart is already hammering against my ribs, my skin too hot, my thoughts a fucking mess.

He’s here.

At Willow Bridge.

Wearing my fucking ring on his finger.

I should have known if he was here, should have heard something about it, but I didn’t. I spent months trying to put him behind me, convincing myself that what we had—whatever the fuck it was—was over. That I could start fresh. That I could be someone other than the boy locked in a gilded cage, waiting for a man who only ever left.

I swallow hard, trying to push past the knot in my throat, trying to focus on anything but the way my body is still wired from hearing his voice again after five months.

The campus is busy this time of day—students spilling out of buildings, cutting across the lawn, laughing, talking, existing in a world that doesn’t involve Irish mafia heirs tracking them down after they spent months trying to disappear.

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