18. Malachi
Chapter 18
Malachi
The door clicks shut behind 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?
Why does it matter that he was gone?
Why do I feel like I can’t breathe when he’s too close, and can’t think straight when he’s not?
I stop by the window, leaning against the sill and staring out at the darkened estate. Somewhere out there, Connor’s probably back to whatever the hell he does when he’s not tormenting me. Laughing, flirting, living his stupidly cocky life without a care in the world.
Meanwhile, I’m stuck here, trying to untangle this mess of feelings that shouldn’t even exist.
Because let’s be real; this is more than irritation. It’s more than frustration or anger or any of the many other things I’ve been pretending it is. This is something else, something deeper, something that scares the absolute shit out of me.
I feel something for Connor. And I hate it.
I hate the way my stomach twists when he smirks at me. I hate the way my heart races when he gets too close or when his voice drops low and teasing, like he’s daring me to admit I feel it too. I hate the way he makes me feel seen, like he knows exactly who I am and doesn’t care how messy it is.
And most of all, I hate that I can’t stop thinking about him, no matter how hard I try.
I take off my glasses and throw them on the bed, then run my hands down my face, groaning. “Get a grip,” I mutter to myself. “He’s just messin’ with you. That’s what he does. It doesn’t mean anythin’.”
But deep down, I know that’s not true. Connor’s messing with me, sure—but there’s something else there, something in the way he looks at me when he thinks I’m not paying attention. Something in the way he came back tonight, even though he didn’t have to.
I grab the tray, shoving a piece of toast into my mouth more to shut myself up than because I’m hungry. The food’s good, but it doesn’t help. Nothing does.
I need to figure this out. Not just what Connor’s doing to me, but why it’s affecting me like this. Why, every time he walks into the room, it feels like the ground shifts under my feet. And why, every time he leaves, I feel like I’m falling.
But how the hell am I supposed to do that when I can’t even admit the truth to myself?
I like men. I’ve always liked men, but I can’t ever bring myself to act on my impulses. I’ve been trapped in this “prison” for all of two months and Connor has already attempted to expose that side of me.
To be honest, I don’t know how long I can keep up the pretense. Before all of this, I just never had friends and kept my distance from everyone, but now temptation is literally trying to drag me down.
And fuck, why did temptation have to look like Connor?