Page 29 of The Heir's Defiance

"I'm not a trained operative, Da." My voice cracks a little, and I inch backward toward the hallway. His men stare at me like bloodthirsty animals waiting for me to break a sweat.

"You're a woman. Use your wiles. Now…" he says, straightening. He smooths his tie down his chest, around his belly, and sucks in a tight breath. "You'll arrange dinner with him. I know you've been sneaking out to see him anyway."

Da's eyes narrow and rake up and down my body like I'm being judged. "You went shopping? I hope you bought something nice. You can wear it to dinner. Seduce him. Make him tell you what his family knows about us." His eyes are shifty, darting a back and forth from me to the bags. I can't believe he would ask me to seduce Connor. Does he think I'd actually do that if it were any other person? I'm not his weapon.

He leans back slightly, hand curling around the empty glass like it's still full. “You can handle that, can’t you? Or did you forget how to make a man think he’s winning?”

“What do you think I am?” I say too loudly. “You want me to lie down for him? Smile sweetly, open my legs, and see what slips out of his mouth?”

The room shifts. One of the advisors coughs into his fist, suddenly very interested in the floor. My father doesn’t move. His silence is colder than rage. “I asked you to be smart,” he says finally. “You want to make this about pride? Fine. But rememberwho keeps you safe. Remember who made you worth anything at all.”

I want to say more—ask him what part of this still feels like family. Ask him if this is what he pictured for me when I was eight years old and playing dress-up in Mum's heels. I want to remind him that I'm not some blunt instrument he gets to point and swing. But none of that would land. He wouldn't hear it. Not when he's already decided I'm only useful when I'm quiet and compliant.

“And this time,” he adds, “don’t come back empty-handed.”

The bag handles cut into my skin. I adjust them just to keep my hands from shaking.

That’s all he gives me. No sign that he sees anything human standing in front of him. Just an order, like I’m one of his lieutenants who got too comfortable forgetting my place.

I turn on my heel and blink back tears of anger as I climb the stairs toward my room. I don't know how I'd feel about these orders if I weren't already sleeping with Connor, but that stopped mattering weeks ago. The line got crossed, and we both stepped over it without blinking. What we are now—whatever this is—doesn't fit cleanly into anyone's plans.

I don’t know what he’ll think when I tell him. If I tell him. Part of me wants to play it off like I’m in control, like I’m just keeping tabs on both sides. But that’s not what this is. He’s not a mark. And I’m not pretending when I touch him.

He’ll see through it. And the worst part is, he might still let me close anyway.

Upstairs, I shove the bags into the closet without looking at them. Half of it was for show, anyway. To prove I can still play the part. Smile, nod, shop. Blend. I pull the door shut and lean against it, but the ache in my spine stays rooted.

Shopping was supposed to help. A few hours with Ciara, a few jokes, some fabric between my fingers—anything to carve out a space where I wasn't thinking about the man I shot. But the silence catches up fast, louder than the laughter ever was. I can still feel the recoil in my hands. Still see the way he dropped.

It plays behind my eyes every time I blink. The slope of his shoulders. The sickening thud when his skull dropped to the concrete.

I didn't do it for Da. I didn't even do it for the cause. I did it for Connor.

And now I can't sleep. I can't breathe right. I can't keep pretending I haven't crossed the line too far to crawl back.

I need to see it. Because if I see it with my own eyes, it will remove the image from my thoughts. Or at least it will remove the false images from my mind, the ones where I'm agonizing over his blood on my hands.

The surveillance logs are stored in the old archive room. It used to be a guest suite before my father gutted it for his purposes—rows of locked drawers, dusty shelves, and cold air that never circulates. The door sticks when I pull it open, hinges warped by moisture. I wedge it shut behind me and power on the monitor.

There are five camera feeds from the North Docks. I cue the one marked14B. The footage jitters. I scan through a full hour of nothing—just idle dockhands, shifting shadows, a delivery van that never turns off its headlights. Then I find it. The timestampshows three nights ago. I stop the scroll and go back ten seconds to make sure.

I watch the shapes move across the frame. Connor is there—a flash of his coat, the familiar set of his shoulders as he ducks behind a container. Then the others follow.

I already know which man I killed. It's like watching a horror movie you've already seen so you know what's coming. Frame by frame, I track the moment his arm lifts, the angle of his weapon, the way his weight shifts.

The flash from the rooftop is small, almost imperceptible. But the impact is clear.

He drops.

I watch it three times.

He had a name—Eirrwen. My cousin’s friend. He used to sneak cigarettes off the south wall and brag about someday running his own crew. He gave me a lighter once, just to see if I’d keep it. I did.

I don’t cry. I don’t flinch. I just stare at the screen like that will make it hurt less. But the ache isn't in my eyes. It's in my ribs, pressing down so tightly, I can’t breathe right. I thought watching it would quiet the noise. It doesn’t. If anything, it sharpens it. Every frame is a knife I turned willingly. And the worst part is—I’d do it again.

17

CONNOR

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