Page 99 of Shameless Royalty

Because when he looked at her, something in him broke. He chose her over logic. Over reason. Over everything. And it worked out for him.

Didn’t it?

He built a life with her. He built a fucking empire, and he kept her. But at what cost? How many enemies did he make? How many bodies did he put in the ground? How close did he come to losing everything?

I exhale sharply, setting my glass down with more force than necessary. I’m not my father. I don’twantto be my father, but I can’t help but wonder if I’m about to make the same mistake. If Malachi is my Deirdre. If this will be my downfall.

And if it is, would I even fucking care?

I tilt my head back, closing my eyes, Malachi’s face flashing behind my eyelids. The bruises. The way he flinched when I touched him. The way he looked at me like I was the only thing keeping him together.

My hands clench into fists and my jaw tightens.

I don’t care if this is a mistake. I don’t care if it ruins me. I already made my fucking choice, and I’d still choose him. Over my father. Over my family. Over the fucking Crown.

And isn’t that the most terrifying thing of all?

My phone rings, slicing through the quiet, through the spiraling mess of my own thoughts. I don’t look at the screen. I already know who it is.

I grab the glass, knocking back the last of the whiskey, savoring the burn as I pick up. I swipe the call open and lift it to my ear. “Aye.”

Da’s voice is even, but there’s an edge to it. “Found the bastard who hurt your boy.”

Everything inside me stills. My grip tightens around the phone. “Where?”

“The basement. I killed the one who held him down and left you the one who planned it.”

I close my eyes, inhaling through my nose, and pushing down the emotions clawing their way up my throat. I know what that means. The house has plenty of rooms. But the basement? That’s where people go to disappear.

I set the glass down and I hang up without another word. My chair scrapes against the floor as I stand, and my hand moves automatically to the drawer, fingers curling around the hilt of my favorite knife.

The weight is familiar, solid in my grip, grounding. I press the blade to my palm, feeling the cool steel against my skin, the sharp edge teasing the promise of blood.

And then, with practiced ease, I turn and head down.

I think about Malachi. I think about the pain in his voice, the bruises on his skin, the way he fucking flinched when I touched him.

I channel it all into what I’m about to do. By the time I reach the basement door, my pulse is steady, my breathing even.

The room is dimly lit, the air thick with the familiar scent of blood and sweat. It’s fucking freezing down here, but the man tied to the chair in the center of the room is sweating like apig. His shirt is torn, his lip split, and one of his eyes is already swelling shut.

He’s been worked over. But not nearly enough.

I shut the door behind me, the heavy click echoing through the space. The man lifts his head, and I get my first good look at him… and I fucking freeze.

Because the man tied to the chair, bruised and bloodied, isn’t some nameless fuck.

It’s Ronan. A sub I used to play with when I was looking for a way to kill time, when I wanted control without effort, when I needed someone to listen without demanding anything in return.

He’s the same one I used to bait Malachi, to test the waters and see if that stubborn little brat would show even the slightest bit of jealousy. Ronan must’ve seen Malachi as the reason I never gave him anything more.

And suddenly, it all makes sense.

He used to look at me like I was his, like he owned some part of me just because I let him kneel for me a few times. He was a good sub, sure—obedient, eager, desperate for approval—but he never understood the line.

Rage coils low in my stomach, slow and lethal.

Ronan lifts his head sluggishly, bleary eyes blinking through the mess of his face. When his gaze finally settles on me, his eyes flicker with not only recognition but also resentment.

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