41. Connor
Chapter 41
Connor
I walk away from the basement, each step I take echoing in the long, empty hallway, the silence broken only by the faint murmurs of my father’s men carrying out my orders.
The weight on my chest has eased, but I don’t feel relieved—not really. Revenge feels good in the moment when the anger burns hot and the pain demands blood, but afterward, it settles like a bitter taste. Like regret, almost.
I climb the stairs, my boots heavy against the hardwood floor. My hands are steady—I’ve done worse things, things that should haunt me, but don’t. And yet this feels different.
I used to trust Ronan to kneel for me, to give himself over without reservation, and somehow it led to this. To Malachi being hurt and scarred.
My jaw tightens again, and I remind myself he’s gone. That bastard can’t hurt Malachi ever again. But the images linger in my mind—the blood, the sounds of pain, Ronan’s desperate pleas that fell on deaf ears. A lesson learned, permanently.
Reaching my room, I shut the door firmly behind me and let out a slow exhale, my muscles tense and tight. Stripping off my clothes, I toss them onto the floor, trying to ignore the way the blood splatter sticks to my skin, dry and crusted and wrong.
Fuck, I need it off. I need it gone.
I step into the bathroom and turn the water on full blast, heat rising immediately, steam filling the small space. I let it build until I can’t see clearly through the fogged mirror.
When I finally step under the spray, it stings against my skin, the heat biting into me, washing away more than just dirt and blood—it’s like washing away the last of Ronan’s pathetic life from my skin.
But no matter how clean I get, how much blood and grime disappear down the drain, I can’t erase the knowledge that Malachi was hurt because of me. Because I was careless. Because I played dangerous games without considering who might get caught in the crossfire.
Fuck.
I brace one hand against the tile wall, bowing my head under the spray, water sluicing down my face and shoulders. The steam curls around me, thick and heavy, and I close my eyes, breathing in deeply. The heat helps; it grounds me and brings me back to myself.
I open my eyes slowly, blinking water from my lashes, the guilt sinking deeper with every second that passes. I finish washing, then step out of the shower and grab a towel before roughly rubbing myself dry. The mirror has cleared enough that I can see my reflection, gaze hard, mouth set in a tense line.
My eyes look haunted, shadows lingering in the hollows beneath, stress and exhaustion written clearly across my features. I barely recognize the man staring back at me.
Because it’s not the violence or revenge that’s changed me. Not the countless lives I’ve taken or the scars that mark my skin. It’s Malachi. He shifted something inside me, took apart all the carefully constructed walls I’d built over the years, and refused to let me hide behind them anymore.
Wrapping the towel around my waist, I step back into my bedroom, raking my fingers through my damp hair. The quiet feels suffocating now, and I glance around the room restlessly, my heart hammering against my ribs.
I need to see Malachi, to know he’s alright, to remind myself he’s still mine. That he’s safe and asleep. The clock on my nightstand reads 3:07 a.m., but I don’t give a fuck because I can’t stay away.
I don’t want to stay away.
I slip on a pair of boxers and sweats while not bothering to grab a shirt, my body is running too fucking hot for one, anyway. My bare feet are silent against the cold hardwood as I slip out of my room and into the hallway.
I know I shouldn’t be here. I know I should turn back, crawl into my own bed, and leave him be. But I also know that’s not fucking happening.
I don’t knock as I push the door open, slipping inside as quietly as I can. The room is warm, a stark contrast to the rest of the house, and I spot Malachi curled up beneath the blankets, his back to me, his breathing slow and steady.
Something in my chest eases at the sight of him, my muscles unclenching, the tension in my spine releasing just slightly. He’s asleep. He’s safe.
I should leave him be.
Instead, I strip down to my boxers, kicking my sweatpants to the side before slipping under the blankets behind him. The second I do, my body fucking melts, the warmth of him pressing into me as I wrap an arm around his waist, pulling him back against my chest.
Malachi mumbles something in his sleep, shifting slightly, and I go still, waiting to see if he’ll wake up.
He doesn’t. Instead, he lets out a slow breath, his body relaxing into mine like he belongs here.
Like we both fucking do.
I rest my forehead against the back of his neck, closing my eyes, inhaling the familiar scent of him—something clean, something warm, something that fucks me up in a way I don’t understand.
Then, just as I’m about to drift off, Malachi moves again, his voice soft, barely more than a whisper.
“Connor…”
My breath catches. He’s still asleep, I can hear it in his voice, feel it in the steady rhythm of his breathing. But then he murmurs something else, something so fucking soft I almost miss it.
“Don’t leave me.”
I rest my forehead against the back of his neck, exhaling slowly and squeezing my eyes shut, my fingers tightening against his side.
Fuck.
I don’t know if he’s dreaming or if he knows I’m here, but either way, it fucking guts me. I press my lips against his shoulder, my breath shaky, my mind a fucking mess.
And then Mihai’s words slam into me like a fist to the ribs.
“Malachi has been trapped his whole fucking life. First under his father, now under yours. You think he even knows what freedom feels like?”
My jaw clenches.
Malachi has never had a choice. Not in who he is, not in who he loves, not in anything . He went from being under his father’s control to being under my father’s control, and the fucked-up part is, I know he doesn’t see it that way. He looks at me like I’m his safe place, and the only good thing in this mess, but am I really?
Or am I just another cage?
The thought makes my stomach churn, and makes my grip on him tighten just a little more.
Could I let him go? Could I give him the chance to choose — really choose —what he wants for the first time in his life?
Would I be strong enough to walk away if he didn’t choose me?
I pull him closer, pressing my face into his neck, breathing him in, grounding myself in the feel of him, the warmth of him, the reality of us .
Because right now, he’s here. Right now, he’s mine .
And I don’t know if I’ll ever be strong enough to let him go.