Page 43 of The Heir's Defiance

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NORA

Istep through the doorway into my father's study and into its history, each step a reminder of past arguments that were never resolved, only pushed aside as new priorities took over. My father sits behind the desk with his sleeves rolled and his jaw clenched, forearms spread wide as if he's bracing for impact. The room is empty, just me and him. Not at all how I expected, given how volatile things are right now. That makes me pause.

Da only keeps things private when he's really upset. He doesn’t greet me as I approach. He just flicks two fingers toward the chair across from him. The leather is worn from hundreds of asses parked in that seat over the years, and sitting there would put me in the position of subordination to him, which I'm not. He's my father, but he doesn't own or control me. I'm an adult.

So I stay on my feet. I want the upper hand—what little of it there is. Sitting would feel too much like surrender, like playing his game on his terms. So I wait, spine straight, letting silence stretch between us. It’s the only power I have left. If I sit, I shrink. If I stay standing, at least I can pretend I have a choice.

"How was your little rendezvous with O'Rourke?" he asks in a dark, smooth tone. And I hear the malice he's restraining.

He already knows I have nothing to give him. Those idiots who have to follow me around probably told him everything. I'd be surprised if they weren't listening to me fuck Connor. If he’s asking, it’s because he wants to hear how I spin it. Wants to see if I’ll soften the truth, or worse, lie to him.

"Brief," I say, arms folded. "He wanted to talk ceasefire. Asked if we were serious."

"And you told him what?"

"That you'd rather swallow glass than shake Ronan's hand—but you might play the role if it bought us time."

He studies me and doesn’t blink. His expression flattens and after a pause, he lets out a dry exhale and snaps. "That's it? He wants a ceasefire and you didn’t press for anything real? What about the territory shift? What about the shipping lanes?"

Silence stretches between us as I glower at him and hold my ground. He watches me like he’s testing for cracks—a breath away from cruelty. My ears settle into that silence and I try not to get too tense. The antique clock ticks in the corner, marking each second. There’s a faint buzz overhead, probably the security system—but I would bet it’s not recording.

Then he leans back, his leather chair creaking beneath him. "It’s time we make a show of things. Something official. Something public."

I don't move but my mind races. Every time he stages something, someone ends up bleeding. "A summit?"

"An attack," he corrects. "We’ll host it on neutral ground. Make it look like we’re offering peace—something symbolic to cool things down. It doesn’t have to be real. It just has to make them think it's real. Then we show the strength of the Fitzpatrick name."

He slides a folder across the desk. My name's printed on the tab, but I don’t touch it. The edges of the paper are crisp, clean—ironic, considering how dirty the play inside it probably is. I can't even bring myself to look at this trash. He's really going to use me as bait to draw him out and kill him.

My shoulders grow tight. It feels hard to breathe. I cradle my stomach behind crossed arms as I take a step away from him, shaking my head. "No…" I mumble, but I'm not sure he hears me.

"You and Connor will meet. There will be no backup and no observers allowed. You both walk in alone, without weapons or support. The terms have to look clean—controlled from the outside. We take the opportunity and finish it quickly. After that, the Russians won’t question where the power lies." His eyes scrape up toward my face where I'm sure all that's visible is the horror I'm feeling in my chest suffocating me.

My breath catches when I try to speak, and I cough and sputter a few times. My hand reaches for something to steady me, and I find the doorknob behind me. The room feels denser, like it’s closing in on what little say I had. My father calls it clean, but nothing he’s ever touched stays that way. If he’s using that word, it means there’s already blood assigned to it.

"You want him unarmed and alone…?" It's hard to even choke the words out. They cripple me, slice open my gut, and let my innards show for the whole world to see. He's talking aboutkilling Connor in cold blood to make a power play and show Volkov that my family is the smarter choice to side with.

He nods, almost smug. "He’s a soldier. He won’t come unless someone he trusts sets the terms. That’s you."

I blink rapidly, chasing back tears, and really look at him. I don’t see my father. I see the version of him people fear in whispered stories. The man behind the orders. The one who never blinks when the blood pools. I see evil and darkness and a soul so detached from emotion, he would slit my throat without thinking if it saved his own life.

And all I can think is that it used to be different. There were years—maybe not many, but enough—when I believed he was trying to protect us. Now, standing here, I know better. He doesn’t want safety. He wants dominance. And I’m a pawn he feels entitled to move.

I push off the desk, shaking my head with more force now. "No. I won’t do it. You’re not using me to set him up. If you want blood, find another way." His eyes narrow. "I mean it," I say. "I won’t lead him into a trap. I won’t be the reason he doesn’t walk out."

Da rises slowly in a movement so smooth and methodical, you'd think he was robotic. He tucks his tie behind his lapel and buttons his jacket. "Nora…"

"He’s not just some mark to me," I add, jaw locked. Tears are burning my eyes, rattling my chest. I'm shaking, fists bared and ready to fight. "So if you want to kill him, you’ll have to go through me to do it."

For the first time, I see a flicker of something behind his eyes, but it's not affection or love. He knows I’ve drawn a line. And I won’t back down.

I shake my head. Not out of disbelief, but because I already know how this ends. I’ve played this role before. So has he. "It’s too obvious. It screams ‘setup’." Now I'm rationalizing, trying to justify why this won't work. It's denial because in my mind, it's done. Connor's as good as dead. I'm scrambling for something, anything, to save him.

"The decision is made." He’s not interested in compromise, only in outcome, and I can see it in his face. I’ve already lost this fight. "We aren't letting the Russians take us out. Play your part, and maybe we'll see peace."

I grit my teeth. I hate the way he frames it—as if loss has been ruled out from the start. "You don’t want peace," I shout, now letting the tears flow freely. "You want control."

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