8. Nora
NORA
I hang up before I can second-guess myself. The phone screen goes black in my hand, but Connor’s voice still clings to the inside of my skull. That last thing he said—tell me when and where—lodges in my chest, causing a rise of energy that makes a smile spring to my lips.
I set the phone on my desk and stare at the wall for a long beat.
The shadows stretch across the floor, curling toward me like black fingers.
If I expect to get out of this house, I have to be a bit sneaky and underhanded.
There’s no way to do this without burning someone. So I pick someone who deserves it.
Liam McKenna isn’t the worst of my father’s men—but he’s not the best, either. And he made a big mistake. One I can use, one that will haunt him if he doesn't do what I tell him to do.
I pull open the bottom drawer of my desk and flip through the photos I keep hidden there—printouts, not digital.
I've been waiting for a reason to use these, much like the ones I would use in my teen years when I wanted to sneak out or stay out later than I was supposed to. One in particular slides out from the stack and lands face-up under the lamplight. I stare at it—Liam's hand on my mother’s hip, her face turned away from the camera, but his isn’t.
And there's no mistaking that it's her, either.
It'll do.
By the time I find him, he’s just finished his shift, jacket half-off, one foot already braced on the estate’s stone drive while he lights a cigarette. The sun’s dipped low enough that his shadow cuts across the pavement. He doesn’t see me until I’m a few steps away.
“Nora,” he says, voice flat with surprise. “Everything alright?” His forehead creases with concern, like he's going to jump on whoever might be threatening to harm me. He loves my mother, and his concern comes out toward me. But he won't like me after this.
“Not even a little.” I stop in front of him, arms crossed, photo folder in hand. He flicks ash onto the ground and straightens, suddenly alert.
“You need something?” His eyes narrow, and I smirk at him.
“Yes,” I say. “Keys. To the Wexford flat.”
He lets out a short, breathy laugh. “That place? It’s condemned.”
“No, it’s under a shell LLC your boss uses to shuffle money.” I tilt my head slightly. “You think I don’t know which buildings the family keeps off the books?”
His jaw works from side to side. “Why the hell would I hand over the keys to that place?”
“Because I’ll ruin you if you don’t.” My jaw sets, eyes squinting at him. I hope I look like a badass and not just his boss's daughter.
He stares at me—blinks once—and I let the folder drop open just enough for him to see the top photo.
His gaze lands hard, and something in him stutters.
“You don’t want to threaten me, Nora.” His voice is gravelly and low.
He thinks he can intimidate me and it will make me back off, but he's wrong—dead wrong.
“I don’t want to have to do this,” I reply, “but here we are.”
He doesn’t reach for the photo, doesn’t deny what it insinuates, just swears under his breath and glances toward the security post at the edge of the drive.
“You show that to your father and you’ll start a fire you can’t control.”
“I’m counting on it.” I'm grinning now because I have him right where I want him and he knows it.
I don't care that my mother fucks him behind my father's back.
I think the entire world would understand the position he has her in.
It's impossible. And like me, I think she's been mistreated.
Women in this world deserve better. But Liam?
He looks at me again, longer this time. His mouth opens, then shuts, and for one brief second, I think he might swing at me—then I remember I’m not a man, and that makes it easier for him to pretend this isn’t happening.
Besides, my father would have him gutted if he harmed me—even with our poor relationship.
“I’ll need to log it,” he mutters.
“You’ll do nothing of the sort.” I smile now, slow and full of teeth. “You’ll drive me there yourself. No log, no backup, no word to anyone. You're off duty, right? No one tracks you when you're off work.”
“You planning on dying in that apartment?” He's angry. I can see it in his eyes, but he knows I have him. He can't say no to me.
“Not tonight.”
He grinds out the cigarette on the stone and exhales through his nose. Then, quietly, “Fine.”
He goes to retrieve the keys without another word, and ten minutes later, I’m in the backseat of a nondescript black sedan with Liam behind the wheel. The city slips past outside—narrow turns, flickering streetlamps, a neon sign for a closed liquor store that hums even with no one there to see it.
He doesn’t speak until we’re five minutes from the flat. “You think this’ll buy you time?”
“I don’t need time. I need space.” He thinks I'm still on the hook for marrying Volkov and doesn't realize I've ended that arrangement permanently.
He doesn’t look at me. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Nora.”
“And you’re pretending you’re not…” Finally, his eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror and I can see how tame he is, like a caged wild animal. He can't do a thing about this.
Silence stretches again. His knuckles flex around the wheel. “She was the one who called me,” he mutters finally.
“I don’t care who called who.” My voice sharpens. “You think I’m holding this because I’m mad about the sex? You’re a fool. I’m holding this because you’re sloppy. And sloppy men are tools. I can use a tool.”
The street narrows ahead of us. He turns left without signaling and pulls into a short, cracked driveway that leads to a squat brick building with a rusted gate and no lights on. The place is quiet—too quiet. The kind of building you walk past without seeing.
He kills the engine.
“Give me your phone,” I say.
He hesitates, then pulls it from his jacket pocket and passes it back. I turn it off and tuck it into my coat.
“You’ll get it back when I’m done.”
“And when will that be?” he asks.
“When I say.” I glare at him and huff. “Come back at midnight. No sooner.”
I step out into the night. He doesn’t follow. He just stays in the driver’s seat, watching.
The keys are already in my hand. I cross to the door and slide one into the lock. It turns easier than I expected. I look over my shoulder to see the sedan's taillights vanishing in the distance and grin at myself for being so crafty.
Inside, the place is stripped bare but intact—cheap furniture, clean floor, no signs of recent use. Just what I need. I text Connor the address. Then I shut the door and lock it behind me and pace in front of the windows, waiting for headlights to show in the driveway again.
When the knock finally comes, I know it’s him. I open the door, and Connor steps inside without waiting for an invitation. His coat is half unbuttoned, his eyes dark this evening. He stalks in, and I shut the door behind him, suddenly feeling a bit shy.
My palms are instantly sweaty, tongue clinging to the roof of my mouth. I feel nervous, but I can't put my finger on why. It isn't like this is my first time, but it's definitely the first time I have openly defied my father in such a dangerous world.
I need a drink.
Without a word, I move to the kitchen and open a bottle of whiskey I find in the cabinet. There are two short glasses—thin, cheap crystal, but they’ll do. I pour for both of us, neat.
He takes the one I offer, and I don’t wait to see if he drinks it. I turn and walk toward the bedroom.
He follows, slower than I expect. At the threshold, I pause, glass still in hand.
"Is this… what I think it is?" I ask, not quite meeting his eyes. My voice is too steady to sound nervous, but I feel it low in my gut.
He doesn't play dumb. "Yeah. It is."
My breath catches, not out of fear but something else. Something sharper.
"You think this is smart?" I ask.
He takes a step closer. "No. But I think it’s inevitable."
His voice is low, smooth enough to unravel me. "You and me—we’ve got fire. You feel it. I do too. Why fight it when we could burn together?"
I don't answer with words. I shift my weight, eyes dragging over the sharp lines of his jaw, the way he’s watching me like he already knows what I’ll decide.
"You always talk this much when you’re about to make a mistake?" I murmur.
"Only when I’m hoping it won’t be one," he says.
Then he sets his glass down on the dresser, takes the last step between us, and kisses me—slowly and unapologetically.
I let him.
I can't resist him. His tongue glides over mine, and I feel it between my legs, hot and electric.
I bring my hands to his shirt, gripping the fabric tightly as the kiss deepens.
He needs no further invitation. His hands slide to my ass, forcing my body against his, and I can feel how hard he is.
I moan into his mouth, and now I'm the one who can't stop.
He breaks the kiss, but only for a second before his lips trail down my jawline, leaving fire in their wake.
He cups my ass, lifts me up onto the edge of the dresser, and in one fluid movement, he pushes up my skirt, baring my lower half.
His hands slide up my thighs, and he hooks two fingers around my panties on each hip and tugs them until they’re around my knees.
"You understand the rules, Nora," he says, his voice low and rough against my ear. "I'm not here to play nice. I'm here to make you beg."
I gasp in anticipation, my core aching for him. "Then do it," I dare him, spreading my legs farther apart, revealing myself. My panties drop to my ankles and I kick them off, and my heart thuds against my ribcage as I wait for his next move.