7. Malachi
Chapter 7
Malachi
Four days.
It’s been four bloody days since I last saw Connor Cunningham, and it’s starting to piss me off. Not that I miss the cocky bastard. Hell no. But the way he’s disappeared, like I’m not worth his time anymore, is grating on me in ways I don’t want to admit.
Every time the door opened, I tensed up, expecting him to stroll in with that irritating smirk, tossing out another nickname to get under my skin. But it was never him. Just some faceless bloke who brought food and never said a word before locking the door behind him.
Now, after four days, I let my guard down. Connor’s probably off doing whatever criminals like him do—drinking, fighting, plotting world domination. Whatever it is, it clearly doesn’t involve me anymore. Good riddance.
Still, the silence gets to me. The waiting. The not knowing what’s coming next. It makes the walls of this place feel smaller somehow, like they’re closing in.
I’m picking at what’s left of the food from earlier, barely tasting it, when the door creaks open again. At first, I don’t look up. I’m used to the routine now—footsteps, tray, door slams shut. Same as always.
“Lunchtime, Babyface.”
I freeze, my fork clattering onto the plate. The voice is familiar, but it’s missing something—the teasing edge, the arrogance. It’s flat, almost tired. I look up, and there he is, standing in the doorway with a tray in hand. Only he doesn’t look the same.
His lip is split—swollen and dark against his pale skin. His left eye is blackened with a bruise blooming across the socket. His usual cocky smirk is nowhere to be found, replaced by something grim and almost hollow.
“What the hell happened to you?” I ask before I can stop myself.
He shuts the door with a soft click, then he walks over to the desk and places the tray on top of it. “Nice to see you too, Malachi.”
I visibly blanch—his voice is lacking the usual sharp edge and he just called me by my name. What in the hell?
I get to my feet, unable to keep the questions from spilling out. “Who did that? You look like you got run over by a lorry.”
Connor chuckles dryly, leaning against the desk. “A lorry would’ve been quicker. Try a few pissed-off blokes and a bad fall.”
I narrow my eyes, studying him. He’s playing it off like it’s nothing, but the bruises tell a different story. “Why? What happened?”
“None of your business,” he says, his tone clipped.
“None of my—” I shake my head, anger flaring. “You show up after four bloody days lookin’ like you went ten rounds with a brick wall, and I’m just supposed to ignore it?”
He shrugs, wincing slightly at the movement. “Pretty much.”
I glare at him, crossing my arms. “That’s bullshite.”
“Stop bein’ nosy,” he shoots back, though there’s no real bite in it.
The room goes quiet for a moment, the tension between us thicker than I expected. He picks at a loose thread on his shirt, not looking at me, and for the first time since I’ve been here, he seems… human. Vulnerable, even.
It’s fucking with my head.
“So, where’ve you been?” I ask, breaking the silence. “I thought you’d given up on me.”
He looks up, his green eyes meeting mine. There’s something in his gaze—exhaustion, maybe. “Had things to take care of.”
“Things?” I press, stepping closer.
He straightens, his jaw tightening. “I said it’s none of your business.”
I bite back a retort, my curiosity warring with my irritation. “Fine. Be mysterious. See if I care.”
Connor huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “You care, Babyface. Don’t lie.”
I bristle at the nickname, but I don’t take the bait. Not this time. Instead, I gesture at his face. “You should get that looked at. Before your ego deflates entirely.”
He smirks faintly, the closest he’s come to the Connor I remember from before. “Careful, Malachi. You’re startin’ to sound worried.”
I roll my eyes, grabbing the tray he brought in. “You’re right. I’m worried. Worried you’ll bleed all over the rug.”
“Nice save,” he says, leaning back against the desk.
As I pick at the food, I sneak another glance at him. He’s quieter than usual—less sharp around the edges. It’s almost unnerving.
“You’re not yourself,” I say before I can think better of it.
Connor freezes, his jaw tightening. “And who exactly do you think I am, Malachi?” he asks, his voice low.
I swallow hard, thrown by the intensity of his gaze. “I don’t know. You’re not the cocky arsehole who kidnapped me a few days ago.”
For a split second, something flickers in his eyes—something that looks suspiciously like pain. But it’s gone as quickly as it came, replaced by a blank mask.
“That man died three nights ago,” he says, his voice sharp and cutting.
I open my mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. What can I even say to that? “Seriously,” I say after a while, my voice softer. “What happened?”
He doesn’t answer right away. When he finally speaks, his voice is low, almost reluctant. “Had a job. It went sideways.”
“Sideways how?”
“I had to remind a few people what happens when they cross my family. And I didn’t do it with a smirk or a smartass comment. I did it because it needed to be done,” he replies, his tone bitter.
I frown, studying him. “And you had to get your hands dirty?”
Connor’s eyes meet mine again, and for a moment, I see it—the weight he’s carrying, the lines it’s carving into his face. “Always do.”
The words hang in the air, heavier than I expected. I don’t know what to say to that, so I just nod, shoving another forkful of food into my mouth to keep myself from saying something stupid.
“Thanks for the food,” I mutter, just to change the subject.
“Don’t mention it,” he says, pushing off the desk. “I’ll leave you to it.”
He heads for the door, his movements slower than usual, like every step takes more effort than it should. The door clicks shut behind him, and I’m left staring at the empty space he left behind.
Four days, and he comes back like this. Beaten, bruised, and somehow more complicated than he was before.
And I hate how much I notice.