Page 52 of The Heir's Defiance

"On my way," I reply, pushing forward with more speed. I'm limping hard, and I can feel fresh blood oozing down my inner thigh. If I don't die here tonight, Maeve will kill me for ignoring her orders.

"They’re flanking us fast," Killian adds, and I glance up to a window overhead to see him leaning out. "Your girl's father is pinned in his study. I’ve got three of ours still inside."

I move up the steps, each lurch of my injured leg drawing fire down to the bone. The front door is half off its hinges. I shoulder it aside with a grunt.

The entryway is scorched. One chandelier has dropped to the floor in a mess of broken gold and crystal. The hallway beyond it is choked with smoke. I smell burning flesh, gun smoke, the copper tang of blood.

I take the stairs two at a time, panting hard. Every inch of me feels slower than it should, but I push through it. Through the pain. Through the smoke. Through the image of Nora sitting in the car, waiting for a man who may not come back.

Killian meets me at the corridor junction. He’s a wreck—blood on his jaw, sweat streaking his shirt. He nods once, eyes sharp.

"They’re breaching the rear wall of the study," he says quickly, motioning to the hallway. "Two on the stairwell, one on the balcony. We’ve got to clear the hallway first."

"Then let’s move," I say, lifting my weapon.

We move together. I cover right, he takes left. A Russian steps into view with a silenced pistol—I shoot him before he finishes turning, his body slamming against the wall. Another opens firefrom behind a shattered column. Killian hits him clean through the eye.

We sweep the corridor, room by room. One of the Fitzpatrick guards is still alive, crouched behind a tipped-over cabinet, clutching his stomach.

"Help’s here," I say, crouching to drag him into the corner. I press a weapon into his palm. "Keep the hallway. We’ll clear the study."

He nods, blood running down his chin, eyes wild. He may not have much longer, but I know he'll fight to the death. It may buy us a few extra seconds if we have to retreat fast.

The study doors are half-open. I see flashes inside—movement, gun barrels, the crack of close-range fire. Seamus is yelling, pinned behind the heavy desk with barely a foot of cover. Four Russians still move inside the study—two by the window, one behind the overturned armchair, and another flanking the bookshelf. The room’s a warzone—books shredded, floor slick with blood, wood splintered from ricochets.

Ronan and two of our men are pushing in from the west hall, coming in hot through the smoke. I hear more shots behind us, Killian’s reinforcements finally cutting through the hallway resistance. The Russians know they’re surrounded now. They’re fighting harder, not smarter—desperate, spraying rounds with wild abandon.

One of them lets a spray of bullets go toward the west, forcing Ronan to duck back. The shots rock the wall, raining debris across the corridor. Killian throws a signal—three fingers up. We’ve got one shot at this. We hit hard, clean, and fast.

Seamus is running low on ammo. I can see it in the way he pauses between rounds. He’s not yelling orders anymore—just staying alive long enough for us to clear a path.

We breach fast. Killian throws the door wide and fires a burst into the back wall. I follow, taking the left. Two Russians inside—one mid-reload, the other already aiming at Seamus.

"Down!" I shout as I shoot the first one twice in the chest. He drops before his clip hits the ground.

The second tries to run, but Killian’s already there, knife drawn, driving it straight through his spine.

Seamus is hunched behind the desk. His left arm is useless—blood pours from a gash at the bicep. His right hand still clutches a pistol.

"You’re late," he snarls, breaths ragged.

"You’re welcome," I mutter, crossing the room. He tries to stand but sways. I catch him by the shoulder. "Save the pride for later," I say, stabilizing him. "You’re bleeding like a stuck pig."

He knocks my hand away with a grunt but doesn’t stand again.

Behind us, glass shatters. The final Russian drops into the study from the ceiling skylight. His rifle swings toward us.

"Move!" I yell, then shoot him through the neck.

Ronan appears behind the smoke. His coat’s black with soot, rifle slung low, hands red. He walks into the room and looks around at the carnage. I lower my weapon and suck in a breath as I press the spot on my leg that seeps blood.

"That’s the last of them," he says, stepping over the body with a grim look. He looks at Seamus, then at me. "We’re ending thisnow," he says in an even tone. My brother meets my gaze, and I see anger there, but I see understanding too. Maybe it really did take him seeing Nora stand up to her father to understand my position.

Seamus doesn’t answer him right away. He just watches us both like we’re poison. Months of resisting our attempts at an alliance to push the Russians back have come to a head, and given what happened here tonight, he knows now that he can't win against them without us. The sheer loss of life here tonight should tell him that.

"You think this changes anything?" he growls, scooting against the desk. His weapon is on the ground now, hand gripping his bleeding arm.

"It changes everything," Ronan replies, wiping his brow. "We both bled for this."

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