Page 31 of Shameless Royalty

“This!” he says, gesturing between us. “You, walkin’ in here like you own the place—which, fine, you do—but acting like you can just… I don’t know, fuck with me whenever you want and then disappear for weeks.”

His words nearly let my grin slip, but I don’t let it show. Instead, I take another step closer, close enough to see the way his breath catches, the way his eyes dart to the side like he’s trying to avoid looking at me.

I can’t help myself. When I’m close enough, my hand lifts almost on its own, my thumb brushing over his bottom lip. It’ssoft under my touch, and when he sucks in a sharp breath, I bite my own lip to keep from grinning too wide.

“Are you sayin’ you missed me?” I ask, my voice teasing.

“No,” he breathes, but there’s no bite in it. He looks away, his shoulders tense.

“I think you did,” I say as I pull down his lip with my thumb. “Admit it, Malachi. You missed me.”

“I missed peace and quiet,” he says, finally meeting my gaze. “Somethin’ I only get when you’re not around.”

“Liar,” I murmur, leaning in slightly. His breath hitches, and I can’t help but grin. “You’ve been thinkin’ about me.”

He swallows hard, his glare faltering for half a second before he snaps, “You’re a fuckin’ narcissist, you know that?”

“And you’re not denyin’ it,” I point out, my grin widening. “Interestin’.”

“Go to hell,” he mutters, but it’s weaker this time, almost like he’s given up fighting it.

The tension in the room shifts, and for a moment, we just stand there, staring at each other. His cheeks are still red, his blue eyes burning with something I can’t quite place. I take it in; absorbing every little detail, and for the first time in two weeks, I feel like I can finally breathe.

“Eat your dinner,” I say as I step back, nodding toward the tray on the desk. “And try not to choke on your own stubbornness.”

“Don’t worry about me,” he mutters, grabbing the tray and sitting back at the desk. But as I turn to leave, I catch the way his shoulders relax slightly, like some of the tension has finally bled out of him.

I shut the door behind me, a grin tugging at my lips as I head back down the hall. Malachi Dawson might be the most infuriating person I’ve ever met, but I’ll be damned if he doesn’t make it worth every second.

Chapter 18

Malachi

Thedoorclicksshutbehind Connor, and the silence in the room feels heavier than before he came in. I’m still holding the fork from the tray, my knuckles white, my chest rising and falling like I’ve just sprinted a mile. The food sits untouched, and my stomach is too twisted in knots to even think about eating.

What the fuck just happened?

I stare at the door, half-expecting him to walk back in with that stupid smirk plastered on his face. But he doesn’t. Of course, he doesn’t. He never gives me more than what he wants to and never lets me get the upper hand for long. And yet, somehow, he still manages to worm his way under my skin every single time.

I set the tray on the nightstand and drag my hands through my hair. Why did I snap like that? I knew he was baiting me—he always is—but this time felt different. This time, it felt like I couldn’t stop myself, like I had to push back harder than usual, and had to get a reaction out of him.

And for what? What did I expect him to say? That he missed me? That he’d been avoiding me because I’m driving him as crazy as he’s driving me?

I laugh bitterly, shaking my head.Don’t be ridiculous, Malachi. He’s Connor fucking Cunningham. He doesn’t care.

He walked in here like nothing had happened, like the last two weeks of silence meant nothing. And why should it? He probably spent the whole time doing whatever the hell he wanted, indulging in all the shit I’ve only ever read about in books.

Meanwhile, I’ve been sitting here, overthinking every little thing he’s said and done since the day I got here.

Why am I the only one freaking out?

I stand, pacing the room like I’ve been doing these past few days because sitting still makes the thoughts in my mind louder. My fists clench and unclench at my sides as I replay the conversation over and over in my head, dissecting every word, every look, every damn smirk he threw my way.

I shouldn’t care.I don’t care. He’s just some arrogant prick who happens to be holding me hostage. That’s all this is. Stockholm syndrome, or boredom, or whatever excuse I need to cling to so I don’t have to face the truth.

But then why did I feel… happy when he walked in? Why did the sight of him—his stupid green eyes, his tattoos, his cocky grin—make my chest tighten like it was trying to decide between relief and panic?

Why did I miss him?

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