5. Connor
CONNOR
T he gym lights buzz overhead as I step into the ring, the scuffed floor giving slightly under my boots.
Their hum blends with the muted thud of gloves hitting bags in the far corners.
It’s late enough that most of the regulars have cleared out, leaving only the ones who have something left to burn off.
Killian circles me in the ring, his gloves loose at his sides. His mouthguard flashes when he grins, all teeth and no humor.
"You're slow today," he says, throwing a jab I barely deflect. "Thinking too hard."
I roll my shoulders, shift my stance. "Maybe you're just getting faster."
He snorts through his nose and comes at me again, a clean one-two combination that grazes my guard. I block most of it, but the second shot clips my ribs just enough to sting. I grunt and step back, feeling the throb bloom under my arm.
"You need to focus," Killian says, not letting up. "Your enemies sure as hell will."
I know he’s right. I know I should be seeing his punches before he throws them, reading the shifts in his shoulders, the tension in his hips.
But every time I blink, I see Nora Fitzpatrick, standing on the church patio like she didn’t belong , like she might never belong anywhere if she can help it.
That look in her eyes—sharp, uncertain, not afraid—sticks harder than any hit Killian could land.
He feints left, hooks right. I take it on the shoulder and drive forward, catching him in the ribs with a short punch that makes him grunt.
Not clean or pretty, but enough to remind him that I’m still here.
We break apart, gloves low, breathing harder.
"You done ?" Killian asks, spitting his mouthguard into his hand. He uses the back of his arm to mop up sweat and sucks in a few breaths.
I shrug, pulling off my gloves and dropping them on the mat. "Maybe."
Killian climbs through the ropes and tosses his gear onto a bench. I follow, muscles tight and burning, the kind of ache that tells you it was a good workout.
We walk toward the racks, and he tosses me a towel and leans back against the wall, wiping sweat from his forehead with the hem of his shirt.
"Heard something interesting," he says, casual enough that it should set off alarms.
I wipe my face and wait without responding.
"Word is," he continues, "Nora’s engagement is officially dead."
I keep my face still, my movements even, but the words hit harder than any punch he threw tonight.
"Thought it was dead weeks ago," I say. The alliance between the Fitzpatricks and the Russians isn't news to me.
And hearing a young woman buck her father's orders to marry someone for reasons isn't unheard of.
But I didn't fully trust the news that she was resisting.
"Official now," Killian says, watching me too closely. "Russians aren’t pleased. Fitzpatricks are scrambling."
I wipe my forehead and toss the towel onto the bench and grab a bottle of water. The cap creaks under my fingers as I twist it off. "Doesn’t change anything," I say, but something inside me knots up at the idea that Nora isn't spoken for anymore.
"Sure," Killian says in that way that means he doesn’t believe it.
I down half the bottle in one pull and let the water cool the back of my throat. My mind’s already moving ahead, working the angles I don’t want to admit exist. If her engagement is broken, it means she’s no longer promised. No longer bound. It means she’s vulnerable.
And I hate how fast my gut reacts to the thought.
"Just thought you’d want to know," Killian says, pushing off the wall.
He doesn’t press it. He’s smarter than that.
We strip the tape from our hands in silence. The lights overhead give off a dull flicker, casting pale stripes across the floor. The ring sits empty behind us, the ropes sagging a little under their own weight. We hit the showers, change fast, and head for the door without saying much.
Outside, the night has settled in deep. I make my way across the lot where Kirk waits with the car already running.
He steps out to open the back door without a word.
I slide in, the seat still holding the last of the day’s heat, and let the silence ride with me.
There’s too much in my head, and none of it I’m ready to speak aloud.
The drive back to the estate is quick. Kirk keeps his eyes on the road, and I don’t fill the silence. My mind is still back at the gym, remembering what Killian said about Nora, circling the shape of her face.
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.