Page 8 of The Heir's Defiance

She’s not the kind of problem that gives you time to absorb and think. There’s something about the way she looked at me that keeps replaying—half-defiant, half-intrigued. Like she wasn’t sure whether she wanted to slap me or ask what I was thinking. That look doesn’t belong to someone who’s just part of a rival family. It belongs to someone dangerous in a different way.

By the time we pull through the gates, the house is lit and waiting. Ronan’s message said to meet him in the study. I find him standing near the bar cart, pouring a finger of whiskey but not drinking it. As I step closer, he finally sits down and folds his hands, setting the tumbler on the table at his right. Then he nods toward the chair across from him. The files on the table are closed but well-worn.

"We’ve got a sit-down with the Fitzpatricks next week," he says. "Neutral ground. We pushed for it, not them."

I nod, then ask, "And they agreed?"

"For now. Probably to buy time," he says. "But don’t expect a real negotiation. It’s just positioning."

He leans forward, his voice steady. "They’ll be watching our faces, our tone, trying to figure out how much we’ve lost with Corbin gone. If we flinch, even once, that’s the headline the Russians run with."

I rest my elbows on the arms of the chair. "You’re expecting this to blow open."

"The Russians are circling," he says. "If this war breaks open, they’ll pick the winner and crush the loser."

I lean back slightly, watching him. "And you want me front and center." He doesn't just want me there. He wants me running this. Something inside me pulses with excitement, not at being put in charge, but at the prospect of free rein. No eyes watching me so I can make choices I otherwise may not have made. Like Nora…

“You’re point man on this. You read them. If they flinch, you press. If they posture, you gut them. I don’t need grace. I need leverage." Ronan is staring now, but I feel blank.

I nod again, and still, my thoughts drift. I already have a lead—just not one I’m ready to share.

After we wrap, I don’t linger. I find Kirk in the drive, the engine already still. The ride home is quiet again, but this time, I let the thoughts come. The conversation, the pressure, the assignment—it all drifts to the edges. What stays centered is her.

When we pull up to my place, I step out, nod to Kirk, and head inside without another word. I don’t bother with lights. I toss my coat onto the entry chair, fish the burner from the inside pocket, and sit at the kitchen counter.

Her name’s saved under just one letter. N.

I stare at the screen longer than I should. She shouldn’t matter. She’s a Fitzpatrick. She’s leverage. But that’s not why I’m thinking about her.

I justify it—tell myself she’s a way in, a useful voice if this thing with her family goes south. But I know better.

My thumb moves before I stop it.

Connor 9:47 PM: You around tonight?

I hesitate, then add,

Connor 9:47 PM: Just to talk.

6

NORA

The bar is beneath a bookshop on Parliament Street, through an unmarked door and down a narrow set of stairs that still smell faintly of old wood and aged whiskey. I picked it because no one talks here. Because it’s the kind of place that lives in whispers and wood grain, where the staff know not to ask questions and the regulars pretend not to know names.

I take a seat in the corner, back to the wall, facing the entrance. The table is too polished and a little small, close enough that conversation stays quiet and no one else can hear it. A half-measure of scotch rests in front of me, the good kind, peated and heavy. I haven’t touched it yet.

He’s late, but not by much. Just long enough for me to consider leaving and to start wondering why I agreed to meet him in the first place.

I adjust the collar of my coat and smooth the front of my dress, a dark wool wrap I picked for its simplicity. It matches the kind of place this is—quiet, tucked away, not meant to draw attention.I check my phone again. No new messages, just the invitation from him sitting there on the screen, short and to the point.

I replied with the location and a time, nothing more. I didn’t explain why I chose the place or whether I planned to stay long. I gave him just enough to find me if he decided not to change his mind.

When Connor walks in three minutes late, he doesn’t hesitate or scan the room like someone unsure of his surroundings. He spots me right away and makes his way over. I watch him walk and admire his chiseled jawline and the way his eyes hunt me as he approaches. His coat is dark, collar turned up against the cold, and his expression stays guarded until he’s close enough to sit.

“Good choice,” he says, taking the seat across from me. “Didn’t know places like this still existed.”

“They don’t,” I say. “Not for most people.”

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