12. Nora
NORA
I wake with the taste of Connor still on my lips.
My heart hasn’t slowed. Even in sleep, it ran riot, caught in the pulse he left behind.
Even breathing feels tight in my chest. Every inch of me remembers the press of his mouth, the grit of his voice, the way the words came low and sharp.
When a man stakes a claim, that claim belongs to him.
He didn’t mean possession—not the way Artur used to sneer it. Not the way my father taught it, one cold handshake at a time. Artur thought ownership meant shutting a woman up and holding her captive. Connor doesn’t want me silent. He wants me awake—reckless. And I’m close to answering.
My phone sits facedown on the nightstand, half buried beneath a silk scarf. I reach for it without thinking, screen lighting my face in the dim room. My thumbs pause only long enough to consider what I might say with no thought of the consequence if I get caught.
Nora 6:12 AM: Still sure?
I set the phone down on the nightstand and walk barefoot across the floor.
The tiles in the ensuite are icy. I sit on the toilet, tugging my robe tighter while I wait for my bladder to empty.
The air smells faintly of lavender soap and the lemon cleanser the maid insists on using.
My hands are cold against my knees, and I shiver.
When I return, the screen is already lit.
Connor 6:13 AM: You’ll be the death of me.
I smile faintly. Then I respond to him with that same giddy feeling swirling in my chest.
Nora 6:13 AM: Meet me at the flat above Kavanagh’s. Noon. Use the back stairs.
Nora 6:14 AM: Wear something I can ruin.
I don't send hearts or emojis. It's not my style. I'm not sure what type of woman Connor likes, but I hope it's me.
I cross the room toward the sunlight peeking over the horizon, wrapping my robe tight against the early chill.
The windows are still dim with morning haze.
Somewhere below, Orla’s started the kettle.
I can hear the low clang of a pan, the lazy hum of a kitchen waking up.
But here in my room, it’s quiet enough that I can still hear Connor's gruffly spoken words.
Maybe he means it, maybe not, but a man who says he's staking a claim for me, for my heart, brings hope to my otherwise dreary outlook on life.
I know I don't have to marry Artur, but who will my father dream up next?
And what sort of ridiculous jobs is he going to send me to do until then? I'm not stupid. My life is not my own.
I open the wardrobe and pull out clothes without thought, laying them across the chair.
I choose a loose blouse and a pair of soft jeans—neither too girly nor too plain.
My hands move through the motions of routine, but my mind won’t settle.
There’s a thrum beneath my skin that keeps my pulse high and my head full of all sorts of thoughts.
Two days ago, my father said something in passing, grumbling under his breath. It was the kind of remark that seems to be offhand but was meant to lodge itself deep in my chest.
"If the Russians smell blood, they’ll move in like wolves."
At the time, I thought he was posturing, trying to scare me back into obedience.
But now it echoes harder. I know how I'd feel if I were rejected in an arrangement like that, especially if I were looking forward to it.
So I can imagine how offended Volkov and his family must be.
It's not my fault, but I feel entirely to blame. This was Da's doing—he set up the arrangement, and now the Russians aren’t happy I’ve backed out.
If they view it as a public insult, they won’t just retaliate against him.
They’ll look for the weakest link, the clearest path to humiliation.
That might be Connor. They’ve seen us speak.
They’ve seen how he looks at me—because if my father knew, I'm sure they do too. If they suspect he matters to me, they’ll exploit it.
That thought settles like stone in my stomach, heavier than any shame.
By the time I’ve dressed and brushed my teeth, the kettle’s whistling and the scent of toast drifts up the stairwell.
I tug on my boots and make my way down. Orla is already at the stove, plating breakfast with the same quiet efficiency she’s always had.
When I step into the kitchen, she sets down a plate in front of me.
Eggs, toast, mushrooms—comfort food she makes when she knows I'm upset. She doesn’t speak beyond the usual pleasantries.
She just brushes a hair from my sleeve and offers a small smile.
“You look better rested today, Miss.”
I lie. “I am.” The truth is I barely slept.
I stayed awake long after the lights were off, staring at the ceiling and thinking of Connor.
Not just his hands or the way his voice slid under my skin, but what he represents.
I was raised to follow orders, to sit still and smile when told.
But the moment I met with him to "talk", I stepped out of line—and now I’m sprinting.
One small act of rebellion has thrown me into something bigger than I can control. It terrifies me. But it also feels exhilarating, more real than anything I’ve touched in years. I don’t know where it leads, but for once, I want to follow it anyway. Even if it ends in fire.
Orla pours the tea with a polite nod. My mother’s already seated at the other end, spine straight, fingers loose around her porcelain cup. She doesn’t look up as I sit. We eat in quiet for a moment. Forks clicking. Steam curling from the rim of the China.
Then, softly, I say it. "He wants me to reconsider Artur."
Just saying his name makes my chest tighten.
My father’s fixation on that match was never about me.
It was about power, appearances, and convenience.
He saw me as a solution, not a person. I’ve swallowed that for years, biting my tongue through dinners, handshakes, and measured silences.
But now the bitterness is harder to contain.
He would’ve handed me over without hesitation, without even asking if I could stomach the man. And when I refused, it wasn’t seen as courage. It was disobedience. I know he’s already thinking about what it’ll cost to keep me in line. And worse, who he might try to trade me to next.
Her eyes lift—only slightly. “Of course he does.”
“I won’t.”
She pauses, lets out the smallest exhale, and sets her cup down with a practiced grace. “Sometimes, we don’t get to want what we want, Nora.”
“Then what? Let him trade me like cattle? Because it keeps the ports cleaner?”
She doesn’t answer right away, just stares into her tea like it might offer a gentler truth.
“You think he’ll listen to me?” I ask.
“No. But you should respect him anyway. That doesn’t mean you have to agree, but it does mean you shouldn’t make him your enemy.”
I shake my head. The tea burns my throat going down, but I don’t stop drinking. When I stand, she doesn’t stop me. That’s her version of agreement—or surrender. I can never tell which.
I thank Orla and slip out without slamming the door. The walk back to my room is quiet except for the sound of my own pulse beating a steady, dangerous rhythm.
By mid-morning, I’m in the garden with pruning shears, snipping back the dead leaves from the thyme and rosemary.
The sun’s higher now, enough to warm the stone path beneath my feet, but I don’t stay long.
My mind isn’t on the herbs or the buds struggling to bloom at the edge of the bed.
I move through the motions—cut, clear, water—but nothing roots.
Back inside, I curl up in the window seat with a novel I’ve already read twice. The words blur. My eyes drift from the page to the sky, watching a pair of pigeons battle for space on the power lines. Even they seem desperate for territory.
When the clock ticks past eleven, I make my move. Liam is posted near the east corridor, too visible to approach outright, so I drop a scarf down the laundry chute—one of the ones he’s seen me wear. Thirty seconds later, he appears at the side door.
“You know I’m on the clock,” he mutters, not meeting my eye.
“I’m aware. You still have a key to Kavanagh’s, don’t you?”
He hesitates, then pulls it from his pocket, and I reach for it. “You’re going to get me killed one day,” he says.
“I haven’t yet.”
He shakes his head, but he lets me go. We take his car.
I stay low in the back seat as he pulls through the gate without a word.
This blackmail thing is working well, though he's right.
I could get us both killed if Da finds out what's really happening.
I could take advantage of his insistence that I be useful, tell him that I'm meeting with Connor, but where would be the fun in that?
The drive doesn’t take long. Liam parks in the alley and nods once before pulling away.
I let myself in through the rear stairwell, each creak on the steps swallowed by the old building's silence. The flat is cold and still. I flip the latch, draw the curtains, and breathe. Five minutes later, I hear the knock—just once. Connor’s here.
I cross the room and open the door. His shoulders fill the doorway, breath curling in the cold air behind him. Before he can speak, I grab the collar of his coat and pull him inside. My mouth finds his before the door swings shut.
Connor's hands fly to my hips, his grip tightening as if he's newly awakened from a long hibernation.
Heat rises between us, the temperature in the room seeming to spike several degrees in an instant.
The air is thick with desire and desperation, each caress and kiss a furtive secret.
Pulling away, I lead him to the couch, and we tumble together onto the threadbare fabric.