Page 39 of The Heir's Defiance

He doesn’t believe me, and I don’t blame him. He has no reason to. He stands, slings a rifle over his shoulder, and passes me. At the door, he stops. "She'd better be worth it," he grumbles, then he leaves.

I stay in the cellar. The cold settles deep. I open a drawer, take out a cleaned gun, and check the action. It doesn’t need checking. I just need something to do.

Ronan’s right. Killian’s right.

If Nora turns on me, it won’t end with me. It will end with a bloodbath between two families that will see everyone we both love destroyed, and the Russians will laugh while they drink our blood and parade in our streets.

I won't let that happen.

22

NORA

The front door is halfway open. One more step and I’d be outside, into the car, on my way to Connor. I rehearsed it in my head—the timing, the tone, the story I’d feed the men stationed out front. Every word shaped to deflect suspicion. Every second accounted for.

But none of it matters as my father's hand clamps down on my elbow and everything stalls. The breath I was holding escapes in one sharp exhale. I’m supposed to be playing both sides—reporting to Da, deceiving Connor, surviving them both. But the closer I get to the truth, the harder it becomes to pretend.

I told myself I could control this, that I could outpace whatever trap my father is building, but I was wrong. He’s already lit the fuse. All I can do now is run straight into the fire and hope Connor’s still waiting on the other side.

"Where the hell are you going?" he growls, and it makes my heart leap into my throat. His fingers dig through the fabric of my coat with enough force to leave a mark, I'm sure.

"To meet with the O'Rourkes," I say. I'm trembling. I've seen what my father does to people who cross him, and if he knew this meeting was strictly so I could get comfort from Connor and nothing to do with getting him the information he wants, he'd lock me in my room or something worse.

"And I told you to get the payoff." He yanks me back and slams the door shut behind me. "We've let this run long enough. If you don't have something tangible, he dies. We'll dress it up like the Russians did it."

I keep my chin up, but my throat tightens until it feels hard to swallow. I meet his eyes even though every instinct tells me to look away. "You think the O'Rourkes won’t see through it the second it happens?" It's brave to look him in the eye and speak like this, but if I don't, he will never respect me.

"They won’t be in a position to prove it," he says, tightening his grip until I wince. He leans in just enough to make sure I can't look away. "Get what we need or you’re out and he dies. That’s the deal."

I don’t argue because there's never been any point in arguing against him with this. I've burned all my get out of jail free cards thanks to Artur Volkov. Da's hand releases, and I pull my coat tighter around me like it’ll hold my ribs in place. Outside, headlights sweep the front drive. The two-man escort is annoying as hell, but he'll never let me go without them.

Liam is not among them. These two are younger, quieter—strangers. They open the door without speaking. One gestures to the car.

The silence in the vehicle feels planned. Every pothole jars my body and makes me rethink this. With Da's goons following mearound, I feel afraid every single second is a setup, like he may be pushing me here only for one of his soldiers to kill Connor.

When we reach the safehouse in Wicklow, they park out of sight behind the building. They know better than to ask questions. They're not here to protect me or watch my back—they're here to make sure I follow orders and don’t run. One wrong word, one wrong turn, and I’m not sure they wouldn’t drag me back by the hair. Or worse. They stay in the car, engines off, faces blank. Just enough spite to remind me that I’m still on a leash.

I step inside, shrugging out of my coat, fingers stiff and cold from the ride. Everything in me is coiled too tightly to let go of the tension just yet. The safehouse has the hollow stillness of an unused home. It's dusty and reeks of mildew. The lights remain off. I sit on the edge of the couch, palms braced against my knees, heart hammering in my chest.

Connor's late. Every minute drags by, and I keep checking the clock, though I already know how long it’s been. I grip my phone, willing it to buzz, to light up, to give me something. But it stays dark in my hand. The rain taps at the windows without rhythm, and I start counting each drop just to keep from spiraling.

What if my father changed the plan? What if this is a test? What if Connor figured that out and turned back? What if he’s dead?

Every possibility takes its turn tearing me up from the inside. I’m supposed to be calm. I’m supposed to be sharp and careful and useful. But the longer the silence stretches, the more I unravel. If he doesn’t show, I don’t know what I’ll do. I don’t know who I’ll become. I only know I’m not ready to face any of this alone.

By the time I hear the knock, I have already cycled through every possible version of this ending. I don’t get up right away. I force myself to breathe. When I finally open the door, he doesn’t speak.

He steps inside, wet and cold, eyes sweeping the corners of the room. Then they land on me. "They sent you with company?" he asks.

I nod. "They’re out back." I panic for a moment, hoping he doesn't think this was my idea, that I'd actually bring my da's soldiers here on purpose.

"You sure they're not here for blood?" He runs a hand through his moist hair and shuts the door, then moves closer to me with a glint in his eye I can't place. He thinks I'm a threat?

"If they are, I'm sorry. You know I had to see you." I reach for him, and he turns away, walking to the window to pull the blinds shut. He doesn't trust me. Fair. He knows why my da even let me come here. He knows they want the O'Rourke name destroyed.

Then he turns and stares at me, hands clenched at his sides. I can’t tell if he’s angry or scared. Maybe both.

"You shouldn’t have lured me here," he says, jaw tight. "Not with them breathing down your neck. You think I don’t know what this is? You’re not here for comfort—you’re here because they sent you." He gestures with his hand, almost smacking me, and I wince and back away.

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