6. Nora
NORA
T he bar is beneath a bookshop on Parliament Street, through an unmarked door and down a narrow set of stairs that still smell faintly of old wood and aged whiskey.
I picked it because no one talks here. Because it’s the kind of place that lives in whispers and wood grain, where the staff know not to ask questions and the regulars pretend not to know names.
I take a seat in the corner, back to the wall, facing the entrance. The table is too polished and a little small, close enough that conversation stays quiet and no one else can hear it. A half-measure of scotch rests in front of me, the good kind, peated and heavy. I haven’t touched it yet.
He’s late, but not by much. Just long enough for me to consider leaving and to start wondering why I agreed to meet him in the first place.
I adjust the collar of my coat and smooth the front of my dress, a dark wool wrap I picked for its simplicity.
It matches the kind of place this is—quiet, tucked away, not meant to draw attention.
I check my phone again. No new messages, just the invitation from him sitting there on the screen, short and to the point.
I replied with the location and a time, nothing more. I didn’t explain why I chose the place or whether I planned to stay long. I gave him just enough to find me if he decided not to change his mind.
When Connor walks in three minutes late, he doesn’t hesitate or scan the room like someone unsure of his surroundings.
He spots me right away and makes his way over.
I watch him walk and admire his chiseled jawline and the way his eyes hunt me as he approaches.
His coat is dark, collar turned up against the cold, and his expression stays guarded until he’s close enough to sit.
“Good choice,” he says, taking the seat across from me. “Didn’t know places like this still existed.”
“They don’t,” I say. “Not for most people.”
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.
"Sometimes, I think I could’ve studied abroad," I say. "Gotten out before my father arranged for me to marry Volkov. I had one application halfway filled out before Da found it. He didn’t speak to me for a week. When he finally did, he asked me who I thought I was."
Connor watches me with an unreadable expression, and I sigh and let my head drop.
"I used to think I’d end up working with horses.
There was this stable just outside Wicklow.
I volunteered there one summer before Ronan pulled me into the business.
For a little while, I thought I could stay there.
But the world has a way of forcing you back. "
I take a long sip from my glass and set it down carefully. "Yeah. It does."
Connor shifts in his seat a little closer, like the space between us suddenly feels unnecessary. His eyes flick to mine, where they linger as he studies me. He seems steady, grounded in the moment, but there’s something else in his expression too.
I lean forward slightly, elbow resting on the edge of the table. I don’t mean it as a signal, but his gaze follows the movement.
“I don’t talk like this with anyone,” I tell him. “Not my brothers. Not anyone in my family.”
“Me neither,” he replies. His voice is just a gravelly scratch I can barely hear. “That’s the thing about people like us. The whole world wants performance from us, not to hear what we feel.”
My head dips in a slow nod, and I look up at him through my lashes. There’s a warmth spreading through my chest and it has nothing to do with the scotch. It’s him—his presence, the strange safety I feel here with him. It's like I'm being sucked into his gravity, and I don't even try to resist it.
He runs a hand along the back of his neck and then rests it on the table, fingers inches from mine. “You’re easy to talk to,” he says. It’s not a line. He's just being honest, and it lands heavier because of how real he's being with me.
“You’re not what I expected,” I say. One shoulder bobs as I lean farther over the table, wetting my lips. My core pulses with warmth, and my hands feel sweaty. It's almost like the moment is supercharged with static, waiting for the spark when we touch.
“What did you expect?” Connor lifts one corner of his mouth in a wry smirk.
I hesitate. “Someone harder. Someone who’d look at me like I’m a threat. You know, a bad boy."
His mouth lifts just slightly. “Maybe you are.”
"What?" I ask, confused. I narrow my eyebrows and he leans in farther.
"A threat…" His breath dusts my face lightly. He smells like the whiskey he's been drinking, and I breathe him in hoping he doesn't back away.
“And maybe you like that.” I swallow hard, examining every inflection of his face as he gets so close I swear he could bite me.
The silence between us tightens, but not in a bad way. It hums with electric charge that threatens to consume us both. I lean in a little more. So does he. The kiss is slow at first—exploratory, like we're both checking to see whether this is real.
His hand brushes mine before he grabs it outright and pulls me gently to my feet. My chair scrapes softly against the floor as I rise, heart pounding. He doesn’t let go. Instead, he guides me around the table, his eyes never leaving mine.
When I reach his side, he pulls me close, his hand finding my hip. I brace one hand on his shoulder, the other slipping instinctively to the back of his neck as our mouths meet for a second time.
It’s messier this time—hungrier. The kind of kiss you feel in your ribs, where breathing becomes optional. I lower onto his lap, straddling him, and let his hands greedily search my back and sides.
When we finally break apart, our breathing is ragged. Our lips are swollen, our faces flushed. We stay close, foreheads nearly touching, the heat between us refusing to fade. Neither of us speaks right away. We just sit there, glued to each other, both reluctant to let reality come crashing in.
"What are we doing?" I ask, breathless.
"How the feck am I supposed to know?" Connor asks, eyes bouncing from my lips and up to meet my gaze.
His hands rest on my hips and pull me down hard.
I feel him swelling, and it makes me want to do so many bad things.
But my hands splay on his chest, press lightly, and he loosens his grip. "I could drive you home," he offers.
"And let my father see?" I chuckle softly, lean down and kiss him again, nipping his lower lip, then smile and lean back.
He reaches for my hand again, but I pull back slightly and shake my head. “If they saw me getting out of your car… they’d bury us both.”
Connor’s smile fades, replaced by something quieter. He nods once. “Yeah,” he says. “You’re right.”
I hate how true it is. And I hate that I mean it. Because right now, I really, really like this man who is supposed to be entirely off-limits, and I'm going to have a hell of a time convincing my heart not to want him.