30. Connor
Chapter 30
Connor
I wake up with a pounding headache and the distinct taste of regret lingering at the back of my throat—or at least, what should feel like regret.
The problem is, it doesn’t. Not even close. I can still taste him, still feel the way his body reacted to me, the way he whispered my name like it was the only word he knew.
“Fuckin’ hell,” I mutter, rubbing a hand over my face. I sit up slowly, the early morning light streaming through the windows doing nothing for the storm in my chest.
How did I let it get this far? I’m usually in control, always the one pulling the strings, keeping my distance. But with Malachi, distance isn’t even an option. I told myself it was about proving him wrong, about wiping that defiance off his face, but I know better. The truth is, I lost control. Completely.
I don’t even regret it.
I drag myself out of bed, the memories of last night flashing through my mind like a reel I can’t turn off. His gasps, the way his body trembled under my touch, the look in his eyes when he came apart for me and used his words—it’s burned into my brain, and it’s doing absolutely nothing to help me think straight.
I run a hand through my hair, pacing the room. There’s no way Da can find out. Not about this. He’d kill me—not literally, maybe, but the disappointment alone would be enough to do the job.
Claiming the captive? It’s a move that doesn’t just cross the line—it obliterates it. And yet, here I am, already thinking about going back for more.
The tray in my hands feels heavier than it should as I head toward Malachi’s room. The smell of bacon and eggs wafts up, but it doesn’t do anything to settle the tension knotting in my chest.
My footsteps echo down the hall, and with every step, I tell myself I’ll keep my distance this time. No touching. No teasing. Just breakfast, a few words, and I’m out.
When I push open the door, I know immediately that’s not going to happen.
Malachi doesn’t do subtle. He’s either spitting fire or sinking into himself, and there’s rarely an in-between. I can tell I’m getting the former and fuck if it isn’t my favorite version of him.
“Good mornin’, mo stóirín, ” I say, smirking as I kick the door shut behind me.
He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, his hair a mess and his arms crossed over his chest. His blue eyes narrow as he glares at me, and for a moment, I think he’s going to lunge.
“Don’t call me that,” he snaps, his tone sharp. “And it’s not a good mornin’.”
I set the tray on the desk, raising an eyebrow at him. “Someone’s in a mood.”
“Gee, I wonder why,” he shoots back, gesturing vaguely toward me. “Could it be because some arsehole decided to play games last night?”
“Games?” I repeat, leaning against the desk and crossing my arms. “Seemed like you were enjoyin’ yourself to me. I can still taste you on my lips.”
His face flushes, and he looks away, muttering something under his breath. It’s then I notice the faint mark on his neck, right where my teeth sank in last night. A surge of possessiveness flares in my chest.
“You’re wearing my mark,” I point out.
His head snaps up, his eyes wide, and for a split second, he looks almost vulnerable. But then the brat mode kicks in, and he glares at me again, his lips twisting into a smirk.
“Your mark?” he says, his tone mocking. “I don’t belong to anyone, Cunningham.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” I say, pushing off the desk and taking a step toward him.
He tenses but doesn’t back down. “Don’t get cocky.”
“Too late for that,” I murmur, my eyes flicking to the mark again. “You wore it well last night.”
“Fuck off,” he snaps, his face flushing deeper.
I chuckle, closing the distance between us until I’m standing right in front of him. “You can play tough all you want, Babyface,” I say, my voice low. “But we both know the truth.”
He glares up at me, his jaw tight, but he doesn’t say anything. His defiance is clear, but so is the way his breath catches when I lean closer, brushing my thumb lightly over the mark on his neck.
“You’re mine,” I murmur, my voice barely above a whisper. “You’re my good boy.”
Malachi’s eyes widen slightly, his face flushing a deep red that creeps all the way to the tips of his ears. He jerks his head away from my touch, glaring at me like he wants to set me on fire.
“Don’t fuckin’ call me that,” he snaps, but his voice cracks just enough to ruin the effect.
“Oh, but you are,” I say, grinning as I lean back, arms crossed over my chest. “Look at you, blushin’ like that. You’re adorable.”
“I’m not blushin’,” he lies, his cheeks growing even redder as he looks everywhere but at me.
“Sure you’re not,” I tease, leaning in just slightly. “You’re my good boy, and you know it.”
His fists clench at his sides, his entire body bristling with indignation, but I catch the way his throat bobs as he swallows hard. He’s fighting it, fighting me, and losing spectacularly.
“You’re insufferable,” he mutters, his tone sharp but lacking bite.
“And you’re mine,” I shoot back, my smirk widening. “So you’d better get used to it.”
The glare he gives me is lethal, but the blush on his face softens the blow. It’s impossible to take him seriously when he’s looking like that, all flustered and trying desperately to pretend he isn’t.
“Go to hell, Connor,” he mutters, but it’s weaker this time, like he knows he’s already lost.
“Already there, Babyface,” I say with a grin. “And it’s much more entertainin’ with you around.”
He huffs, turning away from me and muttering something under his breath, but I don’t miss the way his shoulders are still tense or the way his ears are still red.
Victory, as usual, is mine.