Page 9 of The Heir's Defiance

He gives a short nod and settles into his chair. A server approaches quietly, a notebook in hand. She’s young, maybe early twenties, with short, dark hair pulled back beneath a clean black cap. She glances between us and gives a polite, practiced smile.

"Get you anything?" she asks.

Connor glances at my glass. "Same thing she’s having.” The server nods and disappears again, and I take a sip from my drink, watching him over the rim. The scar above his left eyebrow is distinct, but I didn't notice it the other night at the church. Under the fluorescent lighting here, it stands out. It makes me wonder where he got it, what sort of violence this man has seen.

“You thought I’d say no,” I finally say.

“I thought you wouldn’t answer,” he corrects. “Same thing.” He leans forward slightly, resting his forearms on the edge of the table, his fingers laced together calmly.

I take another sip. “Then why ask?”

“Wanted to see if you would.” He says it like it’s nothing, but his eyes don’t drift from mine.

I lean back in my chair. “So, what now?”

“We talk,” he says. Then he adds, "See where it goes." He glances over his shoulder as if double-checking for anyone paying too much attention, then refocuses on me. His hand adjusts the cuff of his sleeve. He’s giving himself something to do until the moment settles. Maybe he’s nervous like me.

The waitress returns with his drink a moment later. She sets the glass down gently, then gives us a quick glance and says, "Let me know if you need anything else." Her tone is polite but efficient, and she walks back toward the bar, already scanning the room for her next table.

Connor takes a sip, then glances at the shelves behind me lined with faded bottles and dusty books no one opens. “Ever been to The Brazen Head?” he asks.

I nod. “Once. My grandfather used to tell stories about it like it was sacred ground.”

“It’s barely holding itself up now,” he says. “But the music on Sundays is still good." He shifts his glass in a slow circle, watching the liquid move. "My dad used to take me there before he died," he says. "Before Ronan took over and everything got messy. Back then, it was just a place to sit and listen."

I watch him for a moment, trying to picture him as a boy small enough to be taken somewhere and not know the reason behind it. "My mum had a record player in the kitchen," I say. "It was always spinning. The Dubliners, Christy Moore… She'd hum along while cooking, never missed a beat." The memory is a fond one for me. I find myself feeling nostalgic.

He nods, sipping his drink. "We had a battered old stereo in the garage. My brother said the speakers were cursed because they only played Thin Lizzy and U2." His grin is priceless.

I laugh under my breath, and the sound surprises me. I'm finding myself so at ease with him and I'm enjoying it. But it feels sinful, knowing my father would likely kill Connor if he knew I was here. Probably skin me alive, too. "I used to sneak off to Whelan’s in year twelve," I say. "Told my da I was at study group. He’d have locked me in if he’d known."

"Whelan’s is sacred ground," he says, a small grin tugging at his mouth.

Our conversation takes on a natural pace. We speak easily, neither trying to impress nor avoid the obvious. I settle deeper into the chair, surprised at how little effort it takes to let the edge go. Connor relaxes too, like he finds it easy to be with me. He isn’t trying to impress me, and I find I don’t mind that.

The conversation drifts toward street names we both know, the corner of Capel Street where the buskers play, the bar that changes names every year but somehow stays open. That leads us to family—brief mentions at first, casual and vague, until it’s clear we both understand the weight behind our names. It isn’t long before we’re speaking about the life that came with them.

He sets his glass down, his expression shifting just slightly. "Ronan’s kid, he’s just over a year. Doesn’t even know he’s being raised for all this. Doesn’t know the world he’s already part of."

I shift in my chair and nod. "I used to think kids like him were lucky. Too young to understand any of it. Not anymore." I glance at Connor. "He’ll grow up before he has the chance to resist it. Like we did."

He studies me for a moment longer, and something in his expression shifts. I can see recognition cross his features. He understands me completely. He takes another drink, then rests the glass against the table without looking at it.

"Did you ever feel like you had a way out?" I ask, my voice low. My stomach is curled in knots because after defying my father and refusing to marry Artur Volkov, all I want is one fucking person to understand. Connor is giving off vibes that he might.

He exhales quietly. "Not really."

I nod once, then add, "Did you ever want one?"

His eyes flick up to meet mine. "Want it?" he repeats. "Feck yes. I’ve wanted out more times than I can count. Especially when I was younger."

His words wrap around me like a warm blanket, and I finally feel understood. "Same… Some days, I want out so badly, I feel like I might crack open just thinking about it. But wanting it doesn’t mean we get it, does it?"

He offers a slow, steady shake of his head, and it connects with me. "No, but it means you see the value in life."

My throat tightens. "It does." He has no idea how deeply I feel that in my gut, how badly I want the men in my life to see what value I have.

He runs his thumb along the rim of his glass as his eyes drop. He's pondering what I'm talking about, not shutting me down and telling me I have to be useful. So that's a start.

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