53. Connor
Chapter 53
Connor
I can’t get the image of Malachi walking away from me out of my head. Not just walking—choosing to.
I’ve replayed it over and over again, every fucking second burned into my brain like a scar I’ll never get rid of. The way his jaw tightened, the way his grip on his books went white-knuckled, the way his shoulders squared like he was bracing for impact before he threw his words at me like knives.
But it wasn’t the words that gutted me.
It was his eyes.
Because they weren’t cold. They weren’t empty. They weren’t the eyes of someone who had moved the fuck on, who had cut me out of their life without a second thought.
They were burning just like mine, and I can see it even clearer now that he’s no longer wearing his glasses.
He still feels this, I know he does… and fuck, I don’t deserve that.
I lean back against my dorm wall, dragging a hand down my face, trying to quiet the pounding in my skull. My stomach is still tight, my chest still a mess of tension I can’t shake, but underneath all of it—beneath the anger, the frustration, the raw fucking pain—is something worse.
Regret.
Because I left him locked in a fucking room with nothing but the promise that I’d come back. And when I did come back, I came back too late. Now he’s here, and he’s… I shake my head. Better.
He’s… better. Not just physically, though that part nearly fucking wrecked me too. He looks good, healthier and stronger, too, like he’s been looking after himself and eating well.
And I should be fucking glad about that. I should be relieved. But instead, all I can think about is the fact that it should’ve been me taking care of him. It should’ve been me making sure he was eating, sleeping, and feeling like he was worth something.
But I didn’t, and now, the first time I see him in five months, he looks at me like I’m nothing but a ghost.
I squeeze my eyes shut, pressing my fingers against my temples, trying to force down the emotions clawing their way up my throat.
I never proved myself to him. I never showed him that I loved him. I thought I did—I thought that bringing him into my world, keeping him close, protecting him the only way I knew how, was enough.
But it wasn’t. It never fucking was.
I grit my teeth, my nails digging into my palms. My father was right. You need to earn him back, lad.
And I will.
I push off the wall, grabbing my jacket, already knowing where I’m going. Malachi might’ve walked away from me today, but tonight, we’re going to fucking talk. Willow Bridge is quiet at night. The kind of quiet that isn’t real—just a thin layer stretched over something deeper, something more dangerous.
I know this place. I’ve walked these halls for years, played the game, worn the fucking crown they put on my head. But tonight, none of that means shit to me.
Tonight, I’m just a man walking toward the one person who has ever had the power to ruin him.
Malachi’s dorm is in a quieter part of campus, tucked away in one of the buildings meant for scholarship students, the ones with potential but without the right kind of bloodlines. Well, that’s what they want you to think; the Crowns know what this building represents. There are heirs here, too, but the protected ones.
Pisses me off because my boy should be next to me.
I step up to his door, staring at the number for a second longer than I should, my jaw tight. I raise my fist and knock.
Nothing.
I wait a beat, then knock again, harder this time.
Still nothing.
I breathe out and press my palm flat against the door, clenching my jaw. “Malachi.”
Silence.
I close my eyes, resting my forehead against the wood, trying to steady myself, trying to fucking breathe. “You can ignore me all you want, but we both know that’s not gonna make me leave.”
Still nothing.
I let out a sharp breath, shaking my head. “Fine.” I step back, flexing my fingers at my sides, trying to keep my emotions in check. “You wanna pretend like this is over? Like we don’t have unfinished fuckin’ business?”
I scoff, my head tilting slightly. “Alright. Then let’s talk about that ring.”
A beat of quiet. Then I hear movement. The shift of fabric.
I knew it.
I smirk, running my tongue over my teeth. “Yeah. That one.” I lean against the door again, my voice dropping even lower. “You left it for me.”
More silence, but I don’t stop.
“You could’ve tossed it, could’ve pretended it never meant anythin’ to you.” I let my hand press against the door again, like if I get close enough, I’ll feel him on the other side. “But you didn’t.”
I swallow hard, my pulse thick in my throat. “You didn’t let me go, Babyface. You just wanted me to prove that I wasn’t gonna let you go.”
A breath. A hesitation.
Then—soft footsteps and the lock clicks.
I suck in a breath as the door cracks open just enough for me to see him. Malachi stands there, one hand braced against the frame, the other still gripping the door like he’s not sure if he’s letting me in or shoving me away.
His eyes—those fucking eyes that always bring me to my knees—lock onto mine, and the air between us turns heavy, thick and charged with everything we haven’t said.
He doesn’t speak, so I do.
“I fucked up.”
His lips part slightly, his fingers twitching against the wood.
“I should’ve fought harder. I should’ve been better.” I step closer, just enough that I can see the way his throat bobs when he swallows. “And I will be. If you let me.”
His jaw tightens. “You can’t just show up and say that like it fixes everythin’.”
I nod, accepting that, accepting all of it. “I know.”
He stares at me, something flickering in his gaze, something wounded and raw and real. “Then why are you here?”
I press my hand against the doorframe, leaning in. “Because I don’t know how to fuckin’ breathe without you.”
His breath catches, and I see it. That crack. That tiny, almost invisible crack in his armor. I step even closer, my voice barely above a whisper now. “Let me in, Babyface.”
He hesitates, his grip on the door tightening. Then— slowly, so fucking slowly —he pushes it open, and I step inside.
The door closes behind me with a soft click, but it feels like a fucking gunshot.
Malachi steps ahead of me, moving toward his room without a word, his shoulders tense and his posture stiff. He doesn’t look back. Doesn’t give me anything. Just crosses the small living space and disappears into the bedroom, leaving the door cracked open.
I take a slow breath, steadying myself before following. His room is neat and organized in that meticulous way of his. The bed is made and the desk is stacked with books, papers, and notes written in his precise handwriting. There’s a mug on the nightstand, a half-burned candle beside it. It smells like coffee and something faintly warm—like vanilla, like home.
It’s his space, and I don’t fucking belong in it.
He turns, arms crossed, eyes locked on mine with that same sharp, unreadable expression he wore when he first saw me today. “Talk, Cunningham.”
I swallow hard, my pulse hammering against my ribs.
This is it.
I step further into the room, running a hand through my hair, trying to find the right place to start. But fuck, where do I start? How do I explain everything? How do I make him understand without it sounding like an excuse?
“I don’t even know where to fucking start.”
Malachi doesn’t react or offer me a lifeline. Just watches me, waiting.
I clench my jaw, rubbing a hand over my face. “You want the truth?” My voice is rough and uneven. “Fine. Here it is.”
I lift my gaze, meeting his head-on. “You already know who I am. Who my father is. But what you don’t know is what that means.” I step closer, my hands flexing at my sides. “The second I was born, my life was decided for me. I didn’t get to choose who I was gonna be, what I was gonna do, or where my life was gonna go. I was born a Crown—born to lead, to obey, to fuckin’ rule when the time comes. Every decision, every action, every fuckin’ breath I take is for my family and the Five Crowns.
“And when I get a mission—when the Crowns give an order—I don’t get to say no, Malachi.” My voice wavers and I take another step forward, my fists clenched. “There’s no choice. There’s never been a fuckin’ choice.”
Something bitter flickers in his expression. “Must be nice,” he murmurs. “Knowin’ exactly where you belong.”
The words hit me harder than they should and I shake my head. “It’s not like that.”
His eyes narrow slightly. “Then what is it like, Connor?”
I let out a rough breath, pushing a hand through my hair. “It’s like a fuckin’ weight.” My voice comes out ragged and raw. “It’s pressure, it’s expectations, it’s a life that isn’t mine to control. It’s knowin’ that if I put one foot out of line, if I make one wrong move, I’m not just fucked—I’m dead.”
I rake a hand over my jaw, exhaling sharply. “I know I should have handled it better,” I admit, my voice quieter now. “I should have told you what was goin’ on. I should have found a way to make you understand before I walked out that door. But I didn’t—because I didn’t know how. ”
Malachi’s lips press into a thin line. “And now?”
I take another step toward him, closing the distance until I’m right in front of him. “Now I know what it feels like to fuckin’ lose you.” My voice breaks on the last word, and I don’t care. I don’t care how fucking desperate I sound, how wrecked I look, how much I’m giving him right now.
Because I am desperate. Because I am wrecked.
I let out a shaky breath, staring down at him. “I almost fuckin’ died.”
His breath catches, barely a sound, but I hear it. For a second, just a second, his mask slips, and I see it. I see the fucking ache there, the same one I’ve been drowning in for months.
“I got stabbed. I was bleedin’ out thinkin’ I wasn’t gonna make it.” I let out a bitter laugh and shook my head. “And you know what I was thinkin’ while I was lyin’ there in my own fuckin’ blood?”
I close the distance and he steps back, his calves hitting the edge of his bed. “I wasn’t thinkin’ about the Crowns. I wasn’t thinking about my father, about my family or about the empire I was born to rule.” My throat tightens. “I was thinkin’ about you.”
Malachi lowers himself down onto the bed, his eyes still locked on mine.
“I was thinkin’ about how I left you behind,” I rasp. “How I never told you what you fuckin’ meant to me. How I was never comin’ back, and you’d never even know that I died loving you.”
He grips the edge of the bed like he needs something to ground himself when I drop to my knees in front of him, my hands bracing against his thighs.
“I love you, Malachi.” The words tear out of me like they’ve been caged too long. “And I didn’t fuckin’ know it until I lost you.”
His lips part, his fingers twitch, his chest rises and falls too fast. But he doesn’t move. He doesn’t push me away. “I’ve never had somethin’ to lose before,” I continue. “I’ve never had someone who meant more to me than the crown I wear. More than my fuckin’ legacy.”
I squeeze my eyes shut for a second, inhaling deeply. “And me just sayin’ that—just admittin’ that out loud—would brand me as a traitor.” I force myself to look at him again, my throat tight. “It would get me killed.”
His jaw clenches. “You don’t mean that.”
I let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “You think I don’t?”
He doesn’t answer and I drop my voice lower, leaning in. “You think if I had to choose between you and this fuckin’ world, I wouldn’t burn it all down for you?”
His fingers twitch against his knee, and I don’t miss the way his breathing stutters. But he still doesn’t say anything. I lift one of my hands, pressing it lightly against the side of his neck, feeling the unsteady pulse beneath his skin.
“I fucked up,” I whisper, my thumb brushing against his cheek. “I failed you, mo stóirín . I should have been better. And I realize now that I don’t even deserve you. But that doesn’t mean I’m not gonna fuckin’ fight for you.”
His whole body is stiff like he’s bracing for something. Like he’s fighting himself as much as he’s fighting me. I move even closer, so fucking close our noses almost brush.
“I love you, Malachi,” I murmur, my thumb brushing his jaw. “Tell me I haven’t lost you for good.”
He swallows hard. “Connor...”
My hand tightens slightly. “Tell me.”
His lips part and his body tenses beneath my touch, his breath shaky. I lean in closer, pressing my forehead against his, my own breath uneven. “Baby,” I whisper, the word slipping out like a plea.
His eyes squeeze shut, and for a second, I think he’s going to push me away, but he doesn’t. He just sits there, his hands curled into fists, his breathing rough, his body trembling slightly.
I press my lips against his temple, lingering there, breathing him in, grounding myself in the fact that he’s here. That he’s not pushing me out of his life completely.
Not yet.
I know I still have to prove myself. I know I still have to earn him back.
But I will.
No matter what it takes, I’ll get my boy back.