11. Malachi
Chapter 11
Malachi
I sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the bookshelf like it might somehow grow more interesting if I glare at it long enough. It doesn’t. Of course, it doesn’t.
The books I’ve already picked through are stacked haphazardly on the desk, and I’m halfway through a bloody gardening manual because that’s all I’ve got left. I’m not even sure how much of it I’ve actually read and how much I’ve skimmed while my thoughts spiral into the same pointless loops.
I push up my glasses and stare at the barred window. I’ve been doing that a lot lately, staring at things and hoping they’ll suddenly make sense if I look long enough. Connor’s words from the other day keeps replaying in my head when I zone out.
Your da orchestrated the kidnappin’ of my sister and one of her closest friends. He put them through hell, and we responded in kind.
You’re leverage.
Leverage. That’s all I am. A pawn in someone else’s fucked-up game of chess. The irony is, I’m here because I’m innocent. Because my father kept me out of his world. It’s not enough that he made my life hell growing up; now I get to pay for his sins too. Fantastic.
I rub a hand over my face, trying to force the bitterness down. It doesn’t work. Every time I think about it, my chest tightens, and I want to hit something. Preferably my father, but Connor’s locked me in here, so I’ll have to settle for seething in silence.
Groaning, I flop back onto the bed. The mattress is too soft and it does nothing to stop the frustration building under my skin. If I don’t find something to do soon, I’m going to lose it.
The bookshelf catches my eye again. Even the sight of it pisses me off. A prison with decent reading material is still a prison.
The door opens suddenly, and I sit up fast enough to make my head spin. Connor steps inside, a tray in his hands, his expression as unreadable as ever.
“Lunch,” he says, setting the tray on the desk. “Don’t say I never do anythin’ for you.”
“Oh, grand,” I say, leaning back on my elbows. “You’re a real saint, Cunningham. The whole ‘lock the guy up for crimes he didn’t commit’ thing really adds to the martyr aesthetic.”
He snorts, crossing his arms. “You want to eat or bitch?”
“Both,” I snap back, grabbing the tray. The food is the same as always but at least it’s warm. I take a bite before I even realize I’m doing it, and Connor leans against the desk, watching me like I’m a science experiment.
“What?” I demand around a mouthful of bread.
“I just noticed you’ve got a big mouth for someone in your position,” he says as he smirks faintly.
“Yeah, well, what else have I got?” I shoot back. “You took my freedom, my books, and my goddamn sanity. What’s left but my mouth?”
Connor chuckles, shaking his head. “You’re not insane. Yet.”
“Not for lack of tryin’. Speaking of books—how about getting me more of those? I’ve already read everythin’ on that shelf.”
“And?” he asks, like this is a surprise.
“And I’m fuckin’ bored!” I snap, throwing my hands in the air. “Do you know what it’s like to sit in the same room for days on end with nothin’ but your thoughts? Spoiler: it’s shite.”
“Maybe you need better thoughts,” he says with a suggestive grin, but I don’t entertain it.
“Maybe you need to—” I cut myself off, taking a deep breath. “I’ve gone through every book on that shelf. Twice. I’m losin’ my fuckin’ mind in here, and if I have to read The Joys of Container Gardening one more time, I’m gonna throw a fuckin’ fit.”
Connor stares at me for a long moment, like he’s trying to decide whether I’m serious. Then he shakes his head, muttering under his breath. “Christ. You’re really losin’ it, aren’t ya?”
“Yesss,” I groan. “You locked me in here with nothin’ but books, and now I’ve run out. Either let me out or bring me more. Your choice.”
He snorts, crossing his arms. “You’re not getting out, so I guess it’s option two.”
“Thank the friggin’ Pope,” I mutter. “I thought I’d have to beg.”
Connor’s smirk grows, but it doesn’t have the bite it usually does. “I wouldn’t mind seeing that.”
I roll my eyes, ignoring the heat that rises in my face. “Just bring the books, Cunningham.”
He raises a brow. “You’re awfully demandin’ for someone locked in a cage, you brat.”
“Blame yourself. You made me this way.”
Connor laughs—a low, rough sound that feels more genuine than the mocking edge he usually carries. It catches me off guard, but I cover it by picking at the toast and stuffing my mouth.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, rubbing a hand over his face. “Fine. I’ll see what I can do. But don’t think this means I like you.”
“Oh, the horror,” I deadpan. “How will I ever recover?”
He rolls his eyes, but there’s a flicker of amusement in them. Or pity. Hard to tell with him. He steps toward the door, pausing with his hand on the knob.
“Anythin’ specific you want, Your Majesty?” he asks, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
“Something interestin’,” I say with a shrug. “And readable. Preferably without a font size that requires a magnifying glass.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” he says, opening the door. “Don’t hold your breath.”
The door shuts behind him, and I’m alone again, the sound of the lock clicking into place like a nail in my coffin. I pick at the food half-heartedly, my appetite fading as quickly as it came.
Books. That’s what I asked for, but it’s not what I want. What I want is to be free, to walk out of here and leave all this bullshite behind. But that’s not happening anytime soon, so I’ll take what I can get.
And if I can annoy Connor in the process? Well, that’s just a bonus.