40. Connor
Chapter 40
Connor
I sit in my room, whiskey in hand, staring at the wall like it holds the answers to the million fucking thoughts running through my head.
I’m a fucking heir, raised to be ruthless, to follow orders without question, to wear the crown proudly, and to carry my father’s legacy into the next generation. But Malachi makes me question all of it.
He makes me wonder if there’s something more—something beyond violence, beyond duty, beyond the bloody empire my family built from ashes and fear. I used to thrive in the chaos, in the darkness, and now it feels empty.
Now, the only place I feel whole is next to him, and that’s dangerous. It makes me vulnerable and gives enemies a weakness to exploit. I run a hand through my hair, tugging at the strands as I let out a breath, frustration bubbling just beneath the surface.
I’m in way over my head with him, I fucking know it. And yet, here I am, drowning in him, in the way he looks at me, in the way he feels in my arms, in the way my fucking ring is still on his finger.
I should be planning my next move, thinking about how to keep my father’s trust, about what the hell I’m supposed to do with this entire fucking mess, but all I can think about is him.
How the fuck did I let this happen?
I knock back a sip of whiskey, letting the burn anchor me, but it doesn’t do shit. It doesn’t stop the fact that I love him, that I admitted it—to myself, to my father. And it doesn’t change the fact that I shouldn’t.
I’m in love with Malachi Dawson and I shouldn’t be.
I shouldn’t have let it happen, shouldn’t have let him get under my skin, shouldn’t have let him worm his way into every fucking part of me until I don’t even remember what life was like before he was in it.
But it’s too late now. I’m too far gone. I can lie to myself all I want, but the truth is, I would burn the world down for him without a second thought.
And that is what scares the shit out of me because I almost went to war with my father over him. I would have if Malachi hadn’t stopped me. If he hadn’t begged me not to.
That thought alone makes my chest ache.
I don’t even know where the fucking line is anymore.
Loving Malachi isn’t safe. It isn’t fucking smart. He’s the enemy’s son, not the person I’m losing my fucking mind over.
And yet, if my father had given me an ultimatum that night—him or Malachi—I would’ve chosen Malachi without hesitation. Without a second fucking thought and that terrifies me. This is fucking reckless. This is something bigger than me, something that’s already eaten me whole. And I don’t know if I want to fight it anymore.
I rake a hand down my face, my pulse hammering as I stare into the glass in my hand. I think about my father, about the cryptic way he looked at me when I told him about Malachi, about the story he told me about my mother.
How he was sent to kill her. How he was given an order—an order that should’ve been easy, an order he should have carried out without a second thought.
But he didn’t.
He said he couldn’t.
Because when he looked at her, something in him broke. He chose her over logic. Over reason. Over everything. And it worked out for him.
Didn’t it?
He built a life with her. He built a fucking empire, and he kept her. But at what cost? How many enemies did he make? How many bodies did he put in the ground? How close did he come to losing everything?
I exhale sharply, setting my glass down with more force than necessary. I’m not my father. I don’t want to be my father, but I can’t help but wonder if I’m about to make the same mistake. If Malachi is my Deirdre. If this will be my downfall.
And if it is, would I even fucking care?
I tilt my head back, closing my eyes, Malachi’s face flashing behind my eyelids. The bruises. The way he flinched when I touched him. The way he looked at me like I was the only thing keeping him together.
My hands clench into fists and my jaw tightens.
I don’t care if this is a mistake. I don’t care if it ruins me. I already made my fucking choice, and I’d still choose him. Over my father. Over my family. Over the fucking Crown.
And isn’t that the most terrifying thing of all?
My phone rings, slicing through the quiet, through the spiraling mess of my own thoughts. I don’t look at the screen. I already know who it is.
I grab the glass, knocking back the last of the whiskey, savoring the burn as I pick up. I swipe the call open and lift it to my ear. “Aye.”
Da’s voice is even, but there’s an edge to it. “Found the bastard who hurt your boy.”
Everything inside me stills. My grip tightens around the phone. “Where?”
“The basement. I killed the one who held him down and left you the one who planned it.”
I close my eyes, inhaling through my nose, and pushing down the emotions clawing their way up my throat. I know what that means. The house has plenty of rooms. But the basement? That’s where people go to disappear.
I set the glass down and I hang up without another word. My chair scrapes against the floor as I stand, and my hand moves automatically to the drawer, fingers curling around the hilt of my favorite knife.
The weight is familiar, solid in my grip, grounding. I press the blade to my palm, feeling the cool steel against my skin, the sharp edge teasing the promise of blood.
And then, with practiced ease, I turn and head down.
I think about Malachi. I think about the pain in his voice, the bruises on his skin, the way he fucking flinched when I touched him.
I channel it all into what I’m about to do. By the time I reach the basement door, my pulse is steady, my breathing even.
The room is dimly lit, the air thick with the familiar scent of blood and sweat. It’s fucking freezing down here, but the man tied to the chair in the center of the room is sweating like a pig. His shirt is torn, his lip split, and one of his eyes is already swelling shut.
He’s been worked over. But not nearly enough.
I shut the door behind me, the heavy click echoing through the space. The man lifts his head, and I get my first good look at him… and I fucking freeze.
Because the man tied to the chair, bruised and bloodied, isn’t some nameless fuck.
It’s Ronan. A sub I used to play with when I was looking for a way to kill time, when I wanted control without effort, when I needed someone to listen without demanding anything in return.
He’s the same one I used to bait Malachi, to test the waters and see if that stubborn little brat would show even the slightest bit of jealousy. Ronan must’ve seen Malachi as the reason I never gave him anything more.
And suddenly, it all makes sense.
He used to look at me like I was his, like he owned some part of me just because I let him kneel for me a few times. He was a good sub, sure—obedient, eager, desperate for approval—but he never understood the line.
Rage coils low in my stomach, slow and lethal.
Ronan lifts his head sluggishly, bleary eyes blinking through the mess of his face. When his gaze finally settles on me, his eyes flicker with not only recognition but also resentment.
I tilt my head. “Oh,” I murmur, voice shifting, dipping into that tone—that controlled, amused, condescending lilt I used to use with him. “You.”
His jaw clenches, and I see it—the shame, the frustration, the goddamn jealousy bubbling under the surface.
“Did it kill you?” I continue, circling him now, dragging the tip of my knife against the wooden arm of the chair. “Knowing that no matter how obedient you were, no matter how well you listened, no matter how desperate you were for me…” I lean in, voice dipping lower. “You were never the one I wanted?”
He jerks against the ropes, his breathing erratic, but I grab his chin, forcing him to look at me. “You put your hands on what’s mine, mutt.” I let the words settle between us before my voice drops. “Did you really think I’d let that slide?”
He swallows hard. “Sir—”
I press the tip of my knife under his chin, tilting his head up, and his breath hitches. “You wanted me to break you, didn’t you?” I whisper, dragging the tip of my knife down his throat, pressing just hard enough to make him swallow.
“But I don’t break my toys, Ronan,” I tilt my head, “I ruin them.”
A shiver runs through him, but I see the way his jaw clenches, the way his fingers twitch against the restraints. He’s still holding onto some pathetic thread of hope, still thinking he knows me.
He doesn’t know shit.
“I worshipped you,” he breathes, his tone shifting, trying to find footing in the wrong place. “And you threw me aside like I was nothing.”
I let out a low, amused hum. “You are nothing. I never saw you as anything more than a convenient hole.”
His head snaps up, nostrils flaring. “And Malachi’s what, then? Special?”
The rage slams into me so fucking hard, so sudden, that I barely register myself moving. One second, I’m watching him, the next, my blade is pressed hard against his throat, my other hand fisting in his hair, forcing his head back.
His breathing turns shallow.
“You’re not worthy of even saying his fuckin’ name,” I whisper, my grip tightening, my voice nothing but razor-edged venom.
I see the exact moment fear seeps in. The second his confidence breaks, the second he realizes that this isn’t some game. He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing under the press of my blade, and I press harder. Just enough to draw a thin, beading line of red.
He hisses and his body goes stiff.
“You’re going to tell me exactly what you did,” I murmur, my voice calm and steady. “Every fucking detail.”
His breathing is ragged now, shallow and uneven. I drag the knife lower, down his throat, tracing the edge of his collarbone, just barely nicking the skin, just enough to sting.
“Come on, Ronan,” I say, voice syrupy sweet. “Confess. Be a good boy for me one last time.”
A shaky breath escapes him, and I feel the moment his fight leaves him, the moment he realizes he’s already lost.
And then he tells me every fucking detail. Every moment he watched Malachi, every second he spent thinking he had the right to hurt him, and exactly what he did to him when I wasn’t here.
By the time he’s done, my vision is red. I step back, inhaling slowly through my nose, dragging a hand down my face, trying to tether myself before I lose it completely. Then I exhale, shake my head, and let out a soft, disappointed sigh.
“You were such a good boy once,” I sigh, tapping the knife against my palm. “But you ruined it.”
He looks up at me, blood trickling down his throat and his chest heaving—then he fucking begs like he told me Malachi did.
But I just smile, tilting my head as I crouch in front of him, resting my forearms on my knees. “Aw, look at you,” I coo, and I press the knife against his thigh, my eyes locking onto his. “You wanna know what real punishment looks like, Ronan?”
He shakes his head frantically, panic flaring in his gaze. I smirk, then I get to work, but I don’t rush it. I take my time. Pain is an art form, after all.
“Real punishment,” I continue, “isn’t about the pain. It’s about learning, and you have so much to learn tonight, mutt.”
He whimpers, his lips parting like he wants to plead again, to explain, but I grip his jaw tighter. “Shh,” I soothe, voice dipping into something low and condescending. “Good boys don’t interrupt.”
His whole body shudders and I tap the flat of my blade against his thigh. “Now say it,” I order, my grip on his jaw tightening. “Say what you did.”
A broken, strangled noise escapes him. “I—I hurt him.”
I hum. “Hmm. And why did you do that, Ronan?” He clenches his jaw, trying to look away, but I take my knife and stab it into his thigh, and he screams. “Why?”
His chest rises and falls in rapid, shallow breaths. He knows there’s no way out. He knows I want the real answer. And eventually, his lips tremble, and he gives it to me.
“Because,” he rasps, “he had what I wanted.”
I let the words sink in, let the truth settle in my chest like a slow-burning flame, and when I finally move, when I finally react, it’s not with an explosion of rage. It’s something worse.
I smile.
“You wanted to be him,” I murmur as I brush the tip of my knife against his bottom lip.
A shudder wracks through him, but I don’t let him answer. Instead, I shift the blade, sliding it down the center of his chest, pressing just hard enough to break the skin, to drag a thin, beading line of red all the way down his sternum.
Ronan cries out and I grin, watching the fear bleed into his eyes. “No one could ever be him, Ronan,” I whisper before I dig the knife in harder.
He screams again, and it sends a shiver down my spine. The sound echoes through the basement, but I don’t stop. I carve the lesson into him, slow, methodical, making sure he feels it, making sure he fucking understands that this isn’t just revenge—this is justice.
By the time I’m done, Ronan isn’t even capable of begging. His voice is gone, hoarse from screaming, his body wrecked beyond recognition. I take a step back, wiping the blade against his already ruined shirt, exhaling slowly through my nose.
Then I crouch in front of him again, tilting my head. “You should have been smart,” I say, my voice still laced with condescension. “You should’ve known better. But instead, you touched something precious to me.”
His eyes flutter, barely focusing, his lips parting like he wants to say something. Beg, maybe. Apologize.
But I don’t care.
I rise to my full height, roll my shoulders, and step back, turning toward the door.
“Put him in the incinerator and film it,” I order, flicking a glance toward my father’s men stationed in the shadows. “I want him screaming.”
One of them nods, stepping forward, but I don’t look back. I push the basement door open, step into the hall, and exhale slowly, rolling my neck as I close my eyes.
My blood is still hot, still burning, still itching with the remnants of rage, but the weight in my chest has eased just slightly. It’s done, I made sure of it.