26. Connor
Chapter 26
Connor
I sit in my SUV, drumming my fingers against the steering wheel, my eyes flicking between the brown paper bag in the passenger seat and the house looming in front of me. I shouldn’t have had to do this.
If Malachi wasn’t such a stubborn little shite, he could’ve just told me what meds he needed, and I would’ve had them sorted days ago. But no, he had to make it difficult, had to pretend he was fine even when it was obvious he wasn’t.
So I did what I had to do—I got his script myself.
It took a bit of sneaking around, but it wasn’t hard. I went back to his apartment that Da’s still paying for so shite doesn’t look sus and found his old wallet tucked away in the drawer of his bedside table. Inside was an old prescription folded up behind some cash, and while I don’t make a habit of going through people’s things, I wasn’t about to sit back and let him spiral when I could do something about it.
Now I have the meds, and I should be taking them straight to him. But instead, I’m gripping the steering wheel so tight my knuckles ache, and my mind running a hundred miles an hour.
The scars on his back. The way he flinched when I asked who did it. The way his whole face shut down when he realized I saw them.
I exhale sharply, shoving the pill bottles into my leather jacket and stepping out of the car. The cold air bites at my skin, but I barely feel it. My mind is already two steps ahead—already making the decision before I fully realize it.
I don’t know why I feel nervous about seeing him. I shouldn’t. I’ve stood in front of my father a thousand times, lied to his face when I needed to, argued with him when I thought he was wrong, and taken orders from him without hesitation.
But this isn’t about business. This isn’t about a job or a mission. This is about Malachi, and that makes it different. Declan Cunningham knows me better than even Mihai does, but the thing about my father is he has a killer fucking poker face.
So even when I lied in the past, I knew he figured me out. Shite.
I roll my shoulders back as I step into his office, shutting the door behind me. He’s behind his desk, phone in one hand, a glass of whiskey in the other, his expression locked in that constant state of barely contained irritation. He’s been like that since Cat got taken, and even though we got her back, I know the weight of that hasn’t left him.
He sees me and lifts a hand, signaling for me to wait while he finishes his call. I use the moment to steady myself, shoving my hands into my pockets as I glance around the room. Same as always—dark wood bookshelves lined with ledgers and files, the permanent scent of whiskey and smoke hanging in the air. It’s comforting in a way.
“Sort it, or I’ll find someone who will.” He hangs up without a goodbye, tossing the device onto the desk before looking at me. His green eyes study me for a second before he leans back in his chair. “What is it, lad? You look like you’re about to tell me you crashed my car.”
I snort. “That was one time.”
“And I haven’t forgotten,” he says, smirking slightly. “Go on, then. What’s on your mind?”
I hesitate for half a second and I know he fucking caught it. “It’s about Malachi.”
Da raises an eyebrow, tilting his head slightly. “What about him?”
I exhale, dragging a hand through my hair before deciding to just get to the fucking point. “He’s got whip scars on his back. Old ones. And I think it was Anthony who did it.”
His expression barely changes, but I know him too well. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes—a shift so subtle most wouldn’t catch it. “You’re sure of that?”
“He wouldn’t say it outright,” I admit. “But you know I can read people well.”
Da exhales through his nose, setting his glass down with a quiet clink. “And why’re you tellin’ me this?”
The question makes me pause, but only for a second. “Because if he can do that to his own son, why the fuck would he care about gettin’ him back?”
Da watches me carefully, his fingers tapping against the desk. “Because he does,” he says after a moment. “Anthony Dawson’s offered at least five million for the lad. And that was just the first time. Five offers so far, each higher than the last.”
Five fucking offers. Each one higher than the last.
I force my face to stay neutral, but inside, something tightens in my chest. Five million. That’s what Malachi’s worth to his father. Not enough to keep him from being whipped bloody, but enough to throw money around like he’s a lost fucking pet.
I scoff, shaking my head. “That’s a lot of cash for a son he left with scars.”
He shrugs and swirls the whiskey in his glass. “Aye, well, some men are like that. Beat their own blood without a second thought, then turn ‘round and act like it was done out of love.”
The words are casual, but I don’t miss the sharp edge beneath them. I know what he’s thinking. He grew up experiencing it, the way some of the old families treated their own like property, like they existed to be molded and punished into whatever shape suited them best.
But it doesn’t explain why Dawson’s still throwing money at this. “You think it’s guilt?” I ask, sitting down in the chair across from him.
Da snorts. “Doubt it. Guilt’s for men with a conscience, and Anthony Dawson’s never had one of those.” He leans forward slightly, resting his forearms on the desk. “No, lad. This isn’t about fatherly love. It’s about power. That boy’s the only one of his who isn’t neck-deep in his business. The only one who could’ve walked away clean. That makes him a weakness.”
I frown. “So why does he want him back?”
“Because a loose end’s a dangerous thing,” Da says simply, taking another sip of whiskey. “And if the lad’s still got even half a brain, he knows enough to hurt his father’s operation.”
I exhale through my nose, leaning back in my chair. It makes sense. Dawson doesn’t want Malachi back because he gives a fuck—he wants him back because he can’t risk leaving something untied. That’s all this is.
“So what’s the plan, then?” I ask, keeping my tone as even as possible. “We keepin’ him or sellin’ him back?”
Da watches me closely, and for a second, I think he’s caught something in my voice. But then he leans back again, stretching out like we’re doing nothing more than discussing the weather. “We’re keepin’ him.”
I nod, schooling my expression. “Right.”
An uncomfortable stretches between us for some fucking reason. He’s still watching me. Waiting. Testing.
I don’t even fucking blink.
Then he exhales, reaching for his cigarette case. “Not gettin’ sweet on him, are you, lad?”
I let out a sharp laugh, shaking my head. “Da, please,” I scoff. “He’s a pain in my arse.”
“Aye,” Da agrees, lighting the cigarette. “And yet, you’re here, talkin’ about him like he’s your concern.”
I smirk, playing it off. “You made him my fuckin’ responsibility. If anyone’s gonna break him, it’s me.”
Da chuckles and shakes his head. “You always were territorial,” he says as he takes a drag of his cigarette, exhaling slowly. “But don’t let it distract you. You know what happens when a man gets too attached to somethin’ that doesn’t belong to him.”
I keep my smirk in place. “Good thing he does belong to us, then.”
He hums, giving me a long, weird as fuck look before nodding. “Aye, good thing.”
The conversation shifts after that. We talk business—shipments, schedules, the usual shit. I force myself to stay focused, to push Malachi out of my head, at least for now.
But as I leave Da’s office, his words linger. Not gettin’ sweet on him, are you, lad?
And fuck, I wish I could say “no” with my whole chest.
I take my time heading toward Malachi’s room, the two pill bottles feeling like anchors in my pocket. Da didn’t ask any questions when I told him I’d handle Malachi myself. He didn’t have to. I made sure I wasn’t giving away anything. Just another errand, nothing more.
But I know better.
This isn’t just an errand. It’s another thing I’m doing that I shouldn’t be doing. Another line I’m crossing that I can’t seem to stop myself from stepping over.
This shouldn’t be a big deal, this shouldn’t even be something I’m doing. But here I am, walking toward his room like it’s just another day. Like I haven’t spent the last half hour in Da’s office pretending I don’t give a fuck about the boy with eyes so blue they make my heart fucking stutter.
I push open the door without knocking, because why the hell would I? It’s not like he gets a say in who comes and goes. Still, the way he snaps his head toward me from where he’s sitting on the bed, shoulders tense, tells me he wasn’t expecting me.
“Jaysus, ever heard of knockin’?” he mutters, dropping the book he was reading and pushing up his glasses.
“Nope,” I say easily, kicking the door shut behind me and locking it. “Not in the contract.”
He huffs but doesn’t argue, just watches as I cross the room. I can see it already—he’s gearing up for something. His posture, the slight squint of his eyes, the way he shifts like he’s preparing for battle.
I don’t give him the chance to start. Instead, I toss the pill bottles onto the bed one at a time. Malachi’s gaze flicks to the bottles, then back to me, wary. “You got my meds?”
“Figured you were goin’ to be a bigger pain in my arse if I didn’t,” I lie and hand him a bottle of water.
He snorts as he takes it from me, picking up the pill bottle and rolling it between his fingers. “You say that like I’m not already.”
I grin, leaning against the desk and watching him. “Oh, you definitely are.”
He twists off the cap, shaking a pill into his palm before hesitating. His eyes flick up to mine, suspicious. “Why are you doing this?” he asks as he opens the water bottle.
I shrug, leaning against the desk. “Because you need ‘em. And I don’t need you losin’ your mind and makin’ my life harder than it already is.”
“Okay,” he says slowly, studying me as he takes the pills. “But why you? You could’ve sent someone else.”
I hold his gaze for a second, then shrug again. “Maybe I don’t trust anyone else not to fuck it up.”
His eyes narrow slightly like he’s trying to pick apart the truth. I don’t let him. Instead, I push off the desk and step closer, lowering my voice. “But listen,” I say, watching the way his breath catches. “You’re gonna hide that bottle, yeah?”
He blinks at that and his eyebrows furrow. “Why?”
“Because if my Da finds it, I’ll have to lie. And I hate lyin’, Malachi.” I reach out, trailing my fingers over his jaw lightly before gripping his chin between my thumb and forefinger. “And if I have to lie for you, I’ll be real fuckin’ pissed. You don’t want that, do you?”
His pupils dilate, his throat bobbing as he swallows hard. “You’re such a prick,” he mutters and pulls his chin out of my grasp.
I chuckle. “And you’re such a pain in my arse. Looks like we’re even.”
Malachi rolls his eyes but tucks the bottles under his pillow, out of sight. “There. Happy?”
I tilt my head, pretending to think. “Mm. I dunno. Maybe if you said, ‘Thank you, Connor, for bein’ so thoughtful and handsome and—’”
“Fuck off,” he grumbles, removing his glasses, placing them on the nightstand and flopping back onto the bed.
I grin, watching him for a second, waiting for the usual back-and-forth, the banter that’s become almost second nature between us. But he doesn’t fire back right away, or even sit up and glare at me, and doesn’t start tearing me a new one.
Something’s off. I see it in the way he’s holding himself. I should leave it alone, let him deal with whatever the fuck is going on in his head, but something in me won’t let it go.
“Malachi,” I say, more serious now. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothin’.”
It’s a lie, and a shite one at that.
“Try again.”
His jaw clenches. “I said it’s nothin’, Connor. Just fuckin’ drop it.”
Oh, but how can I?
I remove my leather jacket and sit down next to him, just watching. “That’s not how this works, mo stóirín ,” I say, my voice low. “You don’t get to lie to me.”
His breath stutters, his chest rising and falling just a little too quickly. “Tell me,” I push, softer now.
He shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut. “I can’t.”
I reach out, gripping his wrist lightly, not forcing but not letting go either. “You can.”
Malachi’s lips press into a thin line. His hands twitch against the blanket like he wants to rip it apart. Then, suddenly, he sits up, his blue eyes blazing.
“Fine, you wanna know the truth?” he spits at me, ripping his wrist out of my grasp. “I hate that you’re the one givin’ me those pills because it just reminds me that I don’t have control over my own goddamn life anymore. I eat when you tell me to, breathe when you tell me to, and am alive because your father wills it. And now I’ll be able to fake happiness because you got me the pills I need to fuckin’ function!”
A sharp inhale. A barely-there tremble in his shoulders. And then he lets out a shaky breath, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes. “Fuck,” he mutters, voice thick. “Fuckin’ hell.”
He sniffles, and it’s like that cracks something else open, because suddenly, he’s wiping at his face furiously, like he can erase the fact that he’s fucking crying. I don’t say anything. I just stay there, steady, watching as he tries to pull himself together.
He lets out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “I don’t know how to do this,” he mutters after a long moment, his voice quieter now. “I don’t know how to—” He cuts off, exhaling shakily.
I watch him, the way his hands clenches into fists, the way his breath shudders like he’s barely holding himself together. It hits me, then—how fucking fragile this moment is. How easy it would be for him to shut down, to push me away like he’s done before. But I’m not letting that happen.
Not this time.
Without thinking too hard about it, I reach out, gripping his hips as I pull him forward into my lap. He tenses immediately, his whole body locking up, and his hands come up between us like he’s trying to figure out whether to push or hold on.
I keep my hands steady on his waist, keeping him exactly where I want him—straddling me, his thighs bracketing mine and his chest close enough that I can feel the way he’s struggling to keep himself under control.
“Easy,” I soothe, my voice soft. “Breathe, mo stóirín .”
His throat bobs, his fingers twitching against my chest. “Connor—”
“I’ve got you,” I interrupt, rubbing slow circles into his waist with my thumbs. “I’m not gonna hurt you.”
Malachi flinches, his breathing uneven, his muscles locked up tight. His hands are still pressed against my chest, not pushing anymore but not settling either.
I run my hands up and down his sides, trying to soothe him. “Breathe, Malachi.”
His throat works as he swallows hard. “I can’t—”
“You can,” I cut in softly. “You’re safe with me. You know you’re safe with me.”
His breath stutters, his fingers curling into the fabric of my shirt. “I don’t—”
“Shh. Don’t think. Just concentrate on my breathing, and breathe with me, alright?”
He squeezes his eyes shut, his whole body trembling in my arms. My hands stay firm, not forcing but not letting go either, my thumbs tracing slow circles against his ribs. Seconds pass. Then a minute. And slowly— so fucking slowly —his shoulders start to relax as he breathes with me, the tension bleeding out of him bit by bit.
“That’s it,” I praise, my voice low and steady. “Good boy.”
His breath catches, and I don’t miss the way his fingers twitch against my chest. His face is still flushed, his jaw tight, but he’s not pulling away.
I tilt my head, brushing my nose lightly against his cheek. “I won’t hurt you, Malachi,” I whisper and he shudders, his fingers flexing. Then he exhales and his forehead drops against my shoulder.
I hold him, feeling every breath, every tremor, every little movement he makes as he fully relaxes into me. I don’t push, I just sit there, rubbing slow circles into his back, letting him take what he needs.
I can feel the rough ridges of those marks on his back and push down my anger that someone dared to hurt him enough to leave lifelong scars. “See?” I whisper, my lips close to his ear. “Told you it’s not so bad.”
He scoffs, but it’s weak, more habit than actual defiance. “You’re so fuckin’ smug,” he mutters, his voice muffled against my shoulder.
I smirk, my hand sliding up to the nape of his neck, my fingers threading into his hair. “I’m right, though.”
He tenses slightly at the touch, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he tilts his head just enough that his nose brushes against the side of my throat. It’s light— barely there —but fuck if it doesn’t send a jolt straight through me.
My fingers tighten in his hair, tugging gently, and he lets out a sharp breath. I can feel the way his body reacts, the way his hands flex against my chest like he’s trying to stop himself from wanting.
“You feel this too,” I whisper. “Don’t you?”
He doesn’t answer, but his silence says enough. I tilt my head, brushing my lips against his temple; testing, teasing. He shivers, and his hands tighten on my shirt.
“Tell me,” I breathe, my lips ghosting over his skin.
“I hate you,” he whispers, but it’s shaky like he’s not even sure he believes it himself.
I chuckle, pressing my lips lightly against his hair. “Liar.”
His breath stutters and I feel him tense again, but this time, it’s different. He’s not pulling away—he’s waiting.
So I give him what he’s waiting for.
I move slowly, giving him the chance to stop me, but he doesn’t. My hand slides from his hair to his jaw, my thumb brushing over his cheek as I push him back and tilt his face. His blue eyes flicker up to meet mine, wide and uncertain, but he doesn’t fight me.
He wants this.
I press my lips to his and fuck , it’s nothing like the kiss before. It’s not rough or punishing, not a battle of wills or a game of control. It’s real. And I swear to God, I lose a fucking piece of myself right then and there.
For a second, he freezes, his breath caught between us. Then, slowly, his fingers unclench from my shirt, moving instead to grip my shoulders. His lips part slightly, and when I deepen the kiss, he lets me.
I groan into his mouth, my grip on his jaw tightening as I pull him in closer. He tastes intoxicating, like something I didn’t know I was starving for until now.
And then he makes a sound—a quiet, almost reluctant little noise in the back of his throat—and something in me snaps.
I kiss him harder, my hand sliding down his back, gripping his waist as I shift, pressing him against me fully. His breath hitches, but he doesn’t stop me. He lets me, matching my movements, his body molding against mine and I feel his cock hardening through his sweats.
His fingers dig into my skin, nails scraping lightly against the back of my neck, and I feel like I’m drowning in him. I break away just long enough to catch my breath, resting my forehead against his as I inhale deeply.
“Christ,” I mutter, my voice rough.
Malachi is breathing just as heavily, his lips still parted, his hands still clutching at me. He looks dazed, completely fucking wrecked, and I’ve never seen anything more beautiful in my life.
“You okay?” I ask, my thumb brushing against his bottom lip.
He blinks at me like he’s still processing what just happened. Then, slowly, his fingers curl into the fabric of my shirt again, holding tight. “Do it again,” he whispers.
I don’t need to be told twice. I kiss him again, slower this time, savoring it. His lips are soft and pliant against mine, and when I slide my hand up his spine, he shudders, melting into me completely.
This isn’t a mistake. This isn’t a game. This is us.
And I don’t think I’ll ever get enough of him.