Page 17 of The Heir's Defiance

"You walking out already?" Callum asks.

"I did what I came to do." I turn to head toward the door but don't get far.

He laughs again, but there’s less humor in it now. "You got a death wish or just a hard-on for my sister?" Callum’s voice cuts through the air, and I turn slowly.

He stands and moves toward me, hands fisted at his sides. I can't help but wonder if he, like me, snuck a weapon in. I could be staring down the barrel of a weapon any second.

"You watching her at the memorial like that wasn’t going to reach me?" I don’t answer. He steps closer. "You make eyes at Nora like she’s some waitress in neutral territory? That’s not just disrespect, O’Rourke. That’s provocation."

Still, I say nothing. He steps in without warning and swings. The punch lands squarely on the left side of my jaw, snapping my head with enough force to spike pain through my teeth and neck. I take half a step back, blood rising in my mouth, then drive forward and return the hit.

We crash through the door into the alley where it's dark. My elbow catches his rib as his knee connects with my thigh. It’s a tangle of limbs and fists. Every blow lands from instinct, not form. He grabs my collar and slams me into the brick, again and again, until I break his grip with a twist and hit back, pinning him against the wall.

My forearm presses against his throat, just hard enough to drop his breath into his chest. "You think I came here to start something? I came to give your crew a reason to stand down. Don’t make me regret it."

He coughs when I release him, spits to the side, then wipes his lip like he's the one bleeding while the coppery taste of blood on my tongue reveals who really got injured.

"Stay away from her," he growls, but I have no intention of keeping that order.

I wipe the blood from my lip. "Tell her that."

He flinches, but he doesn't come at me again. We stare at each other under the humming light overhead that barely lets me see the glare on his face. His men stand near the door, and if they had guns, I'm sure they'd have them out right now.

"That’s what I thought," I tell him when he scowls and takes a step backward.

I stalk back to the car without looking over my shoulder. Killian sees the torn shirt, the busted lip, but says nothing. He pulls the door open. I slide in, breath slowing, heart steady.

We didn’t agree to anything. But something shifted in that room.

We may have just opened a door no one can close.

10

NORA

The greenhouse is still humid when I return, though the sun has already begun to fade behind the hedges. The heat clings to the glass panes like sweat. Most of the plants are overgrown, crawling past the boundaries of their pots, leaves heavy with moisture and disuse. Orla’s been told to keep it up, but I doubt she ever comes back here. No one does except me.

I tug the door closed behind me, then reach for the secateurs hanging on the hook beside the doorframe. The rosemary needs trimming again, and the bellflowers are strangling the roots of something I don’t recognize anymore. There’s comfort in pruning what’s grown wild. At least here, I can decide what stays and what gets cut.

The meeting went long. My father’s men spoke in circles for two hours—maps, names, movements, whispers of Russian interest bleeding through the docks again. They think they’re being clever, but they’re just stalling. None of them want to admit they’re scared.

I wipe the sweat from my upper lip and cut away a clump of browned stems. The silence feels earned. I could stay here another hour, lose myself in the rhythm of small blades and simpler choices, but if I did, Da would have my neck. I've been made acutely aware that I'm no longer my own person. I am a tool in his hand, whether or not I like it. It might not be forced marriage, but it isn't what I want.

I leave the greenhouse after allowing my stress to fizzle out. By the time I make it back to the house, the halls have cooled. The lights are already dimmed. My heels click softly against the runner. Upstairs, the door to my room is cracked.

That’s new.

I push it open gently and a bouquet sits on the edge of the desk like it’s always belonged there. Roses and hawthorn—out of season, out of place. There’s no tag, no ribbon, no card tucked between the stems. But I know exactly who left it. And I know exactly what it means. It brings a smile to my lips as I lightly touch the petals and think of his breath across my skin.

The hawthorn gives it away. No florist in Dublin would bother pairing it with roses this late in the year. And no one in this house would dare leave it here without asking to enter my room. I just don't know how he got in here or why he risked it. Perhaps he paid someone—which is that much more dangerous, given how my father would react to a man inside his home being paid by an enemy.

My pulse rises in nervous excitement—not fear, but something sharp enough to make my fingers tremble slightly as I reach for the vase. The stems are fresh, probably cut this morning.

Connor O’Rourke doesn’t leave notes. He leaves hints, and I like where this one is going.

I carry the bouquet into the bathroom and slide it behind the linen cupboard, well out of sight. My father won’t miss what he doesn’t know to look for, and I will continue to enjoy the fragrant scent of the roses for as long as they stay fresh.

The moment I step back into the room, I hear Da's voice in the hall. Heavy footsteps. A scrape of his knuckle against the molding before he enters without knocking.

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