Page 23 of The Heir's Defiance

“The crates?” Killian narrows his eyes at my oldest brother—our Chief—and I await his answer too.

“Take one. Burn the rest.” Ronan leans both hands on the table, knuckles whitening against the grain. His voice is calm, but his posture isn't. He’s already made the call in his head. What he’s giving me is an order wrapped in a warning.

I nod. The plan is clean—harsh, but clean. Nothing that leads back to us. Nothing the Russians can prove without admitting their own overstep.

One of the lieutenants—a younger one, new to our table—shifts in his seat. “And what if it's bait? What if they’re waiting?”

“Then Connor handles it,” Ronan says without looking at me. “It’s what he’s for.”

There’s a tension in the room that doesn’t ease after the plan’s laid out. Ronan starts folding the map with practiced care. His movements are controlled, each crease pressed flat with the edge of his palm, and it’s then that I feel the shift.

His eyes flick to me. “You’ve been hard to reach lately.” I don’t answer. “Phone goes unanswered. Messages delayed. Late nights. Early mornings.”

Still, I say nothing.

Ronan doesn’t let it go. He slams the flat of his hand against the table, loud enough to jolt the young lieutenant in his chair. “If you can’t keep your head in this, I’ll find someone who can. Whatever this distraction is, it ends. I’m not cleaning up your mess when it spills over into our ports, Connor.”

He holds my gaze, waiting for me to flinch. I don’t, but I feel the heat crawl up my spine.

Ronan has every right to be furious. I’m jeopardizing my position in this family over a woman who belongs to the other side. If Ronan dies before his son is old enough to take the seat, it’s me. And I’m risking it all. Every late night, every missed call, every look I give Nora—he sees it for what it is. A liability.

And he’s right. If I keep this up, I won’t just lose his trust. I’ll lose the future my father planned for this family.

“Get it done,” he says. “And stop making me wait."

When the meeting breaks, the others scatter. Only Ronan stays behind. He moves to the window, lifts the curtain with two fingers, and watches our guys' feet pass on the gravel drive without saying anything. His stance is rigid, jaw set. He’s still thinking about the meeting—or maybe about me.

“Don’t forget who you are,” he says, voice low. “And don’t mistake my silence for trust.”

I square my shoulders and say, “You don’t need to worry. I’ll handle it.”

Ronan doesn’t turn from the window, but I see his head tilt slightly. I leave the basement through the rear stairwell and headtoward the south wing of Ronan's house, where the armory is tucked behind reinforced doors just off his office.

The temperature drops a few degrees as I enter. Cabinets line the walls, each one labeled and locked. The room is quiet and squared away. It’s one of the few spaces in the estate where my job is clear. The choices aren’t softened by family politics or personal cost—they’re lined up, loaded, and ready to be carried out.

I pull open the first cabinet and check the magazines, counting rounds like prayer beads. My vest’s already laid out. The Glock is cleaned, the suppressor already fitted in place. I holster the sidearm and cinch the shoulder strap until it bites.

The overhead lights cast a harsh glare across the floor. I squint and adjust, eyes narrowing against the white wash of it. I exhale through my nose and press a hand to the concrete wall, grounding myself. It doesn’t help.

Nora’s face flashes behind my eyes—face framed by her dark hair, parted lips, that sharp, defiant stare that dares me to reach for her. My jaw clenches.

I don’t just want her. I Like her. The way she thinks, the way she moves, the silence between her words. I feel more settled around her than I have felt on my own in months, maybe years. It should make this easier, but it doesn’t. She’s a Fitzpatrick. That name alone should be enough to keep me clear. But Ronan knows something is going on. He didn’t have to name her for me to know what he meant.

He wants me to back off.

But I don’t know how to want her less.

I strap the rifle into place and slide the backup blade into my boot. She hates her father, but she still wears the Fitzpatrick name. And if this war keeps inching forward, she’ll be standing on the wrong side of it.

I tighten the Velcro across my chest, but my thoughts don’t shift the way they’re supposed to. Ronan says she’s a distraction. Maybe she is. But I don’t want to let her go. I don’t just want her—I need her. She’s sharp, grounded, stubborn as hell. Better than anything I’ve ever had and probably better than anything I’ll get. And now she’s not just in my head—she’s in my path.

I tell myself I won’t let her get in the way of the job. I won’t let her pull me off course. But I won’t give her up, either. Even if Ronan orders it.

I lock the last strap into place, shut the cabinet, and turn to go. Killian and the others will be waiting. It’s time to intercept the crates.

14

NORA

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