10. Nora
NORA
T he greenhouse is still humid when I return, though the sun has already begun to fade behind the hedges.
The heat clings to the glass panes like sweat.
Most of the plants are overgrown, crawling past the boundaries of their pots, leaves heavy with moisture and disuse.
Orla’s been told to keep it up, but I doubt she ever comes back here. No one does except me.
I tug the door closed behind me, then reach for the secateurs hanging on the hook beside the doorframe.
The rosemary needs trimming again, and the bellflowers are strangling the roots of something I don’t recognize anymore.
There’s comfort in pruning what’s grown wild.
At least here, I can decide what stays and what gets cut.
The meeting went long. My father’s men spoke in circles for two hours—maps, names, movements, whispers of Russian interest bleeding through the docks again. They think they’re being clever, but they’re just stalling. None of them want to admit they’re scared.
I wipe the sweat from my upper lip and cut away a clump of browned stems. The silence feels earned.
I could stay here another hour, lose myself in the rhythm of small blades and simpler choices, but if I did, Da would have my neck.
I've been made acutely aware that I'm no longer my own person.
I am a tool in his hand, whether or not I like it.
It might not be forced marriage, but it isn't what I want.
I leave the greenhouse after allowing my stress to fizzle out. By the time I make it back to the house, the halls have cooled. The lights are already dimmed. My heels click softly against the runner. Upstairs, the door to my room is cracked.
That’s new.
I push it open gently and a bouquet sits on the edge of the desk like it’s always belonged there.
Roses and hawthorn—out of season, out of place.
There’s no tag, no ribbon, no card tucked between the stems. But I know exactly who left it.
And I know exactly what it means. It brings a smile to my lips as I lightly touch the petals and think of his breath across my skin.
The hawthorn gives it away. No florist in Dublin would bother pairing it with roses this late in the year.
And no one in this house would dare leave it here without asking to enter my room.
I just don't know how he got in here or why he risked it.
Perhaps he paid someone—which is that much more dangerous, given how my father would react to a man inside his home being paid by an enemy.
My pulse rises in nervous excitement—not fear, but something sharp enough to make my fingers tremble slightly as I reach for the vase. The stems are fresh, probably cut this morning.
Connor O’Rourke doesn’t leave notes. He leaves hints, and I like where this one is going.
I carry the bouquet into the bathroom and slide it behind the linen cupboard, well out of sight. My father won’t miss what he doesn’t know to look for, and I will continue to enjoy the fragrant scent of the roses for as long as they stay fresh.
The moment I step back into the room, I hear Da's voice in the hall. Heavy footsteps. A scrape of his knuckle against the molding before he enters without knocking.
He never knocks.
His eyes sweep the room the way they always do, like he’s walking into a briefing, not his daughter’s bedroom. He doesn’t glance at the closet or the bed. His gaze lands on me and stays there.
"Callum says O’Rourke couldn’t keep his eyes off you," he says. I don’t answer. There’s nothing on my face to give him a reason to keep talking, but he does anyway. "At the memorial… Calm as a corpse, that one. Not like his brother. Too still. Makes you wonder."
I cross to the dresser and pretend to sift through a stack of folded scarves.
Anything to avoid meeting his eyes. "Maybe he’s just better trained," I offer casually, because I know why Connor couldn't keep his eyes off me now.
And I have to keep my back to my father to keep him from seeing the smile I try to hide.
"No," he says. "Men like him don’t do anything without intent. If he’s calm, it’s because he’s holding something back." He steps farther into the room, and the weight of him fills the space. "Is there something between you two?"
The question is expected, but it still hits with the weight of a sledgehammer on my chest. I turn toward him slowly. "Of course not." My hands are sweaty and they shake, so I fold them carefully in front of myself as I turn to face him.
He watches me with that same half-lidded stare he’s used since I was twelve. It used to make me stammer. Now it just makes me annoyed.
"Connor O’Rourke spoke nothing but formalities," I say. "He didn’t even look directly at me."
"That’s not what Callum saw." Da's lips purse in a glare as his eyes narrow further. I'm suddenly boiling hot, wanting to tie my hair up and sit on the roof outside my window.
"Then maybe Callum’s seeing ghosts," I reply, keeping my tone even. "There was nothing between us but distance."
He narrows his eyes. "You’re sure about that?"
I don’t let my expression shift. "I know when a man’s trying to make eyes at me, Da. Connor is a soldier trained to pay attention to things that stand out, and you sent a woman to do your job." The jab lands.
It sits in the air for a moment. Then he sniffs once and adjusts the cuff of his sleeve, the way he does when he’s trying not to look embarrassed. Or when he is disappointed and wants me to know.
"If he is trying something," he says, "we’ll know soon enough."
I nod once, but I can tell by the way his gaze lingers that he doesn’t buy it. Not entirely. He doesn’t say anything else—not directly. Instead, he moves to the window, stares out as if considering something bigger than me, then turns back.
"If he’s even half-interested," he says, quieter now, "we’re going to use it. You’ll make yourself useful, one way or another."
The shift in his tone is worse than shouting. This is the voice he uses when he’s already decided. When I’ve already lost the argument.
"Names. Weaknesses. Schedules. I don’t care how you get them," he adds. "If he’s looking your way, you’ll give him something to keep looking at. And when he’s close enough, we’ll pull what we need."
I keep my face still, give him the nod he wants.
I stand there for a moment, frozen. Part of me wants to scream.
Part of me wants to cry. But most of me just wants to burn something.
He didn’t yell, didn’t curse, didn’t lay hands on me—and somehow, that makes it worse.
It’s the calm that unsettles me. The way he spoke like I was already on the table, already traded, already in the net.
He doesn’t wait for a response from me. His shoes scuff against the hardwood as he turns and opens the door with too much force, lets it swing wide, then slams it behind him with just enough restraint to keep it from sounding like a threat. The sound still makes my jaw clench.
I could do what he wants. Smile pretty, gather details, serve up the O’Rourkes on a polished plate. I could do it all. But I won’t. Not like that. I'm not his fucking pawn. I'm a person with feelings and desires.
I cross the room and sit on the edge of the bed, phone clutched tightly in both hands. My thumbs hover over the screen, but I don’t type yet. I think of Connor’s face the night he found me on the patio. The way he watched me—not like an enemy, not like a threat, but like he was interested.
What would he say if he knew my father planned to use me to gut him from the inside out? Would he laugh? Walk away? Pull me closer just to see how deep the knife goes?
I stare at the empty text box, my pulse hammering too fast. If I send this, I’m not just reaching out—I’m stepping into the crossfire with no one behind me. But I want to see him. Not for strategy. Not for Da's orders. For me.
I type the words.
Nora 8:17 PM: We need to meet.
Then I hit Send and watch the screen go dark in my palm.