Page 49 of The Heir's Defiance

Then—

The door slams open.

And everything changes.

28

NORA

Everything freezes.

My arms extend fully, body forming a barrier in front of Connor. I can feel the tremble in my thighs, the unstable quiver in my calves, but I lock my knees and hold my ground. His weight slumps behind me. Blood flows warm and steady through the denim at his thigh. My father’s gun stays raised, unwavering, his focus locked on the space where Connor and I meet. He sees betrayal. I see survival.

"You have to go through me first," I say.

My voice cracks down the middle. Metallic pain pools in my mouth from biting my tongue earlier. The warehouse hangs in silence, too quiet for a place built to echo. There are no approaching footsteps, no shouted orders. The shadows hold their weight in eerie stillness. Even the seagulls outside have fallen silent.

I don’t blink. I track my father’s hands, watch for the tremor, the tilt, the moment he decides to fire. But all I see is calculation—his mind weighing the shot. Weighing me.

The warehouse doors slam open with a sound that splits the air like a crack of thunder. Steel groans and bangs against concrete as Ronan enters, flanked by five men dressed in black. Their movements are synchronized and efficient, and my chest trembles with relief as soon as I see the whites of their eyes.

They're more than bodyguards—they're soldiers, trained and lethal. They fan out immediately, using the crates for cover, rifles raised and locked on their targets. The Fitzpatricks respond immediately, lifting their weapons in a collective motion that tightens the atmosphere like a noose around my fucking neck.

Every man in the building chooses a side in the span of a heartbeat.

Ronan doesn’t raise a gun. He doesn’t flinch. He walks straight into the center of the chaos with deliberate steps and a presence that carves space around him.

I don't lower my arms yet, though they're not doing much shielding of Connor's body. I glance at him and see his eyes shut, head rested back, and my heart leaps into my throat. I don't want him to die.

"We end it here, Seamus. Or we all lose."

Ronan delivers the words flatly, without heat or volume, but they cut just the same. His expression is hard, and he stops just short of the invisible line drawn between our families and waits.

Behind me, Connor shifts. His body jerks once, a breath caught in his throat. I don’t move, but I look down, just enough to catch the way his leg twitches beneath him. Blood continues to puddle on the ground under him. His chest rises shallowly, and his head lolls against the pallets. I don’t touch him—I can’t risk it. Mystance has to stay solid, arms still raised. But I count his breaths. I watch the stagger of them and hold onto that fragile rhythm. He’s still breathing. He hasn’t stopped fighting yet.

Another man steps out from Ronan’s flank and keeps his weapon lowered, but his stance is coiled. His gaze lands on Connor, then moves to me, then to my father. He’s waiting, too. Not for orders—for the break to get to his friend and help him.

My father doesn’t move.

Ronan’s tone sharpens. "You'll never shoot your daughter, and Connor is my brother. If either of them dies here, the Russians won’t need to choose sides. They’ll collect the scraps of our war and turn them into their empire. We’ll be gone. Names on gravestones, if we’re lucky."

I admire how confident he is, standing in front of a man with a loaded weapon who could pull the trigger at any second and he doesn't even flinch. I, on the other hand, am ready to piss myself.

"Da, please…" I whimper, arms feeling heavy.

The air thickens, presses against my skin. I can hear the distant hum of a boat engine somewhere on the water. The flicker in my father’s eyes returns, assessing the cost. Deciding whether I’m still worth protecting. Whether Connor’s worth eliminating.

Then a scowl rolls across his face and he lowers his gun slowly, but his finger remains on the trigger.

The motion is slow, every second stretched taut with tension. His fingers uncurl from the grip like he’s peeling away a part of himself. He never once looks at me.

Ronan nods once, but his men don’t relax. Their rifles remain at the ready, barrels trained on the men surrounding my da who now stand in the open.

Ronan doesn’t look away from my father. He doesn’t lift his chin or his voice. "You’ve had your shot, Seamus. Stand down."

My father snorts. "That so? You barge into my docks with your thugs and think I’ll heel like a dog?"

Ronan steps forward, slowly and deliberately. "No. I think you’ll choose what’s left of your legacy over a pissing contest you won’t survive."

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