39. Malachi
Chapter 39
Malachi
The soft glow of early morning filters through the curtains, casting long shadows across the walls. My body aches, a dull, lingering pain spreading through my ribs and shoulders, but it’s nothing compared to the heaviness in my chest.
Sleep barely clung to me last night, restless and fractured, my mind replaying everything over and over again—the way Connor looked at me, the way he touched me like I was something fragile. The way he looked ready to go to war for me.
And now, as I slowly blink awake, my gaze lands on him.
He’s not in the bed.
Instead, he’s on the floor, his back against the nightstand, legs stretched out in front of him, arms crossed over his chest. His head is tilted slightly to the side, jaw slack, his breathing deep and steady.
His hair is a mess, the usually styled perfection ruined from running his hands through it too many times, and even in sleep, his brows are slightly furrowed like his mind refuses to rest completely.
I stare at him, my throat tightening.
Connor Cunningham—cocky, arrogant, unstoppable—asleep on the goddamn floor because of me.
A tear slips down my cheek before I even realize it’s there, and I don’t wipe it away.
I remember the rage in his eyes yesterday, the way his whole body tensed when he saw me like he was barely containing himself. I remember the tremble in his hands when he touched me, the way his voice wavered when he spoke.
And now, he’s here. He stayed.
Something in my chest pulls tight—-and before I can talk myself out of it, I reach out.
My fingers brush over his cheek, slow and tentative, like I’m testing whether or not this is real, whether or not he is real. His skin is warm beneath my touch, the faintest roughness of stubble catching against my fingertips. His breathing shifts slightly, his lips parting just a little, and then, with a soft inhale, his eyes flutter open.
Green. Bright but soft in a way I don’t think I’ve ever seen before.
For a second, he just looks at me, like he’s trying to make sense of where he is, what’s happening, and what I’m doing. Then, slowly, a smile pulls at his lips.
Soft. Warm. Fucking devastating.
“Morning, Babyface,” he murmurs, his voice deep and rough with sleep.
I swallow hard, forcing down the lump in my throat, my fingers still resting lightly against his jaw. “Why are you on the floor?”
His lips twitch slightly, but there’s no teasing, no cocky remark, no arrogant smirk—just something else, something different. “Didn’t want to hurt you by accident,” he says simply, voice low. “But I needed to be close to you.”
My chest tightens, my fingers twitching against his skin.
He’s not chirping back. He’s not playing games, not pushing just to get a rise out of me. He just looks at me like I matter.
Like I mean something to him.
The pressure behind my ribs grows unbearable, my whole body burning from the inside out, and I have to look away before I lose whatever grip I still have left. My hand drops from his face, my fingers curling slightly against the sheets. “Connor…”
He leans his head back against the nightstand, his gaze steady. “I missed you.”
My breath catches, my pulse skipping before picking up again, too fast, too fucking fast. “You—”
“I missed you,” he repeats, his voice soft but firm like he needs me to hear it, like he needs me to believe it.
I do. I just don’t know what to do with it. I press my lips together, my fingers tightening in the sheets. “You were only gone a few days.”
He exhales, shaking his head slightly. “That’s not the point.”
I hesitate, my chest tightening. “Then what is the point?”
He tilts his head slightly, gaze flickering over my face, reading me like he always fucking does. “You tell me.”
I could be a brat right now. I could throw up my usual walls, smirk and say something sharp, something to take the weight out of this moment.
But I don’t want to. Not this time. Not with him.
I move slightly in the bed, wincing as my body protests at the movement. “I missed you too.”
Connor stills. His breath catches—just for a second, just long enough for me to see it—before he blinks. “Yeah?” he murmurs.
I nod, my throat tight. “Yeah.”
His gaze searches mine like he’s looking for proof, like he’s waiting for me to take it back, to throw up a wall, to ruin this.
I don’t.
Instead, I reach for him again, my fingers brushing against his wrist. “I meant it. I missed you.”
Connor doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, just fucking stares at me like I’ve just knocked the air out of his lungs. And maybe I have. Maybe I’ve knocked the air out of myself too, because this is the first time I’ve said it without deflecting, without snapping, without making a bratty joke to cover up the way my chest clenches every time I look at him.
I keep my fingers against his wrist, feeling his pulse beneath my touch, steady and strong. It grounds me, even as my stomach twists with the weight of what I’m about to say. I could stop here. Could let this moment pass, let him fill in the blanks for himself. But I don’t want to. I want him to know.
“I missed your stupid grin,” I admit, voice barely above a whisper. “The one that makes me want to punch you in the throat.”
The corner of his mouth twitches, but he doesn’t smirk, doesn’t ruin it with some cocky response.
“I missed the way you talk too much,” I continue, my thumb brushing over his wrist now. “And the way you never shut the fuck up, even when you should.”
Connor exhales through his nose, his eyes flicking between mine, something unbearably soft in his expression.
I swallow hard, forcing myself to keep going. “I missed the way you tease me. Even when it’s annoying. Even when I want to strangle you for it.”
He chuckles, but it’s quiet and my chest feels tight, my throat thick. “I missed the way you look at me like I’m something worth looking at.” I don’t realize my fingers are gripping him tighter until I feel the shift in his muscles, and the way his breathing hitches. “Like I’m not just… the enemy’s son. Like I’m not just a pawn in all of this.”
Connor’s jaw tightens, his eyes darkening. “You’re not,” he murmurs, voice rough.
I nod, taking a shaky breath. “I missed how you make me feel like I’m real.”
His fingers twitch against his knee like he wants to reach for me but isn’t sure if he should.
So I do it for him.
I scoot closer, ignoring the pain it sends through my ribs, and press my forehead against his. “I missed you, mó chroí, ” I murmur, my voice shaking slightly now. “I fuckin’ missed you.”
Connor doesn’t say anything at first, just keeps looking at me, but the usual cockiness is gone, the smirk absent. I don’t know what the hell I’ve just admitted to him, but it sits between us like a live wire.
He moves then, his other hand coming up to brush his fingers against my temple, tracing lightly over the bruises, his touch barely there. His jaw clenches, his eyes flashing with something dangerous, but he doesn’t say anything about it, doesn’t push. Instead, he takes a slow breath, then murmurs, “Scoot over.”
I blink. “What?”
He nods toward the empty space beside me, his voice lower now, softer. “Move over.”
My heart kicks up, and I should make a sarcastic remark, should tell him to fuck off, that I don’t need his pity, that I don’t—can’t—let myself have this.
But I don’t.
Instead, I shift carefully, biting down a wince as my body protest. Connor follows, easing himself onto the bed beside me.
The second he’s close, I feel his warmth pressing against the edges of the space between us like he’s always meant to be here. I let out a slow breath, my body tense, unsure of what to do with this, unsure if I should even be letting this happen.
But then he moves, shifting onto his side, lifting his arm just slightly—a silent invitation.
I hesitate, my breath catching in my throat.
Then I curl into him before I can stop myself, my body pressing against his, my head tucking under his chin. His arms come around me, firm and steady, pulling me in like this is nothing to him.
I exhale and wince, and I wait for the self-loathing to come, for the panic, for the need to push him away before I let this go too far.
But it doesn’t come.
Instead, there’s just warmth.
Just Connor.
His breath moves through my hair, slow and steady, and his fingers trace lazy patterns against my back, grounding me, holding me in place like he knows I need it—like he knows I need him.
I close my eyes, my heart hammering against my ribs, and Connor adjusts his hold on me, his voice low against my ear. “So,” he starts, and I can hear the smile in his voice. “ mó chroí ?”
I blush and hide my face in his chest. “It’s the only Gaelic endearment I know, okay?” I say, my voice muffled against his chest. “Don’t make it weird.”
He chuckles low and pulls me closer, kissing the side of my head. “I meant it too, you know.”
I swallow hard. “Meant what?”
He sighs, his fingers brushing over my ribs, carefully, too carefully. “I missed you.”
My chest tightens, and I have to bite down on my lip to keep my emotions in check.
Because it’s too much.
Because he’s too much.
Because I want this too much.
I take a slow breath, my grip on his shirt tightening. “This isn’t normal,” I mutter, my voice weak, my words muffled against his chest.
Connor huffs out a quiet laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “No, it’s not.”
I close my eyes again, breathing him in, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath my cheek. “Then why does it feel like it is?”
His hand stills on my back, his breathing turning just slightly uneven, and for a moment, he doesn’t answer. Then, so quietly I almost don’t hear it, he murmurs, “Because maybe it should be.”
The words hit something deep inside me, something I didn’t even know was there. Before I can stop myself, I bury my face farther against his chest, hiding.
I feel his chuckle rumble beneath my cheek, but he doesn’t push, doesn’t tease. He just holds me. And I let myself be held by my kidnapper, who has come to be my safe space. “I hate that I need you.”
Connor exhales sharply, his grip on me tightening. “I know.”
I open my eyes, pulling back just enough to look at him, to take in every detail—the sharp cut of his jaw, the flecks of gold in his green eyes, the way his brows are furrowed like he’s fighting a battle he doesn’t know how to win.
“Would it make you feel better if I told you I need you too?” he asks me in a soft voice, and I honestly don’t know how to respond to that. Connor Cunningham doesn’t need anyone…right?
I don’t think before I lean in and press my lips to his—soft, slow, nothing like the bruising, desperate kisses we’ve shared before. This one is different. It’s not about hunger. It’s not about proving anything.
It’s just us.
Connor makes a sound against my lips, something almost pained, before he kisses me back, his hands sliding up my sides, careful with my injuries but still grounding, still there.
I shudder, my hands gripping his shoulders as I melt into him, as I let myself have this, even if I shouldn’t.
Even if it’s dangerous.
Even if it’s already too fucking late.