Shameless Royalty
Connor
I crouch by the edge of the small bed, the syringe steady in my hand. It’s almost too quiet in here, the type of silence that creeps up your spine and makes you second-guess everything.
The lad in the bed—Malachi Dawson—sleeps with one arm slung over his face, his long red hair tangled across the pillow.
He doesn’t look like the son of a man who’s wreaked havoc on my family. He looks… innocent. Too much so for my liking.
The bloody irony of it makes my lip curl.
This isn’t my usual style. I don’t go for the quiet approach—too sneaky, too clinical. But my father made it clear: no mess, no blood, no mistakes. I’ve done the job of a ghost before, but it’s been a while.
Declan Cunningham doesn’t ask twice. He doesn’t need to. And when it’s your sister whose life was put on the line, you don’t question the order either. You do what you’re told.
Anthony Dawson made himself my enemy the second he touched my family. Kidnapping Cat and Marina wasn’t just crossing the line—it was spitting on it. And now here I am, sent to snatch the man’s youngest son out of a life he had no hand in building.
“Connor,” I mutter under my breath, shaking my head as I prepare the syringe. “Your turn to be a glorified bloody babysitter now.”
The truth is, I don’t care if Malachi is innocent. If my father wants him in Ireland, then in Ireland he’ll be. There’s no room for guilt or hesitation in a game like this. That’s a lesson I learned a long time ago.
Family comes first. Always.
The syringe is steady in my hand, my breathing calm. I’m not one for overthinking. You don’t get far in this business if you hesitate. Hesitation is for people who want to end up in shallow graves.
I slide the needle into the vein in his arm with practiced precision, watching as the sedative flows through. His brows twitch, lips parting slightly, but he doesn’t wake. Good. I don’t fancy a fight tonight. Not because I’m worried he’d win—he wouldn’t—but because I don’t want to hurt him unless I’ve got no other choice.
The sedative takes hold quickly, and Malachi’s body goes limp. I give it another beat, making sure he’s fully under, then straighten up and tuck the syringe away.
“There we go,” I murmur, my voice barely above a whisper. “Sleep tight, kid.”
I hoist him over my shoulder, careful not to bump his head against the doorframe on the way out. He’s heavier than he looks, but nothing I can’t handle. My car’s parked two streets over, and the sedative will hold long enough to get him in the boot and back to the airstrip.
Getting him out of the building is easier than I expected. Anthony must have thought he’d be safe here, stashed in this modest flat on the outskirts of London. No guards. No alarms. Just Malachi, a stack of books on the desk, and a pair of sneakers kicked off by the door.
The streets are quiet, damp from the earlier rain. I keep to the shadows, moving quickly but not rushing. It’s a delicate balance—speed without carelessness. The last thing I need is for someone to spot me carting an unconscious man through the streets.
As I load him into the boot, securing him with a second set of ties for good measure, I glance at his face again. He doesn’t have the hard edges I’ve come to expect from men connected to this world. No scars. No tattoos. Just a freckled face and a pair of glasses that were left on the bedside table.
This is the son of Anthony Dawson? The one my father wants locked away in the estate?
I slam the boot shut and shake my head. Doesn’t matter what he looks like. He’s leverage now.
The flight to Ireland is quiet, save for the hum of the private plane’s engine. I sit across from the lad, who’s slumped in the chair with his wrists zip-tied to the armrests.
He’s starting to stir, his head lolling to the side as the sedative wears off. I watch him closely, leaning back in my seat with my arms crossed.
“Wakey, wakey, Babyface,” I say when his eyes flutter open. They’re the brightest shade of blue I’ve ever seen, and for a moment, he looks dazed, confused, and… terrified.
“Wha—” His voice is groggy, thick with sleep and drugs. “What’s going on?”
“You’re on a plane,” I reply, my tone flat. “Heading to Ireland.”
His brows knit together, panic starting to set in as he pulls against the restraints. “Who the hell are you? What’s going on?”
“Name’s Connor Cunningham,” I say, leaning forward. “And you, Malachi Dawson, are very far from home.”
He tugs at the zipties, his movements sluggish, and I can see the panic start to creep into his eyes. “What is this? Where am I?”
I lean forward with my elbows on my knees. “This? This is what happens when your father messes with my family. You’re a message, lad. Nothing more.”
He swallows hard, his chest rising and falling as he processes my words. “I don’t have anything to do with my father’s business. I never have.”
I believe him. The fear in his voice, the way his hands shake against the zip ties—it’s genuine. But it doesn’t change anything.
“And yet, here we are,” I reply, my tone sharp. “Doesn’t matter if you were part of it or not. You’ve got his name, his blood. That’s enough.”
“That’s insane.” He struggles against the ties again, but it’s no use. “You can’t do this.”
“I can, and I did.” I lean back in the chair, my gaze never leaving his. “Your father made his choices. Now, you’re paying the price.”
“You don’t have to do this,” he says, his voice breaking just slightly. “Whatever he did to you, to your family—it’s not my fault.”
For a second, I almost feel something—pity, maybe. But then I think of Cat and Marina, how terrified they must have been when those shots were fired, and whatever softness I might’ve felt hardens into stone.
“This isn’t about fair, Malachi,” I say quietly. “This is about consequences.”
He slumps back against the chair, his chest heaving as he glares at me. “You’re just like him,” he spits. “A monster.”
I chuckle, but there’s no humor in it. “If you knew half of what I’ve done, you’d call me worse than that.” I stand up to get away from him. “Get comfortable. You’ll be seeing more of me soon.”
For a moment, the only sound is the hum of the engine. I let the silence hang, hoping it’ll sink in for him.
“I didn’t ask for this,” he finally whispers, his voice barely audible. “I didn’t ask to be part of his world.”
I glance at him, my jaw tightening. “None of us did.” His eyes burn into me as I turn and walk away, the sound of his shallow breathing filling up the cabin. I don’t look back. I can’t afford to.
Because in the end, Malachi Dawson might not be guilty of his father’s sins, but he’s still the son of the man who put my family through hell. And for that, he’ll stay locked up with me as his warden until my father decides what to do with him.
If I have to be the monster to make that happen, so be it.
Coming In March 2025…