Page 55 of The Heir's Defiance

Connor doesn’t flinch. “I want to marry your daughter.”

“You think this is the time for declarations?” Da’s chair scrapes as he leans forward, both hands braced on the table. “We buried seven men last week, and you come in here making proposals?”

“It’s not a proposal,” Connor says. “It’s the final condition. If this is going to hold, it has to start with us.”

Da’s gaze swings to me, demanding something. Denial, maybe? Refusal? I give him neither.

“It’s my decision,” I say. “And I’ve made it. I love him, and if you can't agree to this, you're a fool, Da. We're stronger together."

The anger doesn’t vanish, but he reins it in and sits back slowly, the bandages on his shoulder pulling taut beneath the fabric of his jacket. His mouth works through a thousand arguments he doesn’t voice. Then his hand moves with reluctance toward the pen. His eyes zero in on me one last time before he shakes his head and scribbles his name.

My stomach twists, but I keep my posture. I don’t fidget or blink. I think of the fire licking the walls of the estate, of Connor bleeding beside me, of the men who died so we could sit at this table.

Ronan leans forward and slides the agreement back toward himself before scrawling his own name under my father's, and then nods. That nod does something to the tension in the air, unraveling it slowly as all parties involved realize we've struck a permanent truce, and the Russians will have to deal with the full force of both families if they come sniffing around again.

Ronan collects them himself and aligns the pages, secures them with a clasp, and sets the folder at the center of the table as if anchoring the moment.

“Let’s see if we can keep this peace now,” Ronan says. Across from him, Da exhales through his nose, not quite agreement, but not dissent either.

Killian shifts in his seat and mutters something about how long it’s taken to reach this point. Finn nods once, arms crossed. The room exhales with us all, and the stillness breaks—not with applause, but with motion.

Then chairs scrape back. One by one, the men stand. Connor rises and offers his hand to me, and I take it. Across the table, Ronan extends his hand to my father. For a breath, I thinkhe won’t take it. That he’ll walk out and let everything burn again. But Da lifts his unbandaged hand. Their grips meet in the middle.

It’s not a handshake of old friends or a gesture of burying the hatchet. This is survival, and I'm not foolish enough to think that the moment my father sees an out, he won't take it, but for now, it means peace. And a wedding…

Outside, the wind picks up, shaking the ivy against the windows. I watch the men who once carved lines in blood and wonder if any of them believe in what we’ve just done.

Connor squeezes my hand. "You okay?" he asks under his breath.

I nod. But the truth is… I don’t know. This was always going to be the price. I agreed to it. I wanted it. But saying the words in that room, with my father beside me and Ronan watching, made it feel less like a vow and more like a sentence. I'm still in an arranged marriage, and that wasn't exactly the best wedding proposal a woman could receive.

Maybe that’s what all alliances are—sacrifices made in public for benefits paid in private.

"We’ll be all right," Connor says. He leans in, presses his mouth close to my ear. "You and me. We’re the only ones who never lied."

I close my eyes for a beat, breathe in the scents of smoke and aftershave, the trace of sweat on his skin. It centers me. He centers me. Being near him, allowing his arms to wrap around me, and my heart thrumming in my chest with his name written on each beat.

Connor turns toward me fully and both of his arms wrap around me. "We don’t have to make this political when it’s just us." His hand curls around my ear, and I know he's securing a loose hair. I raise my hands up and lock them behind his neck.

I study him. His eyes are tired, rimmed red from too little sleep, too much pain. But they’re steady.

"We made this choice before anyone asked us to," I say.

"Then let them think it was theirs… But tell me one last time that it's yours?" His voice is low, steadier than I expect, and something in the way he holds me shifts—like he’s bracing for more than words.

I pull back enough to meet his gaze fully. "It’s always been mine," I say. "Even before I knew what it meant."

His throat works around the weight of that answer. He nods, just once, then reaches into his coat pocket. I think it’s a gesture—some idle movement—but then I see a ring—no box, just gold, simple and adorned with one decent diamond in a low setting.

"I was going to wait," he says. "Until after. But I don’t want to wait anymore. Not when everything’s finally been put down. My heart needs to know, Nora."

My breath catches, and I feel tears well up as he holds the band between our faces. It's beautiful, exactly my style. I never thought this was part of the arrangement, and I didn't agree to it just to bring peace. I love Connor, and I want him, but this—it's unbelievable.

"You didn’t get a choice when they arranged your first engagement. You didn’t get a voice in most of this war. But I’m asking now. Not as a condition. Not for peace. Just for us."

His fingers tighten slightly around mine.

"Nora Fitzpatrick, will you marry me? Not for a treaty, but because you still look at me the same way, even after everything?"

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