Shameless Royalty (Willow Bridge Academy #3)

1. Malachi

Chapter 1

Malachi

I stumble a little as I step off the private jet, my wrists aching where the zip ties bite into my skin. Connor walks down the steps, lighting a cigarette like we’re off to a bloody vacation and not… whatever this is. He doesn’t look back to see if I’m keeping up, which seems about right for him.

“Can’t exactly run away with my hands like this, y’know,” I mutter under my breath, watching his broad shoulders tense for half a second before he blows out a puff of smoke.

“Grand,” he says without turning around. “Makes my job easier.”

I grind my teeth but follow. The jet’s stairs are steep, and my arms are awkward, but I manage to keep up, my trainers slapping against the pavement. Waiting at the bottom is an SUV with blacked-out windows, sleek and intimidating, just like everything about Connor Cunningham.

He pulls the door open, jerks his head for me to get in, and when I hesitate, he raises one of those damn blond brows at me. “Need help, Malachi? I’d be happy to chuck you in.”

“Charming,” I grumble, clambering in.

The door slams shut behind me, and Connor slides into the driver’s seat. He doesn’t bother glancing back, just starting the car, cigarette hanging from his lips as the low rumble of the engine fills the silence.

I shift uncomfortably, my zip-tied hands in my lap, trying not to let the smell of his cologne—smoky, woodsy, far too good—get to me.

“Belt up,” he says without looking back, his tone almost bored.

“You’re jokin’, right?” I snap, holding up my hands to show the zip ties. “Unless you’ve got some third arm I don’t know about, I’m a bit tied up here.”

Connor lets out a short laugh—undeniably amused. “Fair point, Babyface. Guess you’ll just have to trust me not to kill us on the way.”

“Don’t call me that,” I grit out, my jaw tightening.

Connor glances at me in the rearview mirror, a smirk tugging at his lips. “What? Babyface? Suits you.”

I glare at him, but he’s already turned his attention back to the road, the smirk still playing on his face. He doesn’t talk after that, just flicks the ash from his cigarette out the window as he drives.

The drive isn’t long, but it feels like forever because he doesn’t say a word. The only sound is the faint click of the turn signal and the crackle of his cigarette burning down.

I watch a blurry version of him in the rearview mirror because what else is there to do? On the plane ride over I noticed the way the tattoos on his arms twist and ripple when he moves, dark ink against pale, freckled skin.

Everything about him screams trouble. Dangerous. Deadly.

And still, my eyes linger.

“You’re starin’.”

His amused voice cuts through the quiet, and my face heats up immediately. I snap my gaze away, fixing it on the darkened windows instead.

“You’re hard to miss,” I mutter, my voice quieter than I’d like.

He chuckles, a sound that’s equal parts smug and teasing. “That’s the point.”

I don’t respond and continue staring out the window, willing the heat in my face to fade. The scenery blurs past—fields, stone walls, and winding roads. It’s unmistakably Irish, and the familiarity sends a pang through me. I haven’t been home in years, and this isn’t exactly the homecoming I pictured.

The SUV slows, turning onto a long gravel drive lined with tall hedges. At the end of the drive stands a massive estate, its stone facade looming against the gray sky. The gates swing open as we approach, and my stomach sinks.

This isn’t just any estate. It’s a fortress. And it must belong to Connor’s family—a family I now know for certain is neck-deep in the kind of criminal shite my father spent his life trying to keep me out of.

But not because he cares. A shiver runs up my spine and I bite my bottom lip as I push down the memory of the last time I saw him.

Connor parks the car near the front steps, turning off the engine before twisting around to face me. “Out you get.”

I don’t move fast enough for his liking, so when he comes around to my side, he hauls me out himself, his grip rough as he guides me toward the front door.

“Up we go, Babyface,” he says, his tone annoyingly chipper.

“Stop calling me that,” I snap, digging my heels in for a second before he pulls me along like I weigh nothing.

But the bastard just chuckles, his grip on my arm unrelenting as he leads me through the front doors and into a grand foyer. The interior of the house is even more intimidating than the outside, all high ceilings, dark wood, and expensive-looking art. It’s the kind of place that makes you feel small—like you don’t belong.

Which, of course, I don’t.

“My da’s waiting,” Connor mutters, steering me down a long hallway. His easy-going demeanor falters slightly, his shoulders straightening as we approach a set of double doors. He knocks once before pushing them open and shoving me inside.

The man sitting behind the massive oak desk looks up, his sharp green eyes immediately locking onto me. He looks like an older, grimmer version of Connor; the tattoos covering his neck and arms cause my eyes to bug out.

This is a proper Irish gangster, where my father was just pretending to be one.

“This him?” he asks, not even standing.

“Aye, this is him,” Connor announces, dragging me forward. “The youngest Dawson. Bit mouthier than I expected.”

Connor’s father hums, his gaze raking over me. “Scrawny thing, ain’t he?”

“Hey!” I snap before I can stop myself. “I’m right here, y’know.”

Connor snorts, and even his father’s lips twitch, though he hides it quickly. “Bold for someone in your position,” he says, his tone cool. “You’ve got your father’s fire, I’ll give you that.”

I start to clench my fist, but the immediate sting of the zipties stop me. “I’m nothin’ like my father.”

“Sure you’re not,” Connor’s father says, clearly not believing me. He looks back at Connor. “Take the lad to his new accommodations. We’ll discuss what comes next after dinner.”

Connor nods, and before I can say anything, he’s hauling me back out of the room. My pulse spikes, panic bubbling up in my chest.

“Wait—what do you mean ‘accommodations’? Where the hell are you taking me?”

“You’ll see,” Connor says as he leads me down another long hallway.

“You can’t just lock me in a cell!” I shout, my voice cracking slightly. “I haven’t done anythin’!”

Connor doesn’t answer as he leads me down another corridor and through a heavy wooden door. My heart sinks when I see the room—a small, sparse bedroom with iron bars on the windows and a heavy lock on the door. It’s clean, sure, but it might as well be a prison cell.

I stumble back, my chest tightening. “You’re lockin’ me in a bloody cell?”

He turns to me, his expression torn between amusement and exasperation. “It’s not a cell, Malachi. It’s a bedroom. Bit of a fixer-upper, I’ll admit, but it’s got a bed, doesn’t it?”

“There are bloody bars on the windows!” I snap, my voice rising.

“Aye, you’re a flight risk,” he says with a shrug. “Can’t have you wanderin’ off, can we?”

“This is insane,” I mutter, pacing the small space as my hands pull at the zip ties. “You can’t just keep me here.”

Connor leans against the doorframe, watching me with that same maddening smirk. “I can, and I am. Look, it’s not so bad. You’ll have three square meals a day, a comfy bed, and all the time in the world to think about how much trouble your da’s gotten you into.”

I glare at him, my teeth clenched. “You’re a bastard, you know that?”

He laughs, the sound low and unbothered. “Heard that one before. Now, be a good lad and settle in. I’ve got better things to do than babysit you all day,” he says, pulling out a pocket knife.

For a moment, my heart leaps into my throat, but then he steps closer and cuts through the zip ties with a quick flick. “There. Happy?”

Before I can respond, he’s gone, the door clicking shut behind him. I stare at it for a long moment, my chest heaving with frustration and fear.

This isn’t just some family feud. This is something bigger. And now, I’m caught in the middle of it, locked in a gilded cage with no way out.