Page 4 of The Heir's Defiance

He looks older than he should—tired, but alert. He’s speaking to a man I don’t know, but his eyes are elsewhere, scanning the room. When they land on me, he pauses. There’s no warmth in it, no interest. Just calculation. Like I’ve added a new variable to a problem he thought he'd already solved.

He turns to say something to the man beside him, but then both of them stop.

Connor doesn’t look away. Not even when he should.

And when his eyes drop—slow, deliberate—I feel it like a match struck in the dark.

It’s the first time anyone’s looked at me like that in weeks.

And just like that, I feel like I can't breathe.

3

CONNOR

The reception hall is lined with folding chairs, most half-filled by men in dark suits making polite conversation. The coffee station near the back hasn’t been touched in ten minutes. Most of these people came to be seen, not comforted. There's a striking difference between the true mourners and the men who need to save face—Corbin's clients.

Killian stands near the door, watching the room. I stay closer to the center, keeping my eyes open. No one speaks to me unless they have a reason to, and no one here has any reason to except for Corbin's family, who offer true condolences, to which I nod and apologize for their loss.

Nora Fitzpatrick stands near the far wall with two guards—Liam McKenna and a younger one I don’t recognize. Neither has moved since they arrived. They haven’t spoken to anyone. No subtle questions, no signs they’re reading the room. The Fitzpatricks are under suspicion, and they know it. This should've been handled differently. Her presence should mean something, but so far, it doesn’t. She’s just standing there asa token of Seamus's presence. He didn't even have the balls to show up himself.

I watch her longer than I mean to. Her posture doesn’t shift. Her expression stays still. The longer she does nothing, the more it feels deliberate. There's tension creasing her forehead, visible in the way her lips are pursed, and her jaw is held upright. She doesn't want to be here. She's been ordered here.

I can sympathize with that. Taking orders is a hard thing to learn to do.

When she steps out through the side doors onto the patio, I wait a few seconds before following. The guards stay inside. Either they trust her or they’ve been told not to hover. I step past them without a glance, strike a match on the brick wall, and light a cigarette as I join her near the edge of the stone railing.

The city moves beyond the church walls in a constant din of traffic sounds and the rumble of road noise. Headlights pass at intervals, casting brief streaks across the building. Nora doesn’t look at me, but I can see the tension in her shoulders. She wants to appear at ease, but she isn’t.

I take a drag and exhale toward the street, letting the pause settle between us. There’s no rush to fill it. Ronan asked me to gather information, but Nora's presence here isn't coughing up details. I need to press her, but I'll wait until the rhythm of this moment feels right.

Her gaze flicks in my direction, just once, before returning to the far end of the courtyard. She doesn’t ask why I followed her, which tells me she likely expected it.

“You were quiet in there,” I say, eyes still forward. I smell her. The scent wafting my way is like lilacs and honey. All feminine.

“I'm not here to speak,” she replies. In my periphery, I catch her fidgeting, though when I notice her look at my face, it stops. Her tone is calm, measured, maybe even bored—but I hear the edge beneath it. She knows the optics. She knows what I see when I look at her and likely what her father expects from her. Curious, though, that he sent her instead of Callum. Maybe he thinks it will make the family look more innocent.

I tap ash from the end of the cigarette and let the quiet stretch a little longer.

“You show up with nothing to say, no one to speak to, and two guards who might as well be coat racks,” I say. “You can understand why that reads a certain way.”

She turns her head then, slowly. “I didn’t come to reassure you.”

And just like that, I stop pretending this is a casual conversation.

I flick ash over the railing, slow and controlled. The quiet folds back in, but this time it has teeth. She hasn’t moved or blinked much, either, and there’s a sharpness to the way she stands now—like she’s bracing for a fight but won’t throw the first punch.

“Your father sent you,” I say, keeping my tone neutral, “but didn’t give you anything to do while you’re here?”

She gives a faint shrug. “I'm his puppet." I can see the hint of anger in her eyes and know she didn't like being ordered to do this.

That catches me off guard. I wait for the usual flicker of defense when someone calls out their own blood, but it doesn’t come. It's surprising, but not shocking. So Seamus wanted to make appearances but not ruffle feathers. He knew we'd be watching so he sent a woman who appears harmless.

“He really sent you with nothing?” I ask.

“Two shadows and a dress code,” she says. “Beyond that, I think I was meant to be furniture.” Now there's a tone of discouragement, as if she's been rejected. Maybe this is a punishment for her for some reason.

I glance sideways at her. “Well, you’re drawing more eyes than the flowers did.” My comment is a backhanded compliment and it lands.

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