Page 46 of The Heir's Defiance

When my phone buzzes, I don’t hesitate. I look down at the time and place she sent and I’m already moving.

I have to know… Even if I'm walking into a trap that means my death.

26

NORA

My father hasn’t always been cruel, but something changed in him this past year. It started after I turned down Volkov—after I made it clear I wouldn’t be passed off to a man I'm not in love with just to shore up an alliance. That’s when the edges of him hardened. That’s when the rules changed.

He hasn't spoken to me since I refused to be his bait regarding Connor. They just locked me in my room like an animal that needed to be contained and they've been ignoring me ever since. The clock keeps ticking by as precious seconds pass, and there isn't any way I can even warn him. I'm panicked, terrified, and all I can do is sit here and stew.

I take a long shower—scalding hot. The water beats against my skin until it turns red, until the steam fogs the mirror so thickly, I can't see myself anymore. I stay until the hot water runs out, and even then, I stand there a little longer. My hands press on the tiled wall, feeling the warmth of the heat long after the water runs cold and my fingers start to turn blue.

When I finally step out, the room feels like a freezer. I'm shivering, shaking so hard as I dry off. Then I wrap the towel tightly around my torso and avoid the mirror entirely. I can't look at myself after all of this. I wasn't even complicit. I did what I had to do to survive this, but Connor might not think that. He might think I'm really the one who set him up. And then what? If he even survives this, what we had is over.

Back in my room, I pull on an old sweater that still smells faintly of my perfume and a pair of leggings with pockets on the thighs. I curl up in bed and try to read, but my eyes keep skipping over the same paragraph, unable to string the words together. There's no way I can escape the agony my mind and heart are in.

My clock reads just after eleven p.m., which means in less than an hour, Connor will be showing up at the docks thinking he's meeting me and it will be an ambush. Da's men will slaughter him in cold blood and all because I'm weak. Because I can't find a way to convince my father that the O'Rourkes are right and we need to team up to get rid of the Russians.

The chair by the window creaks when I sink into it. The garden's mostly empty this time of year. Everything of importance has been moved into the greenhouse. There's just yellow hedges and leafless trees trying to cling to life before winter sets in. I stare at the rusted gate near the side path. It's not locked. If I went down the back stairs and through the laundry hall, I could make it out without anyone seeing me. But the damn locked door is something I can't figure out how to get around.

I'm angry, but I don't let it bring me to tears this time.

At eleven fifteen, I stop waiting. The guards have settled. The house has gone still for the night. Da is probably sleeping soundly in his bed waiting to hear the news that Connor isgone. I wedge the desk chair under the door handle and drag the dresser in front of it. Not because it’ll hold—but because if someone tries to come in, I’ll hear them. I need every second I can get.

I have to make it to the docks before midnight. If I don’t, they’ll kill him. And if that happens, I don't want to be here anymore.

The window sticks in the track as I push hard to try to open it. I dig my nails under the frame and push until the swollen wood groans and gives. Cold air rushes in around me, and I breathe it in. The drop from my window is at least fifteen feet into a bush that has some nasty thorns, but it's my only choice. Da removed the trellis when I was fifteen because I'd use it to climb down. Past me wasn't very smart and didn't have the foresight to know how present me could've used that.

I work fast, knotting my bedsheets into a makeshift rope. Corner to corner, it ends up being less than a few yards, so I have to dig into my closet and find more. When I'm done, it dangles from the corner bedpost and hangs about six feet off the bushes. It's clumsy, but sturdy enough. The end doesn’t reach all the way—I know it won’t—but it gets me close enough that I probably won't break anything.

Once I've put on a thick sweater and a pair of sneakers, I swing a leg over the windowsill then pause. If I fall wrong, if someone hears me, if this doesn’t work… The worry starts to coil around my chest, and I feel tears welling up. I can't think like that. I have to get to him.

The sheet rope burns my hands, and when the fabric runs out, I drop the last five feet. My ankle rolls on impact and pain shoots up my leg like a knife’s been jammed into the joint. I hit the ground hard and bite down on a scream, eyes burning. It takesa minute to breathe through it. But I don’t let myself fall apart. I shove up and start moving.

I know this estate better than anyone. I know where the guards take their breaks and which path stays dark when the rest are flooded in light. I move as fast as I can, limping, cutting between hedgerows and garden walls until I reach the driveway. From there, I can cut through footpaths and alleys, keeping to the dark.

Each step makes my ankle hurt worse than the last, but I limp faster, glancing over my shoulder every few steps to make sure no one sees me. Near the end of the estate drive, I spot Callum’s car. It's parked just off the paved path, backed into the hedges like he sometimes does. The driver’s window is open, and I see the faint glow of something on the center console.

I ease the door open and slide into the driver’s seat. His burner is right there, plugged into the dash. The screen glows softly, the charging icon blinking in the corner. I grab it without thinking, slip it into my pocket, but the keys aren't here. I can't just drive there, and I don't know how to hotwire a car, so I slip out. I push the door shut with the heel of my hand, just hard enough to latch without making a lot of noise, then dash down the shadowy street into the night.

I want to call right now. I want to scream his name into the phone until someone answers. But I’m still too close to the estate. If I stop moving and they're looking, they'll find me. So I run—limping, gasping—and wait until I’m farther out.

Several blocks out, I duck behind a row of old dumpsters and press myself into the shadowed wall of a closed auto shop. My lungs burn, my ankle is screaming, but no one's followed me. So I slide down until I’m crouched low and pull out the burner.My hands tremble as I open the call log. Connor’s number isn't there, but I know it by heart. I tap the numbers in and it rings. Once. Twice. Then goes to voicemail.

My stomach drops. "Please," I whimper and shake the phone, trying again for a second time to get through to Connor, but he still doesn't answer. My eyes flick around the darkness playing tricks on me. I swear I see men moving, hear them whispering horrible things about me, but when I hold my breath and really listen, I hear nothing, see no one. I try one more time but still no answer.

So I hang up and scroll again, this time landing on Ronan’s name. His number sits near the top of the list of recent calls, which means Callum has been in contact with them, probably to threaten them. My thumb hovers for only a second before I press it. I know this is the line I can’t uncross, but I call anyway. I can't care if my father thinks I betrayed him. All I can think about is Connor.

He picks up fast. "Who is this?"

"It’s Nora Fitzpatrick. Listen to me."

He pauses, and I picture him weighing every risk. I know he will never trust me but if he's wise, he'll listen. I know he loves his brother.

"Connor's walking into an ambush," I tell him in a breathless tone. "The south dock. I don’t know how many. Maybe six or seven. Armed. My da is gonna kill him."

"Where are you?" he asks.

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