Page 26 of The Heir's Defiance

I peel off my coat and drape it over my arm, masking the weapon hidden inside, turning slowly to face him. "You have no idea."

He studies me, eyes sharp beneath the low light, his elbow resting on the arm of the chair like he’s measuring me against something invisible. His gaze drags over my posture, my expression, the coat I haven’t put away yet. There’s no warmth in it. Just cold, clinical appraisal—the kind you give a meal before deciding if it's worth eating.

His voice hardens. "You need to set something up with O’Rourke. Press him about the peace talks. The land disputes. If they're bluffing, now’s the time to unravel them."

I nod because it’s the only safe answer, but my hands are still shaking when I leave the room.

Inside, I’m splintering. I walk upstairs without feeling the steps beneath me. My legs move on memory while my mind churns over what I’ve done. I just killed a man to protect the one personI’m not supposed to protect. And now I’m expected to use him, manipulate him—to weaponize the same man I saved. My breath catches as I close the bedroom door.

I lock it, twist the bolt hard enough that it clicks too loudly, or maybe it's just my nerves being shot.

The coat slides from my arm and hits the floor. I don’t look at the silk-wrapped pistol hidden in its lining, but I hear the dull thud. Then I cross the room in a daze and step into the bathroom, absently moving toward the tap.

The shower’s water scalds my skin. I stand beneath it fully clothed for a long minute before I strip, letting the wet fabric fall and crumple at my feet. I scrub until my skin turns raw. My nails dig into my arms, my collarbone, my thighs. I can't stop. I see blood under my nails, but it’s not mine. It isn’t his, either. It’s imagined—clinging there because my mind needs a place to put the guilt.

My knees give out before I can reach for the soap. I slide down the tile wall, legs folding awkwardly beneath me. The steam curls around my face as my forehead presses against my knees. A raw sob punches out of me before I can hold it in. I bite down on my lip to silence the next one, but it doesn't help. It breaks through too.

I pull at my hair, fingers fisting tightly, trying to anchor myself in something—anything. The sound of the water drowns out the crying but not the shame. Not the fear. My chest heaves and I can’t catch my breath.

I killed a man.

And I’d do it again. That’s what scares me the most.

My fingers tremble as I turn off the tap. The silence that follows is almost worse than the water pounding in my ears. I drag myself upright, muscles aching, legs slow to respond. The steam has fogged the mirror, obscuring the face I can’t bring myself to look at. I towel off in slow, mechanical motions, but it doesn’t help. I still feel soaked in it—what I did, what it cost.

I wrap the towel around my chest and step into the bedroom. My body shivers slightly in the cooler air. I sit on the edge of my bed in the half-light, knees tucked close. Everything feels thinner now—my skin, my resolve, the line between who I thought I was and who I became tonight.

Connor is alive because of me, or at least, I hope he's still alive. I didn't stay long enough to watch him get in his car and leave. I don't know where he is or what he's doing, but now I feel more panic rising and a desperation to hear from him.

My phone is still in my coat pocket. I get up, retrieve it, and sit back down.

I open a new message.

Nora 11:42 PM: Are you still breathing?

I don't know what this means, but it means something, and probably something my father will hate.

15

CONNOR

My phone buzzes where it’s face-down on the counter. I'm not expecting anything. The job’s done, the men are accounted for. I should be winding down, making notes, locking up any loose ends.

But her name on the screen cuts through that rhythm.

Nora 11:42 PM: Are you still breathing?

I grab it fast.

Connor 11:43 PM: I am.

Connor 11:43 PM: What do you mean? Are you okay?

She doesn’t answer right away. I pace to the far side of the room, jaw tight. My house is too quiet for the sudden tension I feel in my chest. Any distraction would help, so I look toward the window while I wait for her to respond. City lights filter through the floor-to-ceiling windows, painting everything in golden streetlight. I check my phone again.

Nora 11:47 PM: No.

That one word guts me. I lean hard against the windowsill, staring at my phone screen. Did she go down there anyway? Did she ignore the warning or pass it along to her father? I replay the message in my head, searching for subtext, anything to hint at what's going on.

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