Page 50 of The Heir's Defiance

The men hold their positions. Guns stay up, but the constant motion stills, replaced by a frozen readiness. But the terse moment is fading, and discussion has started.

"Don’t mistake my patience for weakness," my father says. "You brought war to my doorstep."

"You nearly murdered your daughter," Ronan replies, tone steady. "We'll call it even."

"I didn’t shoot her," Da grumbles, and I'm not sure how to take that.

"Because you knew what it’d cost." Ronan nods at me, and I turn to look down at Connor.

His mouth opens, a groan escaping. The sound breaks something in me. I drop to one knee beside him and cradle his jaw with both hands. "I need help over here," I shout, ignoring the thick air still choking the room. "Oh God, baby, it's gonna be okay. Please!" I screech.

One of Ronan's men moves first. One of Da's men takes a half-step forward, but my father lifts a hand. "Let them go."

Ronan's man moves fast. He crouches beside Connor and speaks in a low voice lost to me. Connor shifts again, his weight collapsing into mine. His leg falters when they try to lift him, and I cling to his side. "Oh, God, will he be okay?" I'm whimpering and crying as they lug him out. I won’t release him.

I grip his waist, wedge my shoulder under his arm, and hold on. His blood seeps into my jeans. Each step toward the warehouse doors paints the floor in thick red smears.

My father doesn’t move. He watches us pass. His expression remains blank, but something flickers in his eyes—maybe anger, maybe grief. Definitely not remorse.

"You’ll get nothing else from this," he mutters, the words aimed at Ronan. Each syllable lands with finality.

"Just stay out of our way," Ronan answers.

There is no handshake or nod. No gesture of closure. Only retreat. We walk away to the sound of Connor’s pained breathing and the slap of blood-wet boots against concrete.

"Here," someone says and shoves a bundled jacket into my hands. I press it hard against Connor’s leg. His face contorts in pain, lips pale, jaw clenched, but still he doesn’t scream. They load him into the back of the sedan and I climb in beside him. The door slams shut behind us. In the dark of the cabin, I reach for his hand. His fingers find mine and lock around them with desperate strength.

I brush my thumb over Connor’s knuckles. "We’ve got you. You’re safe now."

His lips part like he wants to answer, but only a breath escapes.

This isn’t peace. It’s a pause, a fragile window carved out between the chaos, just long enough for us to flee. Nothing has been resolved. No trust has been earned. The blood on my hands speaks louder than any promise. We didn't resolve anything. We just escaped. And now my da knows where I stand for good.

"Get us to Ro's house now," the man who carried Connor barks. He shoves me out of the way, flicks open a blade, and rips straight through the blood-soaked denim on Connor’s thigh. The fabric splits with a sickening sound. As we speed toward Ronan’s estate, he keeps cutting, exposing the wound fully.

When we arrive, the back door flies open and two more men rush forward to drag Connor inside. I scramble after them. The hallway is dark and Connor's blood leaves a trail on the wooden floors. They take us straight to a room lit like an operating theater. A woman waits beside the table in pale green scrubs, her dark hair pulled into a tight braid. She doesn’t speak or smile. She starts barking orders at the men as she pulls a mask over her face.

I stop just outside the door, breathing hard, watching strangers take over the care of the man I love. I’ve never felt more useless in my life.

The doctor doesn’t waste time. She slices away the remnants of his pants leg and leans over him with calm efficiency, her gloved hands already slick with iodine. She murmurs something to a man beside her, who passes her a needle and forceps.

Connor doesn’t make a sound until she begins to stitch. His eyes flick open, lips pulled tight in pain, but he stays quiet. I take a cautious step inside, then another, until I’m close enough totouch him. When I wrap my hand around his, his jaw unlocks just enough to exhale.

He doesn’t look at me, but his fingers close hard around mine.

The doctor works fast. The wound is deep but clean—entry and exit both visible. "It missed the artery by a few millimeters," she mutters, more to herself than to us. She lays a thick dressing over the stitches and wraps it tight with bandages while Connor lies still, every breath a struggle.

When she finishes, she nods once and peels off her gloves. "He’s stable. We’ll watch for infection. Keep him off that leg. Don’t move him for at least twelve hours." Her eyes study my face, and she sighs as she pulls her mask down. "Everyone out. Let them have a moment." Her hand rests on my bicep for a moment and she says, "My name's Maeve. If you need anything, you call me, okay?"

The room begins to clear. One by one, her team drifts out without comment. Maeve is the last to leave, glancing at me with something unreadable in her eyes before shutting the door.

I sit on the edge of the bed without speaking, but I'm crying softly. I stare at him, breathing through the tight coil in my chest. I almost lost him, and how would I have survived that?

His eyes drift to mine. "You’re still here."

I nod. "You scared the shit out of me."

"I figured it might be a trap," he says, voice hoarse.

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