37. Connor
Chapter 37
Connor
The second I step inside the house, the familiar scent of oak and whiskey fills my lungs, grounding me in a way I didn’t realize I needed.
The estate is the same as I left it—grand, imposing, ours—but something feels different this time. Maybe because for the first time in my life, I’m coming home to someone.
And that someone is locked away upstairs, waiting for me.
I go through the motions of greeting my mother first. She pulls me into a tight hug, muttering something about me being too skinny before smacking the back of my head for good measure.
I grin at her, dropping a kiss to the top of her head. “Miss me?”
She snorts, smacking my arm. “Aye, about as much as I miss the flu.”
I chuckle, stealing a biscuit from the tray beside her before nodding toward my father’s study. “He in there?”
“Aye. Been waitin’ on you.”
Of course, he has.
I roll my shoulders back, masking the anticipation crawling under my skin. Because as much as I want to see my father, there’s someone else my body is fucking humming to see.
Malachi.
I don’t let my stride slow as I make my way down the hall. The door to his office is already open, the fire inside casting flickering shadows across the dark wooden walls.
Da is behind his desk, leaning back in his chair with a glass of whiskey in hand. He watches me as I step inside, one brow lifting slightly. “Back in one piece, I see.”
“Aye,” I say, dropping into the chair across from him. “You miss me, Da?”
His lips twitch. “Not enough to get sentimental.”
I smirk, reaching for the whiskey he’s already poured for me. “Fair enough.”
For a moment, we just drink in silence. But I know my father, and I know when he’s got something on his mind.
“You have a good holiday?” he asks eventually, his voice deceptively light.
I nod. “Good to see the boys. We’ve got everything in motion for Giovanni’s wedding.”
He hums. “And the Romanian Crown? He doin’ well?”
I tilt my head slightly. “Mihai’s fine, Da. If you wanted an update on him, you could’ve called him yourself.”
Da chuckles, shaking his head. “Aye, but then I wouldn’t get to see how you react.” He studies me, his gaze steady, unreadable.
I lift a brow. “Miss me that much?”
He smirks, but there’s something else behind it. Something I don’t like. “Make sure you’re rested,” he says after a long moment. “We’ve got a lot to discuss soon.”
I don’t like the cryptic tone, but I nod anyway. “Aye.”
I leave the office, my mind spinning with a hundred possibilities of what the fuck that was about. But right now, none of it matters.
Right now, I need to see my boy.
I make my way up the stairs, my heart kicking up a notch as I near Malachi’s room. I’ve been gone too fucking long. I haven’t heard his voice in days, haven’t seen that fire in his blue eyes, haven’t had him scowl at me like I’m the most infuriating man on the planet.
I roll my shoulders back as I unlock and push open the door, already grinning, ready for him to give me shit, but then I stop.
Malachi is curled up on the bed, facing the wall with his back to me. His glasses aren’t on his nightstand, and from what I can glimpse, I don’t see them on his face, either.
I frown, stepping inside and locking the door behind me. “What, no welcome back?”
Nothing.
I raise an eyebrow, sitting down on the edge of the bed. “M’sure you’ve been dyin’ for me to get back and annoy the fuck out of you.”
No fucking response. Something’s wrong.
My smirk falters slightly, my fingers twitching as I reach out, pressing them lightly against his side. “Oi, Babyface, you gonna keep ignorin’ me or—”
He whimpers and ice spreads through my veins as I pull my hand back like I’ve just been burned. My stomach churns and I exhale slowly, steadying myself before speaking. “Malachi.”
He doesn’t move, but I see the way his shoulders pull in tighter. The way his fingers curl into the sheets. The way he waits.
Like he’s bracing himself.
Rage simmers beneath my skin, a low, slow burn that spreads through every inch of me, settling deep in my chest. I don’t even realize I’m holding my breath until he finally moves, slowly, turning just enough to face me.
And my heart fucking drops.
There’s bruising along his jaw, his cheekbone is swollen, and there’s a cut just beneath his eye. His lower lip is split, dried blood crusting at the corner of his mouth. His hair falls into his eyes, messy and tangled like he hasn’t bothered fixing it, and when he meets my gaze, something in his expression kills me.
Not defiance.
Not attitude.
Just… exhaustion.
Like he’s too fucking tired to pretend.
I don’t even realize I’ve reached for him until my fingers are brushing his jaw, tilting his face up so I can see. “Who the fuck did this to you?”
Malachi exhales shakily, blinking up at me. His expression is filled with pain, but I see the way his fingers curl into the sheets and the way his eyes flit away from me.
Someone touched him.
Someone put their fucking hands on what’s mine.
Malachi watches me, his throat bobbing as he swallows. His lips part slightly, but no words come out, leaving only silence stretching between us, heavy and suffocating.
I reach out again, my fingers barely grazing his chin, tilting his face just enough to get a better look at the damage. His breath hitches, but he doesn’t pull away.
I clench my jaw so hard it aches, my fingers tightening slightly before I exhale, my voice quiet but lethal. “Who?”
Malachi flinches. I don’t mean to sound so fucking dangerous, don’t mean to let that raw, murderous edge creep into my tone, but I can’t fucking help it. His lips press together, his gaze flicking away, and the fact that he won’t answer only confirms what I already fucking know.
My father’s voice echoes in my head, calm, measured. We’ve got a lot to discuss soon.
White-hot rage pulses through me, winding tight around my ribs and pressing against my lungs. I breathe through it because, if I don’t, I might rip this entire fucking house apart.
Instead, I reach out again, my fingers brushing against the bruised side of his jaw, barely touching, barely pressing, but he still winces. I inhale sharply, my voice barely above a whisper. “Did he know?”
Malachi meets my gaze, and I already fucking know the answer. I press my forehead against his, exhaling through my nose, my whole fucking body shaking with the effort it takes to stay still.
“I’m gonna kill them all,” I murmur.
Malachi tenses under me, his breath hitching just slightly, but I don’t miss it. He knows I mean it.
I don’t make empty threats. I don’t throw words around just to hear the sound of my own voice. Someone put their hands on him. Someone bruised his fucking face, split his lip, and made his entire body tremble like this. Someone did it knowing exactly who he belongs to.
And my da let it happen.
My jaw clenches so tightly that I swear I hear my teeth grind together. My hands shake with the force of the rage crawling under my skin.
I need to move.
I need to do something.
I push away from Malachi, rising to my feet in one swift motion. My head is pounding, my vision is edged with red. My father’s somewhere in this house, probably sitting in his office, a glass of whiskey in his hand like he didn’t just fucking let this happen.
I start for the door. I don’t know what I’m going to do when I find him, but I know it won’t be fucking quiet. But before I reach the handle, a hand grips my arm.
I freeze. The grip isn’t strong, isn’t forceful, but it’s enough to stop me in my tracks.
“Connor,” Malachi murmurs, his fingers curling around my wrist, his grip firm despite how much he’s trembling. “Stop.”
I turn, my chest heaving, my pulse hammering against my ribs. I expect him to look scared, to cower. But he doesn’t. His blue eyes are steady as they search mine, and there’s something raw in them, something I don’t fucking deserve.
He tugs my arm slightly, pulling me closer. “Come back.”
I clench my fists, exhaling sharply through my nose. “I can’t.”
“Yes, you can,” he says, his voice soft but certain.
I shake my head, my entire body thrumming with barely restrained fury. “You don’t understand—”
Malachi cups my face in both hands, forcing me to look at him, and my breath stutters. He’s shorter than I am, so I know he’s in pain as he’s standing on his tiptoes reaching for me. His thumbs brush over my cheekbones, his fingers soft against my skin.
“I do understand,” he murmurs, his hands warm as they pull me back from the edge. “That’s why you can’t do this.”
My breath is ragged, my pulse pounding in my ears. I want to argue, to throw his hands off me, to turn and do the thing I was fucking born to do—handle my problems with violence, with blood, with fucking rage.
But he’s looking at me like that would be the worst thing I could do.
His gaze flickers over my face, something breaking in his expression. “Your father wants you to react. He wants you to be so blinded by rage that you prove him right.”
I still as his words slam into me, knocking the breath from my fucking lungs.
Da wants me to lose it. He wants me to come storming into his office, screaming, demanding blood, proving that I’m thinking with my fucking heart instead of my head.
Proving that Malachi means something to me.
My stomach turns, my rage curling into something heavier—it sounds exactly like something he would do.
Fuck.
Malachi shakes his head slowly, his fingers tightening against my jaw. “Don’t let him win.”
I suck in a slow, uneven breath, my entire body shaking. Then my gaze drops, just for a second, but I see it.
The silver band on Malachi’s finger, still worn the way he put it on—heart facing inward.
His heart is mine despite everything. Despite knowing my father sees him as a pawn. Despite being beaten, despite everything telling him to fucking run. Something inside me snaps. Not with anger. Not with violence, but with something worse, and I fucking crumble.
My knees hit the floor before I can stop myself. I wrap my arms around his waist, pressing my face against his stomach, my body shaking as I hold onto him like he’s the only thing keeping me tethered to the ground.
I’m the fucking Irish Crown, and yet I’m kneeling before the one person with zero influence in my world, but with every bit of influence over me. Malachi doesn’t realize this yet, but with me on my knees, that makes him the most powerful player in this game.
He has me. Without even trying, he has me.
His fingers slide into my hair, his breath catching. “I’m sorry,” I murmur, my voice barely above a whisper.
His hands tighten against me, his fingers flexing. “Connor—”
“I should’ve been here,” I rasp. “I should’ve protected you.”
His fingers press against the back of my head. “This isn’t your fault.”
My throat burns. “It fuckin’ is.”
He exhales shakily. “Then don’t make it worse.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, my fingers digging into his sides, careful not to press too hard, not to cause him any more pain. But fuck, it kills me. It kills me that someone put their hands on him. It kills me that my own father let it happen. It kills me that I wasn’t here.
I press my lips against his stomach, breathing him in, grounding myself in him. His fingers tighten in my hair, his other hand sliding down to cup my jaw, pulling me up just enough so he can look at me again.
I tilt my head up, gazing at him, searching for something—anything—that will tell me this isn’t breaking him, that he’s not slipping through my fucking fingers.
His blue eyes soften, and for the first time since I walked into this room, I feel like I can fucking breathe again. He brushes his thumb over my cheek. “Don’t go to war with your father for me.”
I clench my jaw. “How the fuck can I not?”
His expression flickers with something sad, something that makes me want to turn and rip the fucking walls down. “Because if you do,” he says quietly, “you’ll lose him.”
I stare at him, my chest heavy and my breathing uneven. “I don’t give a fuck.”
“Yes, you do,” Malachi whispers, and I hate him for knowing me that well.
I exhale harshly, looking away, my hands still gripping his sides. How does he know me so well already? How did he get so far inside of my head that he knew it would kill me to lose my Da?
Malachi sighs, his fingers tightening in my hair. “Connor.”
I grit my teeth, my rage still there, still burning. “Yeah?”
His voice is quiet when he says, “Stay with me.”
I close my eyes. Then I nod, and just like that, I choose him.
I chose him.
The realization settles in my chest like a fucking stone, heavy and unmoving.
I stay on my knees for a moment longer, my breath uneven, my hands still gripping his waist, being careful, so fucking careful not to hurt him any more than he already is. But my rage is still there, still simmering, threatening to rip its way out of my throat.
I swallow it down, barely.
Slowly, I lift my head, looking up at him. “Lift your shirt,” I say, my voice hoarse but steady.
Malachi hesitates. His fingers twitch at the hem, and for a second, I think he might refuse. But then he exhales sharply, biting the inside of his cheek, and winces as he grips the fabric, peeling it up over his ribs.
The second I see the damage, I nearly lose it.
His torso is a mess of bruises, deep and angry, spreading across his ribs in violent shades of blue and purple. There’s a cut along his side, not deep, but it’s jagged, like someone wanted to hurt him, not just mark him. His skin is mottled with the evidence of what he’s been through, and my chest fucking aches with the effort it takes to keep myself together.
Malachi watches me closely, probably waiting for the inevitable explosion, waiting for me to rip through this house and tear my father apart.
I can’t.
Not yet.
Not until I understand everything.
I exhale sharply through my nose, my hands shaking as I reach out, gently tracing my fingers over a particularly dark bruise. Malachi tenses but doesn’t pull away.
“What happened?” My voice is controlled, but just barely.
Malachi’s throat bobs as he swallows, his breath shaky. “I woke up to a fist being slammed into my face. I couldn’t see who it was, but there were two of them; one who held my arms behind my back, and one who beat me.”
I squeeze my eyes shut for a second, inhaling deeply. I will not lose my fucking mind right now. I stroke my thumb over his ribs, grounding myself, grounding him. “What else?”
Malachi shakes his head. “That’s all. I passed out soon afterwards and when I came to, I saw that they crushed my glasses as well.”
I stare at him, my fingers still brushing over the bruises on his ribs. I should be comforting him, should be taking care of him. But all I can think about is what the fuck I’m supposed to do now.
How the fuck am I supposed to bring this up with my father?
Malachi is still looking at me, his eyes wary, but there’s something else in them too. Something pleading. He doesn’t want me to go to war over this, so I won’t. Yet.
I get to my feet and run a hand through my hair, then I look at him, forcing myself to push the rage down, at least for now. “Alright,” I say quietly, brushing my fingers over his jaw, over the cut on his cheekbone. “We do this smart.”
Malachi swallows, nodding once. I press my forehead against his, my voice barely above a whisper.
“I promise you, mo stóirín ,” I murmur, “I’ll figure this out.”
And I fucking will.
The house is silent except for the distant creak of the old wood settling in the cold night air. Malachi is asleep now after I had our doctor see to him, curled up on his side, his breath slow and steady.
But I can’t fucking sleep.
Not with this rage burning inside me.
I sit on the edge of the bed, rubbing a hand down my face, then turning to stare at the bruises on Malachi’s ribs. The anger claws at me, whispering, “Fix this. Make it right.”
I breathe in through my nose and push to my feet.
I’m done waiting.