50. Connor
Chapter 50
Connor
The estate looms in front of me, its stone walls familiar and unchanging, a monument to the life I was born into. But as I step out of the car, boots crunching against the gravel, I don’t feel like I belong here anymore.
Five months away, five months of blood and war, of death and destruction, and now I’m just supposed to walk back in like nothing’s changed? Like I haven’t changed?
I roll my shoulders, suppressing a wince as pain lances through my side. The bruises and stitches are nothing compared to the weight in my chest—the cold, empty hollowness that’s settled there and refused to fucking move.
The mission was a success. The Volkovs no longer exist. Their empire is dust. Their blood is still under my fingernails. We sent a message loud and clear—no one fucks with the Five Crowns and lives to tell the tale.
So why the fuck don’t I feel victorious?
I don’t wait for anyone to greet me. I walk through the front doors, nodding stiffly at the men stationed along the halls, ignoring the way their eyes track me, the way they whisper when they think I can’t hear them. I know what I look like. I know the wreckage I’ve become.
Da is waiting for me in his office, as expected. He leans back in his chair, studying me with that sharp green gaze, the one that sees too fucking much.
“You look like shite,” he says, lifting a brow.
I smirk, but there’s no real humor in it. “Feel like it too.”
He gestures for me to sit, but I don’t. I stand in front of his desk, arms crossed, waiting for whatever debrief he has planned.
“You did well.” He doesn’t offer unnecessary praise—never has, never will—but there’s a weight to his words that means more than any empty congratulations.
“The job’s done,” I say flatly.
“Aye,” he nods, fingers tapping against the desk. “And yet ye look like a man who just lost a war instead of winnin’ one.”
I don’t have an answer for that.
He exhales through his nose, watching me too carefully. There’s something in his gaze, something knowing, something amused even, and it puts me on edge.
I breathe out a long sigh. “If you have something to say, Da, just fuckin’ say it.”
He smirks. “Not a thing, lad. Get some rest. We’ll talk soon.”
I narrow my eyes, trying to read whatever the fuck that look means, but I’m too fucking exhausted for these games. I nod once, turning on my heel, already heading for my room.
But my feet don’t take me there.
Because for all the months I spent trying to suppress it, trying to kill whatever fucking weakness he put inside me, I can’t.
I need to see him.
I need to fucking see him so I can breathe again.
I move faster, taking the stairs two at a time, ignoring the sharp sting of pain as my muscles protest. My heart is hammering now, loud and insistent, my stomach twisted in knots.
I don’t even know what I’m expecting. Maybe he’ll be asleep, curled up in that bed of his, red hair splayed across the pillow, the way he always was when I came to him in the middle of the night. Maybe he’ll be awake, reading one of those books he hoards like a fucking dragon, eyes rolling the second he sees me like he’s already preparing to give me shit.
Or maybe he’ll be pissed. Maybe he won’t even look at me. Maybe he’ll shove me away and tell me I fucked this up, that I left him behind, that I let him rot while I was out playing executioner for the Crowns.
I can handle that. I want him to be mad. I just need him to be there.
I reach his door and knock once before pushing it open, but then I freeze.
The room is empty.
Not just empty— abandoned.
The bookshelves are bare, the cupboards open and hollow, the air thick with dust, like no one’s been here in weeks.
The floor tilts beneath me, my lungs locking up and my vision tunneling in on the emptiness—on the absence, on the fact that I am standing in a goddamn graveyard of what used to be him.
He’s gone.
Malachi’s fucking gone.
My breath comes fast, too fast, my hands clenching into fists, nails biting into my palms. I force myself to move, stepping into the room like if I just get close enough, I’ll find him, like he’s just hiding, like he’s just fucking with me.
But there’s nothing. No clothes. No books. No scent of him lingering in the sheets.
The fucking walls are laughing at me.
I press a hand against my stomach, trying to keep from being sick, trying to breathe past the way my chest is caving in.
I lost him.
I lost him.
This is my fucking fault. I left him here, locked in a gilded cage, while I went off to spill blood and play my fucking part, and I told myself it was for the best. That he’d be safe. That this wasn’t a choice I had.
And now he’s gone.
I stagger back, my heart slamming against my ribs like it’s trying to claw its way out of my fucking body, and then I see it—something small on the pillow.
Something silver.
Something I know better than my own goddamn name and it feels like a bullet to the chest.
My feet move before I can think, before I can breathe, before I can fucking break, and then I’m sinking onto the mattress, staring at the ring on the pillow.
The Claddagh ring.
I reach for it with a hand that isn’t steady, my fingers curling around the metal, cold against my palm. My throat locks up, and I want to scream; I want to break something, I want to fix this, but I don’t even know how.
He left it here for me to find.
I squeeze my eyes shut, pressing the ring against my lips, my entire body shaking—then I lose my fucking mind.
I storm through the halls, barely aware of the men stepping out of my way, of the whispers trailing behind me, of the pounding of my heart so loud it drowns out everything else. The ring is clenched so tightly in my fist that the metal bites into my palm, but I don’t give a fuck. I can’t give a fuck.
I should have known. I should have fucking known. The second I walked into my father’s office earlier and saw that glint in his eye, I should have fucking known.
I barely register shoving open the doors to my father’s office. The wood slams against the walls with a force that rattles the shelves, but I don’t give a fuck. He’s behind his desk, a glass of whiskey in one hand, a pen in the other, and calm as ever.
His eyes flick up to mine and he sees the storm raging inside me, the way my hands are shaking, the way I can barely fucking breathe.
And he doesn’t look surprised.
I take a step forward, my body vibrating with fury, with panic, with something so close to desperation it makes me sick.
“What did you do?” My voice cracks on the last word, and I swallow hard, trying to keep my emotions in check, but it’s fucking impossible. “Why isn’t he here? Where the fuck is he?”
The way he’s so fucking calm sends something violent through me, and I knock the glass off his desk. It shatters against the floor, whiskey spilling everywhere.
His lips press together, his brows lowering just slightly. “That was a good drink, lad.”
“I don’t give a fuck about your drink!” I snarl, my voice cracking. “Where is he, Da? Why the fuck isn’t he here?”
He leans back, exhaling through his nose. “Sit down, Connor.”
I shake my head so hard that my vision blurs. “No.” My breath is coming too fast, my hands curling into fists at my sides. “No, I am not fuckin’ sittin’ down. Tell me where he is. Tell me what the fuck you did.”
My father’s gaze sharpens. “I didn’t do anythin’.”
“Bullshite,” I snap. “He’s gone! His room is empty, his things are fucking gone.” My voice wavers, and I clench my jaw, trying to steady myself. “And I swear to God, if you touched him, if you—”
“Mind your tone, lad,” he growls.
“Mind my tone?” My laugh is sharp, breaking apart at the edges. “I come back after months—months of doing fuckin’ dirty work, of puttin’ bullets in skulls and wipin’ out entire families—”
Da doesn’t flinch. He barely moves at all; he just watches me like he’s waiting for me to burn myself out. And maybe I will. Maybe I’ll burn down this whole fucking house in the process.
He exhales slowly, calm in the face of my storm. “Connor, take a breath—”
“Answer me!” My voice cracks, the weight of my rage and fear pressing against it like a goddamn vice. “Why isn’t he here? Why the fuck is his room empty?”
I rake a hand through my hair, pacing the room like a caged animal, trying to breathe, trying to fucking think, but I can’t. I can’t stop picturing Malachi walking away.
Packing his things.
Leaving me.
“Fuck.” I slam a fist against the bookshelf beside me, barely feeling the impact. “This is my fault. I fuckin’ lost him, and it’s all my fuckin’ fault!”
I press my palms against my eyes, trying to block it out, trying to stop the fucking flood that’s breaking through my ribs, but I can’t. I can’t. My whole body is shaking, rage and grief twisting together into something I don’t know how to fucking contain.
I spent months training myself to be cold and ruthless. To kill without hesitation. To execute without guilt. I bled and fought and burned for the Five Crowns.
“I got stabbed on that mission,” I rasp. “Bled all over Nikolai’s hands, thought I was gonna fuckin’ die in some shithole basement in Prague.” I suck in a shaky breath, my vision blurring. “And this? This hurts worse.”
I press my fists against my forehead, swallowing down the bile rising in my throat, the fucking ache splitting me in two. All I know is that I can’t fucking breathe without him.
I squeeze my eyes shut, my hands gripping my hair so tightly it stings. “Fuck.” My breath shudders, and before I can stop it, before I can fight it, my knees buckle.
I don’t even catch myself when I hit the floor, gasping for breath.
Malachi is gone.
I lost him.
I fucking lost him.
A choked, broken sound claws its way out of my throat before I can swallow it down, and I hate it. I hate this. I hate that I feel like this, that he’s made me into this. I don’t react when Da steps around the desk, don’t flinch when I feel him crouch in front of me. A heavy hand lands on my shoulder, and I squeeze my eyes shut.
“You didn’t lose him, lad,” he says quietly.
A bitter laugh tears from my throat. “His room is empty, Da.” My voice is raw. “I went to see him, and he was gone.”
Da nods. “I gave him a choice, Connor. He could go back to his old life. Or he could go somewhere safe. Somewhere Anthony Dawson couldn’t touch him.”
Something inside me shatters and I shake my head, my breath ragged. “No,” I whisper. “No, he wouldn’t—”
“He did,” he interjects and I stare at him, my pulse roaring in my ears. “He chose to leave, lad.”
It feels like being gutted. Like a blade sliding through my ribs, cutting deep, and my entire fucking world tilts beneath me. “He chose to leave,” I echo, my voice breaking.
A broken, shuddering sound rips out of me before I can stop it, my hands fisting in my hair, my head hanging between my shoulders as the weight of it all crushes me.
“Breathe, son.” His voice is low but steady, grounding. “You’re spiralin’.”
I shake my head, my chest heaving, my body fucking breaking under the pressure. “I—I can’t—” My throat closes up, my vision swimming, and before I can stop it, I break.
The first sob tears out of me so violently that I feel like I’ve been gutted from the inside out.
And then another.
And another.
I don’t even know what the fuck I’m saying anymore. Something about how I should’ve told him how much I fucking love him, how I should’ve stayed, how I should’ve fought harder—
Da’s voice is low when he finally speaks. “He’s safe.”
And that snaps me out of my spiral. I swallow hard, dragging in a shaky breath. “What do you mean?” I ask, my vision hazy with unshed tears and I wipe them away. “Where is he?”
He lets out a sigh. “Willow Bridge.”
My breath locks in my throat and my stomach drops so fucking fast I feel sick.
Willow Bridge.
Holy fucking shit.
The relief is violent. It crashes into me so hard I nearly fucking collapse all over again. My whole body sags, my head dropping forward, my breath rushing out of me in a ragged exhale.
I lift my head slowly again, my chest still tight, my heart still barely beating. “Why?”
Da watches me carefully, his expression unreadable. “Because he deserved the choice.”
I stare at him, my pulse a violent rhythm against my ribs, my hands still trembling. “And what if I want him back?”
He lifts a brow, something knowing in his gaze. “Then I suggest you figure out a way to earn him back, lad. You can’t just want it if he doesn’t want the same thing.”
The words settle deep inside me, anchoring me in something new. Something I can fucking do. Because if Malachi thought he could run from me—if he thought I would just let him go without a fight—he was dead fucking wrong.
“Christ.” I squeeze my eyes shut, shaking. “Fuck.”
Da squeezes my shoulder once before letting go, straightening up. “He’s protected there. I made sure of it.”
I should be grateful. I should fucking thank him. But all I can do is sit there on the floor, fists clenched, shaking from the aftershocks of my own breakdown.
Malachi chose to leave. He left me.
I grind my teeth, staring at the floor, my mind a fucking mess. I don’t know how to fix this, I don’t know if I can, but I do know one thing.
I’m going to Willow Bridge.