Page 37 of The Heir's Defiance

I crouch low, arms wrapped around my knees. "He’s pressuring me harder now. Said next time I see you, it had better not be for pleasure. That if I’m in your bed, I should be in your head too—digging for intel, worming out secrets. He wants proof that you’re compromised. He thinks if I push the right way, you’ll fold."

He doesn’t answer right away, and when he does, his voice is quieter. "That’s what Ronan meant. When he warned me."

"Your brother warned you? About what?" I feel my body tensing as my awareness heightens. If they're playing their side and Da is pushing me to play our side, it's only a matter of time before the bomb detonates.

"Told me you might be bait. Said I’d be a fool to believe it was real."

I close my eyes and rub my face with one hand. "It is real, Connor. You know that, right? What I said—that I'm falling in love…" I heave a sigh of tension and wish it would remove the weight on my shoulders. "I meant it."

Connor pauses for a moment, and I feel tears welling up. He has to believe me. I'd never play him. Never in my lifetime could I be the slutty spy that spreads her legs and sucks a man's soul through his balls. But when he doesn't respond, I push. I have to. If I'm going to keep Da off his heels for a while longer, I need something better.

"What you gave me before—he says it’s not enough. He says if I’m already sleeping with you, then I should at least get something valuable out of it."

"You’re not a tool, Nora." The crackle in the line masks the quaver in his tone, but not entirely. He's furious and I can tell he hates my da. If the two were alone in a dark alley, I'd be buying a new black dress for a funeral.

"He thinks I am," I say quietly, and then I don't speak. The silence stretches again, and this time, it's pregnant with Connor's anger. I know he may never say the words, but he lovesme. He's taking these risks and trying to help me, and it isn't for nothing. I have to show up for him too.

"He’s trying to set me up with someone else," I say finally. "Another Russian. Some new arrangement. Pyotr Vetrov is his name, and it’s happening soon." The prickling sensation that has been inside my brain as anxiety now needles its way across my arms and legs in goosebumps.

"Then go along with it," he says matter-of-factly.

I jerk upright. "What?"

"Keep your head down. Do what you have to. I’m not worried." Suddenly, his voice is calmer, right when mine leaps an octave.

"How can you say that?" The tears practically shoot from my eyes like fireworks. He can't think I want to marry someone else, especially not a Russian.

"I have a plan."

"That doesn’t make me feel better…" I want to tell him what a fool he is, how he's acting like an asshole, but I hold my tongue as he starts to speak again.

"It should. I’m not losing you. Not like this." This time, it's him sighing. "I told you you're mine, Nora, and I meant it. Just go along with the plan and keep your head down. Do you hear me? If you want to get through this and be on the other side in my arms, you do what I tell you."

I don’t know how to answer that. I stare out over the treetops with his words crushing my chest. I wipe tears from my cheeks, sniffle to avoid a dripping nose, and cover my face with one hand. "I’m scared, Connor."

"I’m not. That’s why we’ll win, okay, baby?"

The sky starts to cry with me, large, sloppy raindrops threatening to make my hair entirely impossible to style, and I whisper, "I have to go. I love you." And I end the call without waiting for a response because I know he isn't ready to say it yet. Then I sit there a little longer, the phone warm in my palm, the wind scraping at my skin. I wish I believed him completely, but all I can do is hope he knows what he's doing.

21

CONNOR

Ronan’s office is colder than it should be for a late morning in October. He keeps the windows closed and the fireplace empty. The fog clings wetly to the glass causing condensation, and if it were any colder outside it would be frost on the window, not moisture.

I stand near the bookshelf with my arms crossed. Ronan paces in front of me, shoulders rigid, jaw set hard enough to crack. His expression isn't just dark—it’s the kind of inky black that hollows a man out.

"The Russians are asking questions they weren’t asking a week ago," Killian says. His voice is tight. He’s seated near the corner with his legs spread like he owns the room.

"Because they weren’t desperate yet," Ronan replies. He flips through a file. "Volkov’s pushing because we’ve held the line at the docks. But the Fitzpatricks haven’t struck back since the memorial."

Killian adds, "They’re circling. Sniffing for the weaker beast." His gaze flicks over to me, and I scowl at him because he's right.Volkov wants this to escalate so he can play God, but something tells me he's ready to hand out any tool necessary to either family just to watch us destroy each other.

Ronan looks at me. "And they still don’t know which side that is."

I hold his stare. "That won’t last."

"No. It won’t," he agrees. "That’s why we don’t make the first move. Let the Fitzpatricks sweat. Let the Russians get twitchy. They’ll pick us when they see we’re still standing while the others scramble."

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