Page 5 of The Heir's Defiance

She lets out a small breath, close to a laugh but not quite there. “Accidental, I assure you.” I see a flicker of a smile, but I don't let on that I've seen it.

“You walked into a room full of men who are convinced your family burned one of ours alive,” I say. “That’s not an accident. That’s a message.” The cigarette has less appeal to me now. I tap more ashes but focus on her.

“If it is,” she says, “it isn’t mine.”

We fall into another silence, but it doesn’t feel empty. The lights from the city edge past the patio stones, and I can hear the low rumble of thunder through the alley that runs alongside the building. She shifts her weight slightly, crosses her arms, then uncrosses them again.

“You’re watching me like I’m about to start something,” she says.

“I’m watching you like I can’t tell whether you’re here to finish something.” She meets my eyes this time. I hold the stare.

“My father sent me,” she says. “He didn’t ask whether I thought it was smart.”

“That’s what makes it interesting.”

She studies me for a beat, and when she finally looks away, it’s slow. Her fingers tap once on the railing. It's deliberate and still feels like a tell.

“You hate being part of this,” I say, not asking.

“I’m not part of it,” she replies. “I’m trapped inside it.”

The words hang between us. She doesn’t try to clean them up or make them more polite. That alone tells me everything I need to know about where she stands with her family.

“Plenty of us are stuck in roles we didn’t choose,” I say. “You just wear yours louder.”

“It's not style,” she says. “That’s survival.” She pulls her phone from her pocket, checks the screen, then lowers it again without typing anything. I watch how she holds it—like she trusts it more than the people around her.

"You clean up well for a warning shot," I say.

Her head tilts just slightly, enough to show she heard it, enough to let it land. "Is that your version of a compliment?"

"Depends how you take it."

She lets out a soft breath, almost a laugh, but sharp at the edges. "If I wanted compliments, O'Rourke, I wouldn't be standing out here with you." The breeze kicks up, tossing her brown hair, and she curls it around her ear. Nora is devastatingly beautiful, and I'm having a hard time reminding myself that she's the enemy.

I flick ash off the end of my cigarette. "You’re standing here because you want to see who notices."

Her eyes meet mine then, steady and unflinching. "Maybe I’m just waiting to see if you’re all bark."

I step a little closer, enough that the city lights catch the gleam in her eyes. "If you were hoping for a bark," I say, voice low, "you’ll be disappointed."

She doesn’t blink, doesn’t back up either. Her fingers tap once against her phone, the barest twitch. Without asking, I take it from her hand.

Her lips part slightly in surprise, but she doesn’t pull away. She lets me type in my number and send myself a blank text. When I hand the phone back, she takes it slowly, the brush of her fingers deliberate this time.

I crush the cigarette under my heel and glance back once.

She’s still standing there, watching me.

Good. The hook is set. And now I have a way in. I just have to control my urges.

4

NORA

The ride back is short and silent. Liam drives, staring straight ahead. The second man sits rigidly in the front seat, hands flat on his thighs like he’s waiting for something horrible to happen. I don't speak. There's no one here worth wasting words on.

The Fitzpatrick estate looms ahead against the fading sky. I get out before either of Da's goons can open my door, my heels hitting the gravel hard. I kick them off the second I reach the step and carry them in one hand. My feet hurt from wearing such uncomfortable trash, and all I want to do is crack a bottle of wine and think about that strange interaction with Connor O'Rourke.

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