24. Connor
Chapter 24
Connor
The house is dead silent, save for the steady patter of rain against the windows. I’ve been lying in bed for hours, staring at the ceiling, my chest tight with thoughts I can’t shove aside.
Every time I close my eyes, I see him leaning into my touch, sighing like it was the first good thing he’d felt in a while. Those fucking eyes, so sad and so fucking blue.
I can’t take it anymore.
Before I realize what I’m doing, I’m out of bed, barefoot and moving toward his room. My body’s ahead of my brain, like it knows what I need even if I don’t want to admit it. I tell myself I’m just checking on him, that it’s nothing, but I know that’s a lie.
The door creaks slightly as I push it open, and for a moment, I just stand there, letting my eyes adjust to the dim light. He’s asleep, lying on his stomach, the blanket kicked down to his waist.
His shirt’s ridden up, exposing the pale curve of his back, and for a second, I can’t move. He looks smaller like this, less like the sassy little shite who throws barbs at me every chance he gets and more like… something I need to protect.
I step closer, my eyes trailing over the sharp angles of his shoulders and the gentle slope of his spine. That’s when I see them.
Deep, crisscrossing lines carved into his lower back, long healed but still brutal. They look like whip marks, raised and angry even in the soft light of the room. My stomach twists, anger flaring hot and sharp in my chest.
Who the fuck did this to him?
My fists clench at my sides as I stare, my mind racing. I should’ve seen this earlier, should’ve known something was off. Malachi never lets anyone too close—not physically, not emotionally. And now I know why.
I move without thinking, sinking onto the edge of the bed. My fingers hover over the scars, the ridges and valleys of old pain mapped across his skin. My stomach tightens. I’ve seen wounds before, plenty of them, but this—this is different. This isn’t just violence. This is cruelty.
My hands move before I even think about it, fingers brushing over the edge of his shirt, lifting it a little more. The scars run deep, thick ridges marring his pale skin, old but not forgotten. Whoever did this didn’t just want to hurt him—they wanted to break him.
My jaw locks so tight it fucking aches. Someone did this to him. Someone took a whip to his back and left these scars. The thought makes my blood fucking boil.
I want to know. I need to know. Who did this to him? Who put these marks on him and thought they could get away with it?
I don’t even realize I’m breathing harder until I hear a quiet shift of fabric beneath me. Then a groggy voice, hoarse with sleep.
“…Connor?”
I freeze.
Malachi stirs, his head turning slightly on the pillow, eyes blinking open in the dim light. His voice is thick with exhaustion, confusion lacing his features as he focuses on me. “What—”
His gaze drops to where my hand still holds the edge of his shirt up, to the tension in my posture, and his whole body goes rigid. I pull back slightly, my hands still gripping the fabric of his shirt. I watch as the realization dawns on him. He knows what I’ve seen.
And he hates it.
“Who did this to you?” My voice is low and controlled, but barely. I’m hanging onto my temper by a thread. “Who hurt you?”
His face shuts down immediately, his expression going from startled to guarded in the blink of an eye. He doesn’t say anything, just watches me like he’s trying to figure out my next move.
“Malachi,” His name tastes different on my tongue right now, but I won’t dwell on why. “Who the fuck did this to you?”
He shifts, rolling onto his side, tugging his shirt down like he can erase what I just saw. “It’s none of your business.”
“Like fuck it’s not,” I growl. “You think I can just look at that and pretend I didn’t see it?”
His jaw tightens. “Aye, that’s exactly what I think.”
The anger bubbling inside me boils over. Before I know it, I’m on top of him with one hand pressing him down and the other wrapping lightly around his throat. Not enough to hurt, but enough to hold him in place. Enough to remind him I’m not letting this go.
His pulse pounds beneath my fingers, fast and erratic. His pupils blown so wide that I see a sliver of blue. But it’s not fear I see in his eyes, it’s fucking defiance.
“What the fuck, Connor?” He glares up at me, shoving at my chest, but I don’t budge.
I’m too fucking mad.
“You’re goin’ to tell me,” I growl, my face inches from his. “You’re goin’ to tell me exactly who hurt you so I can make sure they never fuckin’ touch you again.”
He glares up at me, his chest rising and falling fast. “Get. Off.”
“Not until you tell me.” My grip tightens just enough to keep him in place. “Who. Hurt. You?”
He sucks in a breath, and I feel the way his pulse thrums under my fingers. “Let it go, Connor.”
“Not bloody well happening, so tell me right the fuck now who put their hands on you.”
He stares at me, stubborn and silent. I hate this. Hate that he won’t tell me, and honestly, why the fuck would he tell me, anyway?
“You think I won’t find out?” I press, leaning in just slightly, enough that our faces are inches apart. “You think I won’t burn down the whole fuckin’ world to get to whoever did this?”
For a second, I think he might cave. But then his expression hardens. “I don’t belong to you, Connor,” he says, voice like steel. “You can’t just demand answers from me like this. I’m not yours.”
Something inside me snaps at those fucking words. I lean even closer, so close that I inhale his every breath and can see the faintest dusting of freckles on his nose.
“You’re mine, mo stóirín ,” I murmur, the Gaelic slipping out before I can stop it. My lips are so close to his now that I can feel his breath, shaky and uneven against my mouth. “No one gets to fuckin’ touch you. No one.”
Before he can say anything—before I can think better of it—I lower my head, my lips brushing his. It’s not gentle. I bite his bottom lip, pulling slightly, and he gasps against me.
The sound shoots straight through me, igniting something wild in my chest. I pull back just enough to look at him, his face flushed, his breathing shallow, his eyes full of confusion and a sliver of want.
I lift a hand, brushing my fingers lightly over the hem of his shirt again. “I don’t like knowin’ someone hurt you,” I admit. “I don’t like that you won’t tell me who, and it kinda fuckin’ feels like you’re protectin’ them.”
He swallows, his eyes darting away for a second before meeting mine again. “What difference would it make?”
I arch a brow. “You think I wouldn’t hunt the bastard down?”
His lips move like he’s trying to find the words, but nothing comes out. I don’t give him a chance to push me away, because I’m not leaving. Not until I know the truth. Not until I know who I’m going to fucking kill.