Page 18 of The Heir's Defiance

He never knocks.

His eyes sweep the room the way they always do, like he’s walking into a briefing, not his daughter’s bedroom. He doesn’t glance at the closet or the bed. His gaze lands on me and stays there.

"Callum says O’Rourke couldn’t keep his eyes off you," he says. I don’t answer. There’s nothing on my face to give him a reason to keep talking, but he does anyway. "At the memorial… Calm as a corpse, that one. Not like his brother. Too still. Makes you wonder."

I cross to the dresser and pretend to sift through a stack of folded scarves. Anything to avoid meeting his eyes. "Maybe he’s just better trained," I offer casually, because I know why Connor couldn't keep his eyes off me now. And I have to keep my back to my father to keep him from seeing the smile I try to hide.

"No," he says. "Men like him don’t do anything without intent. If he’s calm, it’s because he’s holding something back." He steps farther into the room, and the weight of him fills the space. "Is there something between you two?"

The question is expected, but it still hits with the weight of a sledgehammer on my chest. I turn toward him slowly. "Of course not." My hands are sweaty and they shake, so I fold them carefully in front of myself as I turn to face him.

He watches me with that same half-lidded stare he’s used since I was twelve. It used to make me stammer. Now it just makes me annoyed.

"Connor O’Rourke spoke nothing but formalities," I say. "He didn’t even look directly at me."

"That’s not what Callum saw." Da's lips purse in a glare as his eyes narrow further. I'm suddenly boiling hot, wanting to tie my hair up and sit on the roof outside my window.

"Then maybe Callum’s seeing ghosts," I reply, keeping my tone even. "There was nothing between us but distance."

He narrows his eyes. "You’re sure about that?"

I don’t let my expression shift. "I know when a man’s trying to make eyes at me, Da. Connor is a soldier trained to pay attention to things that stand out, and you sent a woman to do your job." The jab lands.

It sits in the air for a moment. Then he sniffs once and adjusts the cuff of his sleeve, the way he does when he’s trying not to look embarrassed. Or when he is disappointed and wants me to know.

"If he is trying something," he says, "we’ll know soon enough."

I nod once, but I can tell by the way his gaze lingers that he doesn’t buy it. Not entirely. He doesn’t say anything else—not directly. Instead, he moves to the window, stares out as if considering something bigger than me, then turns back.

"If he’s even half-interested," he says, quieter now, "we’re going to use it. You’ll make yourself useful, one way or another."

The shift in his tone is worse than shouting. This is the voice he uses when he’s already decided. When I’ve already lost the argument.

"Names. Weaknesses. Schedules. I don’t care how you get them," he adds. "If he’s looking your way, you’ll give him something to keep looking at. And when he’s close enough, we’ll pull what we need."

I keep my face still, give him the nod he wants. I stand there for a moment, frozen. Part of me wants to scream. Part of me wants to cry. But most of me just wants to burn something. He didn’t yell, didn’t curse, didn’t lay hands on me—and somehow, that makes it worse. It’s the calm that unsettles me. The way he spoke like I was already on the table, already traded, already in the net.

He doesn’t wait for a response from me. His shoes scuff against the hardwood as he turns and opens the door with too much force, lets it swing wide, then slams it behind him with just enough restraint to keep it from sounding like a threat. The sound still makes my jaw clench.

I could do what he wants. Smile pretty, gather details, serve up the O’Rourkes on a polished plate. I could do it all. But I won’t. Not like that. I'm not his fucking pawn. I'm a person with feelings and desires.

I cross the room and sit on the edge of the bed, phone clutched tightly in both hands. My thumbs hover over the screen, but I don’t type yet. I think of Connor’s face the night he found me on the patio. The way he watched me—not like an enemy, not like a threat, but like he was interested.

What would he say if he knew my father planned to use me to gut him from the inside out? Would he laugh? Walk away? Pull me closer just to see how deep the knife goes?

I stare at the empty text box, my pulse hammering too fast. If I send this, I’m not just reaching out—I’m stepping into the crossfire with no one behind me. But I want to see him. Not for strategy. Not for Da's orders. For me.

I type the words.

Nora 8:17 PM: We need to meet.

Then I hitSendand watch the screen go dark in my palm.

11

CONNOR

The warehouse crouches in the darkness, tucked behind a line of shuttered storefronts near the Liffey. The windows are gone, smashed out years ago. Wind cuts through the broken window panes and rattles what’s left of the frames. This place used to be neutral ground back when the city still believed in rules. Now it’s just rot and dust, and I don't even know if anyone even remembers it exists.

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