Page 136 of Shameless Royalty

I suck in a breath as the door cracks open just enough for me to see him. Malachi stands there, one hand braced against the frame, the other still gripping the door like he’s not sure if he’s letting me in or shoving me away.

His eyes—those fucking eyes that always bring me to my knees—lock onto mine, and the air between us turns heavy, thick and charged with everything we haven’t said.

He doesn’t speak, so I do.

“I fucked up.”

His lips part slightly, his fingers twitching against the wood.

“I should’ve fought harder. I should’ve been better.” I step closer, just enough that I can see the way his throat bobs when he swallows. “And I will be. If you let me.”

His jaw tightens. “You can’t just show up and say that like it fixes everythin’.”

I nod, accepting that, accepting all of it. “I know.”

He stares at me, something flickering in his gaze, something wounded and raw and real. “Then why are you here?”

I press my hand against the doorframe, leaning in. “Because I don’t know how to fuckin’ breathe without you.”

His breath catches, and I see it. That crack. That tiny, almost invisible crack in his armor. I step even closer, my voice barely above a whisper now. “Let me in, Babyface.”

He hesitates, his grip on the door tightening. Then—slowly, so fucking slowly—he pushes it open, and I step inside.

The door closes behind me with a soft click, but it feels like a fucking gunshot.

Malachi steps ahead of me, moving toward his room without a word, his shoulders tense and his posture stiff. He doesn’t look back. Doesn’t give me anything. Just crosses the small living space and disappears into the bedroom, leaving the door cracked open.

I take a slow breath, steadying myself before following. His room is neat and organized in that meticulous way of his. The bed is made and the desk is stacked with books, papers, and notes written in his precise handwriting. There’s a mug on the nightstand, a half-burned candle beside it. It smells like coffee and something faintly warm—like vanilla, like home.

It’s his space, and I don’t fucking belong in it.

He turns, arms crossed, eyes locked on mine with that same sharp, unreadable expression he wore when he first saw me today. “Talk, Cunningham.”

I swallow hard, my pulse hammering against my ribs.

This is it.

I step further into the room, running a hand through my hair, trying to find the right place to start. But fuck, where do I start? How do I explain everything? How do I make him understand without it sounding like an excuse?

“I don’t even know where to fucking start.”

Malachi doesn’t react or offer me a lifeline. Just watches me, waiting.

I clench my jaw, rubbing a hand over my face. “You want the truth?” My voice is rough and uneven. “Fine. Here it is.”

I lift my gaze, meeting his head-on. “You already know who I am. Who my father is. But what you don’t know is what that means.” I step closer, my hands flexing at my sides. “The second I was born, my life was decided for me. I didn’t get to choose who I was gonna be, what I was gonna do, or where my life was gonna go. I was born a Crown—born to lead, to obey, to fuckin’ rule when the time comes. Every decision, every action, every fuckin’ breath I take is for my family and the Five Crowns.

“And when I get a mission—when the Crowns give an order—I don’t get to say no, Malachi.” My voice wavers and I take another step forward, my fists clenched. “There’s no choice. There’s never been a fuckin’ choice.”

Something bitter flickers in his expression. “Must be nice,” he murmurs. “Knowin’ exactly where you belong.”

The words hit me harder than they should and I shake my head. “It’s not like that.”

His eyes narrow slightly. “Then what is it like, Connor?”

I let out a rough breath, pushing a hand through my hair. “It’s like a fuckin’ weight.” My voice comes out ragged and raw. “It’s pressure, it’s expectations, it’s a life that isn’t mine to control. It’s knowin’ that if I put one foot out of line, if I make one wrong move, I’m not just fucked—I’m dead.”

I rake a hand over my jaw, exhaling sharply. “I know I should have handled it better,” I admit, my voice quieter now. “I should have told you what was goin’ on. I should have found a way to make you understand before I walked out that door. But I didn’t—becauseI didn’t know how.”

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