Page 62 of Shameless Royalty

He leans in slowly, giving me time to stop him—not that I want to—and presses his lips to mine. It’s not like the other kisses we’ve shared. It’s not rough or demanding.

It feels like a reward.

His lips move against mine with something close to tenderness, something that makes me pull him closer. He kisses me like I’ve earned it, like I deserve it.

And that’s what breaks me.

I don’t know how to handle this. The praise, the warmth, the way he knows what I need before I even know it myself. I whimper against his mouth, and he groans softly, deepening the kiss just slightly, his hands smoothing over my waist like he’s so fucking proud of me.

And just like that, I let someone catch me.

Chapter 30

Connor

Iwakeupwitha pounding headache and the distinct taste of regret lingering at the back of my throat—or at least, what should feel like regret.

The problem is, it doesn’t. Not even close. I can still taste him, still feel the way his body reacted to me, the way he whispered my name like it was the only word he knew.

“Fuckin’ hell,” I mutter, rubbing a hand over my face. I sit up slowly, the early morning light streaming through the windows doing nothing for the storm in my chest.

How did I let it get this far? I’m usually in control, always the one pulling the strings, keeping my distance. But with Malachi, distance isn’t even an option. I told myself it was about proving him wrong, about wiping that defiance off his face, but I know better. The truth is, I lost control. Completely.

I don’t even regret it.

I drag myself out of bed, the memories of last night flashing through my mind like a reel I can’t turn off. His gasps, the wayhis body trembled under my touch, the look in his eyes when he came apart for me and used his words—it’s burned into my brain, and it’s doing absolutely nothing to help me think straight.

I run a hand through my hair, pacing the room. There’s no way Da can find out. Not about this. He’d kill me—not literally, maybe, but the disappointment alone would be enough to do the job.

Claiming the captive? It’s a move that doesn’t just cross the line—it obliterates it. And yet, here I am, already thinking about going back for more.

The tray in my hands feels heavier than it should as I head toward Malachi’s room. The smell of bacon and eggs wafts up, but it doesn’t do anything to settle the tension knotting in my chest.

My footsteps echo down the hall, and with every step, I tell myself I’ll keep my distance this time. No touching. No teasing. Just breakfast, a few words, and I’m out.

When I push open the door, I know immediately that’s not going to happen.

Malachi doesn’t do subtle. He’s either spitting fire or sinking into himself, and there’s rarely an in-between. I can tell I’m getting the former and fuck if it isn’t my favorite version of him.

“Good mornin’,mo stóirín,” I say, smirking as I kick the door shut behind me.

He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, his hair a mess and his arms crossed over his chest. His blue eyes narrow as he glares at me, and for a moment, I think he’s going to lunge.

“Don’t call me that,” he snaps, his tone sharp. “And it’s not a good mornin’.”

I set the tray on the desk, raising an eyebrow at him. “Someone’s in a mood.”

“Gee, I wonder why,” he shoots back, gesturing vaguely toward me. “Could it be because some arsehole decided to play games last night?”

“Games?” I repeat, leaning against the desk and crossing my arms. “Seemed like you were enjoyin’ yourself to me. I can still taste you on my lips.”

His face flushes, and he looks away, muttering something under his breath. It’s then I notice the faint mark on his neck, right where my teeth sank in last night. A surge of possessiveness flares in my chest.

“You’re wearing my mark,” I point out.

His head snaps up, his eyes wide, and for a split second, he looks almost vulnerable. But then the brat mode kicks in, and he glares at me again, his lips twisting into a smirk.

“Your mark?” he says, his tone mocking. “I don’t belong to anyone, Cunningham.”

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