Page 33 of The Heir's Defiance

"Nora." Connor's voice is low. He’s not pushing, just asking. “Can I come in?”

I don’t answer right away. My hand trembles as I reach back and twist the lock. The door creaks open, and he slips inside, closing it behind himself and locking it again.

There is no pretense now, no performance left between us. Connor walks straight to me and wraps his arms around my waist like he’s afraid I’ll shatter if he doesn’t hold tight enough. My hands find his shoulders, then the back of his neck. I bury my face in the space between his jaw and his collar and let the tears fall. He doesn’t ask me to explain. He just presses a kiss to my temple, then to my cheekbone, chasing every tear with his lips as if he can erase what put them there.

"You don’t have to be strong for me," he murmurs against my skin. "Hey, shh, it's okay. We're gonna get through this."

"No, we're not. They're going to hurt you and they're going to make me marry some pig like Volkov." The emotions are too much for me to handle. I sob against his chest and he soothes the ache inside me.

"I'm not letting that happen, baby. I give you my word. They will have to pry my last breath out of my cold, dead lungs before that happens." He grips both sides of my head tightly and forces me to look up at his eyes. "Do you understand? You're mine now."

I nod and sniffle, and my only reaction is to rise up and kiss him. It sets a fire inside me to see him fight for me like this, and I draw strength from my body being connected to his. I need him to anchor me. I need him to hold me close and make this moment real, seal it between us like a blood oath.

He’s defying his orders, and so am I, and it scares the fuck out of me, but I won’t cave to my family pressuring me. I kiss Connor harder just to spite my father, and he returns it with equal fervor.

Connor's lips are possessive, demanding, erasing any hesitation I might have clung to. His hands roam over my back, dragging me closer, and I feel the hard press of him against my thigh. He's hard for me, in this bathroom stall a whisper away from where my father's men could walk in on us. It should terrify me—should make me pull away—but instead, it feels like exactly what I need.

I tear my mouth from his, gasping for air. "We can't." I don't know who I'm trying to convince—him or myself.

"Christ, Nora." His voice is gruff, hands tangled in my hair as he tugs my face back to his. His eyes blaze with something like fever, like I set him on fire and he doesn't even care if itconsumes him. “Don’t make me stop,” he breathes, and my leg rises to wrap around his without my permission.

Connor hoists me up to the counter in one movement, perching me there so I’m forced to cling to him. His lips claim mine again in a heated kiss, and I grab the lapels of his expensive suit for balance. He works my skirt up around my hips, then reaches between my legs to undo his belt buckle and pull his cock out.

"Connor," I moan, arching my back as he pushes my panties to the side and slides a finger inside me. He's right. I don't want him to stop. I don't want this moment to end because I know once it does, we'll be dragged back into the war zone we find ourselves trapped in, and this… this connection we found in the chaos will be nothing more than a memory we both hold dearly to our hearts.

He growls softly as he senses my walls crumbling down, his other hand gripping my thigh tightly as if he's trying to hold himself back. "Feck, Nora, I need to be inside you." His words are punctuated with each brush of his thumb against my clit, making me jolt and twitch.

Connor's lips crash into mine again, his tongue invading my mouth with a hunger that matches mine. With one swift motion, he enters me, filling me completely. The hot, delicious pressure sends a wave of pleasure through my entire body, causing me to moan into his mouth.

His thrusts are urgent, desperate, our bodies slamming together as if this were our last chance to feel each other's warmth. Each thrust is electric and shocking, and I wish we had time to savor the moment.

Connor's hands grip my thighs, lifting me up to meet each of his desperate thrusts as he pounds into me. His mouth is everywhere, his teeth grazing my neck and the curve of my jaw. I bite down on my lower lip to stifle a moan that threatens to escape my lips, but the only sound that emerges is a whimper as the pleasure builds inside me, coiling tighter and tighter in anticipation of release.

He angles his hips just so, hitting that sweet spot in me, and it sends me over the edge, crying out his name as my orgasm crashes over me. The walls of my core spasm around his length, milking him as he groans out a curse word and buries himself deep inside me before going stiff and slowing his thrusts.

His eyes roll back, his jaw drops, and I feel the heat of his release as he floods me.

We return to the table separately, smoothing our appearances like nothing happened. Connor walks ahead of me, his hands loose at his sides, but I know better. He’s holding everything in.

I wait thirty seconds, enough to pretend I just stopped by the restroom and that I didn't lose myself in the only person who’s ever made me feel safe in this war. We sit down calmly and pick up the conversation where we left off.

Connor orders coffee without looking at me. I sit, straighten my silverware, and fix the curl that’s fallen against my cheek. The silence between us is softer now. He knows I’m with him. I know he’s still fighting for us.

I reach for my water, eyes on the table. “We have to find a way to survive this.”

He glances at me, then nods once. “We will.”

19

CONNOR

Dark walnut paneling stretches from floor to ceiling in my brother's study, interrupted only by brass sconces that throw long shadows across the worn carpet. The table's been polished but not perfectly. Cigarette burns and water stains remain, etched into the wood like scars that never healed. The past never really leaves this room—it watches from the corners like a ghost ready to haunt you.

Ronan sits at the head of the table, the picture of composed authority. His shoulders square under a tailored charcoal jacket, his hands loose on the table top, but I can see the tension in them. Every so often, one finger moves, the smallest twitch, like he’s keeping time with a clock only he hears. I sit to his right, one chair removed. It’s a calculated distance—visible loyalty without the implication of command.

Across from us, Seamus Fitzpatrick settles in with the quiet confidence of a man who believes the war is already won. His suit is flawless, his tie a deep, blood red. Next to him, Callum throws himself into the chair like it belongs to him. With one boot hooked around the leg, an elbow over the back, he takes upmore space than necessary. His folder rests untouched on the table, a prop waiting for the right moment.

The silence stretches long enough to become its own form of dominance. No one breaks it. Not until Ronan chooses to.

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