28. Nora
NORA
E verything freezes.
My arms extend fully, body forming a barrier in front of Connor.
I can feel the tremble in my thighs, the unstable quiver in my calves, but I lock my knees and hold my ground.
His weight slumps behind me. Blood flows warm and steady through the denim at his thigh.
My father’s gun stays raised, unwavering, his focus locked on the space where Connor and I meet. He sees betrayal. I see survival.
"You have to go through me first," I say.
My voice cracks down the middle. Metallic pain pools in my mouth from biting my tongue earlier.
The warehouse hangs in silence, too quiet for a place built to echo.
There are no approaching footsteps, no shouted orders.
The shadows hold their weight in eerie stillness.
Even the seagulls outside have fallen silent.
I don’t blink. I track my father’s hands, watch for the tremor, the tilt, the moment he decides to fire. But all I see is calculation—his mind weighing the shot. Weighing me.
The warehouse doors slam open with a sound that splits the air like a crack of thunder.
Steel groans and bangs against concrete as Ronan enters, flanked by five men dressed in black.
Their movements are synchronized and efficient, and my chest trembles with relief as soon as I see the whites of their eyes.
They're more than bodyguards—they're soldiers, trained and lethal.
They fan out immediately, using the crates for cover, rifles raised and locked on their targets.
The Fitzpatricks respond immediately, lifting their weapons in a collective motion that tightens the atmosphere like a noose around my fucking neck.
Every man in the building chooses a side in the span of a heartbeat.
Ronan doesn’t raise a gun. He doesn’t flinch. He walks straight into the center of the chaos with deliberate steps and a presence that carves space around him.
I don't lower my arms yet, though they're not doing much shielding of Connor's body. I glance at him and see his eyes shut, head rested back, and my heart leaps into my throat. I don't want him to die.
"We end it here, Seamus. Or we all lose."
Ronan delivers the words flatly, without heat or volume, but they cut just the same. His expression is hard, and he stops just short of the invisible line drawn between our families and waits.
Behind me, Connor shifts. His body jerks once, a breath caught in his throat.
I don’t move, but I look down, just enough to catch the way his leg twitches beneath him.
Blood continues to puddle on the ground under him.
His chest rises shallowly, and his head lolls against the pallets.
I don’t touch him—I can’t risk it. My stance has to stay solid, arms still raised.
But I count his breaths. I watch the stagger of them and hold onto that fragile rhythm.
He’s still breathing. He hasn’t stopped fighting yet.
Another man steps out from Ronan’s flank and keeps his weapon lowered, but his stance is coiled. His gaze lands on Connor, then moves to me, then to my father. He’s waiting, too. Not for orders—for the break to get to his friend and help him.
My father doesn’t move.
Ronan’s tone sharpens. "You'll never shoot your daughter, and Connor is my brother. If either of them dies here, the Russians won’t need to choose sides. They’ll collect the scraps of our war and turn them into their empire. We’ll be gone. Names on gravestones, if we’re lucky."
I admire how confident he is, standing in front of a man with a loaded weapon who could pull the trigger at any second and he doesn't even flinch. I, on the other hand, am ready to piss myself.
"Da, please…" I whimper, arms feeling heavy.
The air thickens, presses against my skin. I can hear the distant hum of a boat engine somewhere on the water. The flicker in my father’s eyes returns, assessing the cost. Deciding whether I’m still worth protecting. Whether Connor’s worth eliminating.
Then a scowl rolls across his face and he lowers his gun slowly, but his finger remains on the trigger.
The motion is slow, every second stretched taut with tension. His fingers uncurl from the grip like he’s peeling away a part of himself. He never once looks at me.
Ronan nods once, but his men don’t relax. Their rifles remain at the ready, barrels trained on the men surrounding my da who now stand in the open.
Ronan doesn’t look away from my father. He doesn’t lift his chin or his voice. "You’ve had your shot, Seamus. Stand down."
My father snorts. "That so? You barge into my docks with your thugs and think I’ll heel like a dog?"
Ronan steps forward, slowly and deliberately. "No. I think you’ll choose what’s left of your legacy over a pissing contest you won’t survive."
The men hold their positions. Guns stay up, but the constant motion stills, replaced by a frozen readiness. But the terse moment is fading, and discussion has started.
"Don’t mistake my patience for weakness," my father says. "You brought war to my doorstep."
"You nearly murdered your daughter," Ronan replies, tone steady. "We'll call it even."
"I didn’t shoot her," Da grumbles, and I'm not sure how to take that.
"Because you knew what it’d cost." Ronan nods at me, and I turn to look down at Connor.
His mouth opens, a groan escaping. The sound breaks something in me. I drop to one knee beside him and cradle his jaw with both hands. "I need help over here," I shout, ignoring the thick air still choking the room. "Oh God, baby, it's gonna be okay. Please!" I screech.
One of Ronan's men moves first. One of Da's men takes a half-step forward, but my father lifts a hand. "Let them go."
Ronan's man moves fast. He crouches beside Connor and speaks in a low voice lost to me.
Connor shifts again, his weight collapsing into mine.
His leg falters when they try to lift him, and I cling to his side.
"Oh, God, will he be okay?" I'm whimpering and crying as they lug him out. I won’t release him.
I grip his waist, wedge my shoulder under his arm, and hold on. His blood seeps into my jeans. Each step toward the warehouse doors paints the floor in thick red smears.
My father doesn’t move. He watches us pass. His expression remains blank, but something flickers in his eyes—maybe anger, maybe grief. Definitely not remorse.
"You’ll get nothing else from this," he mutters, the words aimed at Ronan. Each syllable lands with finality.
"Just stay out of our way," Ronan answers.
There is no handshake or nod. No gesture of closure. Only retreat. We walk away to the sound of Connor’s pained breathing and the slap of blood-wet boots against concrete.
"Here," someone says and shoves a bundled jacket into my hands. I press it hard against Connor’s leg. His face contorts in pain, lips pale, jaw clenched, but still he doesn’t scream.
They load him into the back of the sedan and I climb in beside him.
The door slams shut behind us. In the dark of the cabin, I reach for his hand.
His fingers find mine and lock around them with desperate strength.
I brush my thumb over Connor’s knuckles. "We’ve got you. You’re safe now."
His lips part like he wants to answer, but only a breath escapes.
This isn’t peace. It’s a pause, a fragile window carved out between the chaos, just long enough for us to flee.
Nothing has been resolved. No trust has been earned.
The blood on my hands speaks louder than any promise.
We didn't resolve anything. We just escaped.
And now my da knows where I stand for good.
"Get us to Ro's house now," the man who carried Connor barks. He shoves me out of the way, flicks open a blade, and rips straight through the blood-soaked denim on Connor’s thigh. The fabric splits with a sickening sound. As we speed toward Ronan’s estate, he keeps cutting, exposing the wound fully.
When we arrive, the back door flies open and two more men rush forward to drag Connor inside.
I scramble after them. The hallway is dark and Connor's blood leaves a trail on the wooden floors. They take us straight to a room lit like an operating theater. A woman waits beside the table in pale green scrubs, her dark hair pulled into a tight braid. She doesn’t speak or smile.
She starts barking orders at the men as she pulls a mask over her face.
I stop just outside the door, breathing hard, watching strangers take over the care of the man I love. I’ve never felt more useless in my life.
The doctor doesn’t waste time. She slices away the remnants of his pants leg and leans over him with calm efficiency, her gloved hands already slick with iodine. She murmurs something to a man beside her, who passes her a needle and forceps.
Connor doesn’t make a sound until she begins to stitch. His eyes flick open, lips pulled tight in pain, but he stays quiet. I take a cautious step inside, then another, until I’m close enough to touch him. When I wrap my hand around his, his jaw unlocks just enough to exhale.
He doesn’t look at me, but his fingers close hard around mine.
The doctor works fast. The wound is deep but clean—entry and exit both visible. "It missed the artery by a few millimeters," she mutters, more to herself than to us. She lays a thick dressing over the stitches and wraps it tight with bandages while Connor lies still, every breath a struggle.
When she finishes, she nods once and peels off her gloves.
"He’s stable. We’ll watch for infection.
Keep him off that leg. Don’t move him for at least twelve hours.
" Her eyes study my face, and she sighs as she pulls her mask down.
"Everyone out. Let them have a moment." Her hand rests on my bicep for a moment and she says, "My name's Maeve.
If you need anything, you call me, okay? "
The room begins to clear. One by one, her team drifts out without comment. Maeve is the last to leave, glancing at me with something unreadable in her eyes before shutting the door.
I sit on the edge of the bed without speaking, but I'm crying softly. I stare at him, breathing through the tight coil in my chest. I almost lost him, and how would I have survived that?
His eyes drift to mine. "You’re still here."
I nod. "You scared the shit out of me."
"I figured it might be a trap," he says, voice hoarse.
The breath I take isn’t steady. "Then why did you come?" He makes no sense, and I could wring his neck for taking such a risk. I bring his hand to my lips and kiss his bloody knuckles.
His gaze lingers on the ceiling. "Part of me hoped you were really there wanting me. That maybe if it came to it, you’d choose me over all of them."
I tighten my grip on his hand. "I did," I tell him, nodding. My eyes brim with tears and overflow again and again. "I did choose you."
He doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t let go. The room stays quiet. I want to lie down next to him and stay there for hours. But his phone buzzes from deep inside his pocket. He grimaces and grits his teeth, then growls, "I have to get that…"
Sensing his need, I stand and try to pry his pocket open to pull the phone out, but he swats my hands away. I'm not upset because I know he's in a lot of pain right now. And he's weak, probably from blood loss.
He frowns. "That’s your number."
My heart drops. "My dad still has my phone."
Connor reaches with effort, swiping the screen and bringing the phone to his ear. "Yeah."
The voice on the other end is sharp and loud enough that I can hear it. "My estate’s been hit—Russians. They leveled half the south wall and lit up the garage."
Connor’s face hardens. He looks up at me. "Casualties?" He's already sitting up, despite my hands trying to push him down. I can't hear what my father is saying, but I can't let this man go back into a fight so soon.
Connor ends the call and turns to me, jaw set. "We need to call Ronan. Right now."
I blink. "Why? No… Connor, you'll bleed out. Maeve said not to move for twelve hours."
He doesn’t flinch. "If there’s any leverage left in this war, Nora, it's when we stand together. And if there’s any chance at keeping both families breathing, it’s going to take all of us."
"No, Connor, please…"
Connor reaches for my hand again. This time, I don’t just take it. I hold on like it’s the only thing keeping me from shattering.