Page 54 of The Heir's Defiance

She blinks hard and exhales. "I’m not leaving you. Not now. Not ever."

I shift closer, pulling her into my lap despite the pain lancing up my side. "Then let them try to stop us."

She leans into me, forehead against mine. Her voice is barely a whisper. "They can’t."

We sit there, wrapped in the aftermath, bound by blood, fire, and the choice to love each other against all odds.

30

NORA

They chose a house neither family owns—neutral territory between the Fitzpatricks and the O'Rourkes. The building is old. Its stone walls are weathered, ivy creeping across the façade in slow conquest. The interior is dim and formal, a long room with high ceilings and aged wood paneling. The table at the center is cleared of everything but the documents and the waiting pen. No personal effects, no weapons, no drinks. Just the work of power laid bare, stripped of ceremony or warmth.

I walk in beside Connor. He doesn’t limp, but I know his leg still aches. The bruising along his ribs looks better today, yellowing at the edges as an indication it's finally healing after two weeks. He’s stubborn enough to sit tall anyway, to wear his jacket like armor and pretend the bullet wound in his thigh isn’t a throbbing ghost beneath the table. I match his stride and keep my hands loose at my sides. My father walks a pace behind.

He hasn’t spoken to me since the night of the siege. Not on the drive to the estate, not when I brought him coffee this morning,not even when the O’Rourke envoy called to confirm. But he’s here, and he’s not trying to stop this. That’s enough—for now.

Ronan sits across from us. To his left is Killian. Finn is posted near the door. There are no bodyguards, no weapons. Da isn't happy about any of this, but Mum broke him down, urged him to allow me the freedom to forge forward in the world he brought me into, and despite letting her down by not marrying Volkov, I think she sees how much I care for Connor.

I lower into the seat next to him. My father remains standing for a beat longer, then pulls out the chair to my right at the head of the table and sinks into it with a stiffness that betrays the bandages beneath his suit. The fabric stretches tight across his shoulder. The swelling hasn't gone down.

“I lost seven men that night,” he says. His voice isn't flat, but it's also not the nasty tone I know him to use at times. He's a leashed beast for now.

Ronan nods, his elbows resting on the arms of the chair. “I know,” he says. “We lost a few too." His eyes flick to Connor, who squeezes my knee beneath the table. There’s a pause as we all calculate the shared cost of my father's refusal to work together for so long.

Ronan tips his head toward Da, speaking more quietly. “Your shoulder—how’s it holding?”

Da shifts in his seat. “Healing. Slower than I’d like.”

“Could’ve been worse,” Ronan says, not unkindly.

“It almost was,” Da replies. He looks at me, then Connor, then back down to the table.

Ronan picks up the pen and flips through the agreement, scanning each page with quiet intensity. He doesn’t rush. He makes sure every man at the table sees that this isn’t just ink on parchment—it’s a reckoning.

Then he looks up.

“We’ve agreed to terms on patrol lines and transport routes,” he says. “We’re taking our checkpoints off the border roads. Joint teams will monitor any contested sectors. No one runs cargo solo anymore—not unless they want it seized. That clear?”

There are nods around the table and Ronan continues.

“Territory claims remain where they stood before the first shot. No movement without written approval.” He flips to the final page.

Ronan looks to me first, then to Connor, holding each gaze long enough to make the message clear. This decision will not be spoken around or over. Everyone at the table shifts their focus, the low creak of leather chairs the only sound as all movement stills. Even my father remains quiet, his eyes locked on Ronan’s, his hands resting flat on the table, not clenched but not relaxed either.

“Arms withdrawal from mutual border zones,” he begins. “Cooperative trade oversight for the southern districts. Shared intelligence channels during the transitional period. Reallocation of transport lanes, effective immediately.”

Each clause lands with the weight of a gavel. I feel it settle into the room, into the tight coil at the base of my spine. Every line of that contract was born from blood.

“Before the agreement is finalized,” he says, pausing, “there remains one condition."

My father doesn’t turn, but I can feel the heat of him—his scrutiny, his resistance. He says nothing, but it's present in his facial expression. Connor doesn’t look at me. He already knows what I’ll say.

I lift my chin.

Connor clears his throat and sits forward slightly, his fingers still laced with mine beneath the table. He doesn’t raise his voice, but it carries. “We want unity,” he says. “Not just between the crews. Between the families. Permanently. Through marriage.”

The words don’t settle. They land sharp and uninvited. My father’s head turns toward Connor in a slow, deliberate glare. The twitch at the corner of his mouth isn’t confusion—it's an insult. His jaw tightens. “You want what?” he says, his voice a growl barely restrained.

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