Page 10 of The Heir's Defiance

"Sometimes, I think I could’ve studied abroad," I say. "Gotten out before my father arranged for me to marry Volkov. I had one application halfway filled out before Da found it. He didn’t speak to me for a week. When he finally did, he asked me who I thought I was."

Connor watches me with an unreadable expression, and I sigh and let my head drop. "I used to think I’d end up working with horses. There was this stable just outside Wicklow. I volunteered there one summer before Ronan pulled me into the business. For a little while, I thought I could stay there. But the world has a way of forcing you back."

I take a long sip from my glass and set it down carefully. "Yeah. It does."

Connor shifts in his seat a little closer, like the space between us suddenly feels unnecessary. His eyes flick to mine, where they linger as he studies me. He seems steady, grounded in the moment, but there’s something else in his expression too.

I lean forward slightly, elbow resting on the edge of the table. I don’t mean it as a signal, but his gaze follows the movement.

“I don’t talk like this with anyone,” I tell him. “Not my brothers. Not anyone in my family.”

“Me neither,” he replies. His voice is just a gravelly scratch I can barely hear. “That’s the thing about people like us. The whole world wants performance from us, not to hear what we feel.”

My head dips in a slow nod, and I look up at him through my lashes. There’s a warmth spreading through my chest and it has nothing to do with the scotch. It’s him—his presence, the strange safety I feel here with him. It's like I'm being sucked into his gravity, and I don't even try to resist it.

He runs a hand along the back of his neck and then rests it on the table, fingers inches from mine. “You’re easy to talk to,” he says. It’s not a line. He's just being honest, and it lands heavier because of how real he's being with me.

“You’re not what I expected,” I say. One shoulder bobs as I lean farther over the table, wetting my lips. My core pulses with warmth, and my hands feel sweaty. It's almost like the moment is supercharged with static, waiting for the spark when we touch.

“What did you expect?” Connor lifts one corner of his mouth in a wry smirk.

I hesitate. “Someone harder. Someone who’d look at me like I’m a threat. You know, a bad boy."

His mouth lifts just slightly. “Maybe you are.”

"What?" I ask, confused. I narrow my eyebrows and he leans in farther.

"A threat…" His breath dusts my face lightly. He smells like the whiskey he's been drinking, and I breathe him in hoping he doesn't back away.

“And maybe you like that.” I swallow hard, examining every inflection of his face as he gets so close I swear he could bite me.

The silence between us tightens, but not in a bad way. It hums with electric charge that threatens to consume us both. I lean in a little more. So does he. The kiss is slow at first—exploratory, like we're both checking to see whether this is real.

His hand brushes mine before he grabs it outright and pulls me gently to my feet. My chair scrapes softly against the floor as I rise, heart pounding. He doesn’t let go. Instead, he guides me around the table, his eyes never leaving mine.

When I reach his side, he pulls me close, his hand finding my hip. I brace one hand on his shoulder, the other slipping instinctively to the back of his neck as our mouths meet for a second time.

It’s messier this time—hungrier. The kind of kiss you feel in your ribs, where breathing becomes optional. I lower onto his lap, straddling him, and let his hands greedily search my back and sides.

When we finally break apart, our breathing is ragged. Our lips are swollen, our faces flushed. We stay close, foreheads nearly touching, the heat between us refusing to fade. Neither of us speaks right away. We just sit there, glued to each other, both reluctant to let reality come crashing in.

"What are we doing?" I ask, breathless.

"How the feck am I supposed to know?" Connor asks, eyes bouncing from my lips and up to meet my gaze. His hands rest on my hips and pull me down hard. I feel him swelling, and it makes me want to do so many bad things. But my hands splay on his chest, press lightly, and he loosens his grip. "I could drive you home," he offers.

"And let my father see?" I chuckle softly, lean down and kiss him again, nipping his lower lip, then smile and lean back.

He reaches for my hand again, but I pull back slightly and shake my head. “If they saw me getting out of your car… they’d bury us both.”

Connor’s smile fades, replaced by something quieter. He nods once. “Yeah,” he says. “You’re right.”

I hate how true it is. And I hate that I mean it. Because right now, I really, really like this man who is supposed to be entirely off-limits, and I'm going to have a hell of a time convincing my heart not to want him.

7

CONNOR

The yard’s quieter than usual, just the low pulse of machinery and a few voices carrying over the stacks. A truck backs into the far lane and one of the operators waves it into position. No one stops me when I walk through. They’ve seen me before—not often, but enough.

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