Page 47 of The Heir's Defiance

"Running. I’m on foot. I had to climb out my damn window, Ronan. You have to get to him before they do." There is so muchrelief in simply reaching out to someone I know can help, even if it is an enemy. "Look, they locked me up and took my phone. I couldn't warn him. Please, you have to help."

"You sure about this?" Ronan's voice is searching, as if he wants to believe me but he's not quite sure.

"I wouldn’t call if I wasn’t. Do you think I'd actually defy my father and risk him punishing me if I didn't care? I love him, Ronan. Connor needs your help." The whimper in my tone seems to seal the deal. The line goes dead, and I grit my teeth as I fight back tears and stand up.

My ankle’s swelling. I can feel it throbbing through the sole of my shoe. But I grit my teeth and start moving again. I check the time—11:23. There's still time to get to him, but not on foot. My poor ankle won't make it. So I use the burner to set up an Uber and quickly start moving in that direction.

If I don’t make it—if I’m too late—I’ll never forgive myself.

A car passes on the main road ahead. I duck into a shadow, holding my breath, and wait it out. The headlights swing wide but don’t slow. I wait until the sound fades, then limp across the street. A dog barks somewhere in the distance. A siren wails far off, but it’s not close enough to be coming for me, and there's no way Ronan called Garda for this.

I clutch the burner tight in my hand, knowing I’ve just turned the tide in a way I can’t undo. If my father finds out I called the enemy to save Connor, I'll be banished at the very least and dead before sunrise if he feels like I'm a threat.

I just hope I’m not too late for that to matter.

27

CONNOR

Ipark two blocks off and approach the building Nora sent me on foot—old habits. The dockyard’s quiet this time of night, like normal. It isn't often people plan meetings out this way, either. Usually, it's a safehouse or a business front. But I've been so anxious to hear from her, I don't care where we meet.

The message came in just after eight. Her number lit the screen, and I left Killian standing in the courtyard wondering where I went.

Come alone. South dock. Midnight.

They were the sweetest words I'd read in days. Waiting nearly four hours to move almost killed me. When the phone rang and the number showed restricted, I ignored it, keeping the line open for her. Then Ronan tried calling too, and there was no way in hell I was answering that. Killian probably ratted me out.

The wind rolls off the water and carries the salt inland. My jacket flaps against me as I move past the rusted chain-link gate and onto the gravel path. It’s dark. The few overhead lights flicker more than they shine. I scan the perimeter, but the yard staysstill. I see nothing—no sign of her. I'm a few minutes early, though, so I'm not getting riled over it yet.

The warehouse squats beneath a large crane used to move shipping containers onto vessels for transport, a rotting skeleton of steel and concrete. I check the corners, the shadows, the space between the delivery trucks—nothing.

This doesn’t feel right, but we've met in sketchier places under my own direction, so I can't second-guess myself. With the heat on us, Nora isn't taking chances. That's smart of her. The days of meeting up in her father's safehouses or using her father's man as a chauffeur are over. In fact, if we're not careful, we may both have to vanish just to cling to the love we have.

The metal door groans when I push it open, then settles back into place with a dull echo that stretches through the open interior. My boots crunch over the grit and broken glass scattered across the floor. A seagull screeches somewhere near the rafters. That’s the only sound.

No Nora.

I check my watch—11:58. She'll be here any minute. I take a few steps deeper into the warehouse. Old oil drums line one wall. A busted forklift rests near the center, half buried in shadow. Still no sign of her. No footsteps. No voice.

Then the trap snaps shut before I even realize I'm the one it's been set for.

Nora's father’s men step out from behind crates and shadows, weapons raised and ready, and without warning, they open fire. Before the first sound of a gunshot sounds, I'm diving, ducking behind an old oil barrel as I pull out my gun.

The first round strikes the concrete near my foot in a warning shot. The second rips through the air and grazes my ribs as I dive and roll. The burn is sharp and sudden, but I keep moving.

I draw my pistol and return fire, taking down two before ducking back for cover. Their bodies drop hard, but I don’t watch them fall. My breath punches through my chest in short bursts as I pivot behind the metal drum and grimace against the loud report of gunfire.

Another shot rings out and buries itself in my thigh, and my leg buckles. Blood soaks through my jeans, running down to the ground where my knee hits the concrete hard, but I press my back to the barrel and force my grip to steady.

I count every shot. The space between each one stretches thin, like time is trying to tear itself in half.

Another muzzle flashes to my left. I fire twice and hear the sharp collapse of a body hitting steel. Someone screams and keeps shooting blindly. I shift my weight and drag myself behind a stack of crates. The blood from my thigh leaves a trail, but I don’t have a better option.

A round punches through the edge of the crate and splinters the wood near my ear. I fire again—once, twice, three times. One of them curses and hits the floor. That makes five down, but not necessarily dead.

More boots scrape the concrete. I twist, ignoring the fire crawling up my leg, and drop the sixth with a clean shot to the chest. He doesn't get up.

Shells clatter across the floor. Their rhythm stutters. They’re repositioning.

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