Page 51 of The Heir's Defiance

The breath I take isn’t steady. "Then why did you come?" He makes no sense, and I could wring his neck for taking such a risk. I bring his hand to my lips and kiss his bloody knuckles.

His gaze lingers on the ceiling. "Part of me hoped you were really there wanting me. That maybe if it came to it, you’d choose me over all of them."

I tighten my grip on his hand. "I did," I tell him, nodding. My eyes brim with tears and overflow again and again. "I did choose you."

He doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t let go. The room stays quiet. I want to lie down next to him and stay there for hours. But his phone buzzes from deep inside his pocket. He grimaces and grits his teeth, then growls, "I have to get that…"

Sensing his need, I stand and try to pry his pocket open to pull the phone out, but he swats my hands away. I'm not upset because I know he's in a lot of pain right now. And he's weak, probably from blood loss.

He frowns. "That’s your number."

My heart drops. "My dad still has my phone."

Connor reaches with effort, swiping the screen and bringing the phone to his ear. "Yeah."

The voice on the other end is sharp and loud enough that I can hear it. "My estate’s been hit—Russians. They leveled half the south wall and lit up the garage."

Connor’s face hardens. He looks up at me. "Casualties?" He's already sitting up, despite my hands trying to push him down. I can't hear what my father is saying, but I can't let this man go back into a fight so soon.

Connor ends the call and turns to me, jaw set. "We need to call Ronan. Right now."

I blink. "Why? No… Connor, you'll bleed out. Maeve said not to move for twelve hours."

He doesn’t flinch. "If there’s any leverage left in this war, Nora, it's when we stand together. And if there’s any chance at keeping both families breathing, it’s going to take all of us."

"No, Connor, please…"

Connor reaches for my hand again. This time, I don’t just take it. I hold on like it’s the only thing keeping me from shattering.

29

CONNOR

The tires scream under us as Nora jerks the wheel left, taking the corner sharp enough to lift the back tire off the road. Rubber burns behind us. The road to the Fitzpatrick estate stretches in front of us like a wound. The trees are backlit by fire. Black smoke churns upward in oily columns. The estate itself is mostly hidden—buried in chaos and muzzle flashes—but I can see the flames licking across the west wing.

My leg throbs with every pulse, the bandage Maeve wrapped soaked through before we even hit the gates. I told her I wouldn’t stay in that bed. She said I wouldn’t last five minutes. Right now, I’m proving us both right. The pain’s blinding—white-hot and full of warning—but I don’t stop because every second counts.

Nora drives like a maniac. Her grip on the wheel is too tight. Her face is a mask of fury and fear, eyes scanning ahead, never blinking.

"Slow down," I bark, gritting my teeth as the wheels fishtail over some gravel.

"You said get us there," she snaps, flicking her eyes toward me for half a second before refocusing. "So I’m getting us there."

She jerks the wheel again, narrowly missing a body in the road. One of her father’s men—face down, already cooling. Blood paints a long streak in his wake, but she doesn't seem to notice, or if she does, she has steeled herself so this won't affect her. She parks a ways off, under a large sprawling tree with only a few leaves left dangling.

"You stay in the car," I say, reaching for the handle, locking my eyes on her.

"Connor—" she starts, her voice cracking.

"I mean it. Stay," I insist in a direct order that feels more like hatred than the love I want to express to her. "I don’t know what’s left in there, but I can’t protect you if you follow."

She’s staring straight ahead, unmoving. Her fists are still clenched on the wheel. "If you don’t come back?—"

"I will," I say, cutting her off gently, and step out of the car. I can't waste time on sentimentality when my brothers are being slaughtered alongside her family. Ronan's car is here, Killian's too. I don't see them, but I hear plenty of gunshots and know things are superheated.

The gate’s already broken—metal twisted open. I move through it, gun drawn, the scream of distant gunfire still echoing off the stone walls. The front lawn is a battlefield. Smoke shrouds the hedges. Statues are shattered. The west wing is burning hard, windows blown out. I pass two bodies. One has no face left.

"Connor." Killian’s voice shouts from somewhere up ahead, strained and breathless. "We’re losing the east side."

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