47. Malachi
Chapter 47
Malachi
The moment Connor steps into my room the following day, the air shifts. I feel it before I even turn my head—this quiet, tense energy that wraps around us. I don’t move from where I’m sitting on the edge of the bed with my hands curled into fists in my lap and my jaw tight. I knew he was coming. I knew he’d show up before leaving, but that doesn’t make this any easier.
I hear the soft click of the door locking behind him. Heavy boots against the hardwood. A slow exhale, like he’s bracing himself. Then, finally, I turn my head.
And it fucking guts me.
He looks good and it annoys the shite out of me. Dressed in all black tactical gear, his holster strapped to his chest, his knife at his thigh, his blond hair slightly tousled like he ran his hands through it too many times. His green eyes are focused, but there’s something else beneath the surface—something frayed and desperate, something just for me.
But I don’t let it get to me. Not this time.
His gaze drags over me, taking me in like he’s memorizing every fucking detail, but I don’t give him anything. I keep my expression blank, keep my body stiff, keep my hands clenched so tight I can feel my nails biting into my palms.
“Babyface,” he murmurs as he steps closer.
I don’t react.
He sighs, rubbing a hand over his jaw before dropping it back to his side. “I came to say goodbye.”
I swallow thickly, my throat raw and aching from the effort of holding myself together. My chest feels hollow, but my voice remains steady when I nod stiffly. “I figured. Be safe.”
Something flashes painfully in his eyes, and I watch as the muscle in his jaw tightens, frustration warring with hurt. He steps even closer, invading my space until we’re nearly chest to chest.
The scent of leather and gunpowder clings to him, so familiar it makes my heart twist in agony. He’s close enough to touch, close enough that the warmth from his body radiates into mine, tempting me to reach out and grip him, beg him to stay.
But I don’t—I won’t.
Connor stares down at me, searching my eyes desperately, his voice rough and cracked when he finally speaks again. “That’s it?” he rasps, disbelief sharpening his tone. “That’s all I get?”
My pulse pounds painfully in my ears, but I force myself to meet his gaze directly. My chest tightens as I see the genuine hurt swimming behind his careful mask of indifference.
“What else do you want?” I ask softly, voice trembling despite my effort to remain unaffected.
His nostrils flare, and his fists clench and unclench anxiously at his sides, betraying just how much he’s struggling not to pull me into him. Connor shakes his head slightly, frustration evident in every tense muscle as he bites out his words.
“I don’t know,” he admits bitterly, his voice strained as he releases a sharp exhale. “Maybe for you to act like you give a fuck?”
The accusation stings deeply, slicing straight through the armor I’ve built up to shield myself. Pain blooms sharply beneath my ribs, but I refuse to show it, instead clenching my jaw tightly. My voice remains cold as ice, detached even as I feel like crumbling. “I already told you. I’m not gonna sit around and wait like some pathetic little secret.”
Connor visibly flinches at my words, recoiling slightly as if I’d struck him. “Malachi—”
“No,” I cut him off. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to leave and expect me to just sit here and—” I break off, shaking my head, my throat tightening. “I’m done.”
Connor’s eyes darken instantly, his breathing growing uneven and panicked. He takes another quick step forward, closing the space I’d desperately tried to keep between us, his large hands suddenly gripping my wrists. His voice drops to a broken whisper when he asks, “Done?”
I nod. “Done.”
His face shifts, desperation clear now, panic flaring as his fingers tighten around my wrists in a plea. “Don’t do this,” he whispers hoarsely, voice trembling so badly I barely recognize it as his. He’s breaking right in front of me, shattering piece by piece, and it’s killing me too. “Please.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, inhaling sharply. I can’t look at him. If I do, I’ll break too.
“Malachi,” he whispers, his hands tightening. “Please, just—”
I wrench my hands free, standing so fast I nearly stumble. “No,” I say, sidestepping him to put space between us. “You’re needed elsewhere, so go.”
His chest rises and falls rapidly, his hands clenching at his sides. “I don’t want to leave like this.”
I let out a shaky breath. “You already are, mó chroí .”
Connor freezes instantly, his entire body going rigid like I’ve just delivered a blow straight to his heart. “Malachi…” His voice breaks around my name. He blinks fast, jaw trembling slightly, and for the first time since I’ve known him, Connor Cunningham looks like he’s seconds from falling apart. Not from anger. Not from pressure. But from me. From that one fucking endearment.
It’s only the second time I’ve ever called him that.
He swallows hard, and I can see it—how much he’s fighting to keep it together, to stop from sinking to his knees right here in front of me.
Then, in one desperate motion, he closes the space between us. His hands come up, not as a demand this time, but a plea—shaking slightly as he cradles my face like I’m the only thing tethering him to the ground. His thumbs tremble where they rest along my jaw, eyes searching mine with a look so broken it makes my chest cave in.
“Look at me,” he whispers, not a command this time. A request. A prayer. His voice is hoarse, heavy with something he can’t swallow down. “Please, baby… look at me.”
I don’t want to. But I do, and it fucking ruins me. His green eyes are desperate and burning, his lips slightly parted like he’s about to say something else but doesn’t know what. His thumbs brush against my jaw, his hold gentle despite the tension in his grip.
“I’m yours.” His voice fractures around the words. “You know that, right?”
My heart clenches painfully in my chest, every carefully built defense crumbling under the weight of his honesty. I swallow hard, breath shaking, my words soft and heartbroken. “And yet you always leave.”
His hands tremble against my skin, fingers tightening slightly as if trying to keep me from slipping away. “I have to,” he whispers brokenly, his voice barely audible.
I nod, forcing myself to stay cold. “I know.”
His fingers graze my jaw, and I hate that I don’t pull away. That my body still responds to him, still leans into him even when my brain is screaming at me not to. His thumb brushes over my cheekbone and his grip shifts, tilting my face up toward his as he leans in, his breath warm against my lips, his nose brushing against mine.
“Let me kiss you,” he murmurs, his voice so fucking soft, so genuine, like he’s asking for something more than just a goodbye.
And maybe he is. Maybe he wants more than I can give. Maybe he doesn’t realize that he already has all of me, that I can’t fucking breathe without him, that every second he’s gone, I’ll be counting the moments until he walks through that door again.
Maybe that’s the problem. Because when he leans in, when his lips are just about to touch mine, I turn my head.
His mouth brushes my cheek instead, the warmth of it searing into my skin like a brand, like something I’ll never be able to fucking forget.
Connor’s body goes rigid, and he doesn’t move. He just stays there, his breathing heavy. His fingers are twitching against my jaw like he wants to shake me, to demand that I see him, that I feel him.
Then, finally, he pulls back, just enough to look at me. His eyes are shattered, completely fucking wrecked. “Malachi,” he breathes.
I stare at him, my chest aching, my hands trembling at my sides. “You should go.”
His throat bobs. “Not like this.”
I force myself to look away. “Aye,” I murmur. “Like this.”
A muscle jumps in his jaw. His grip tightens, then he releases me, his hands falling to his sides. “Right,” he mutters, voice hollow. “Got it.”
I hate the way my stomach twists at that. Hate the way his fingers loosen against my skin. Hate the way I want to grab him, hold him, tell him to stay.
But I don’t. Because that’s not how this works.
He takes a step back, straightening his shoulders, schooling his features into something more controlled. More like the Connor Cunningham the world knows. He drags a hand through his hair, as he exhales through his nose like he’s forcing himself to keep it together.
I look down and keep my eyes on the floor.
“Take care of yourself,” he says, and it’s so fucking neutral that it almost breaks me.
I nod, but I don’t watch him leave. The second he’s gone, I collapse onto the bed, pressing the heels of my palms against my eyes, forcing down the lump in my throat and trying not to feel the way my heart is breaking.
I don’t know if I made the right choice.
I just know it hurts like hell.