29. Connor
CONNOR
T he tires scream under us as Nora jerks the wheel left, taking the corner sharp enough to lift the back tire off the road.
Rubber burns behind us. The road to the Fitzpatrick estate stretches in front of us like a wound.
The trees are backlit by fire. Black smoke churns upward in oily columns.
The estate itself is mostly hidden—buried in chaos and muzzle flashes—but I can see the flames licking across the west wing.
My leg throbs with every pulse, the bandage Maeve wrapped soaked through before we even hit the gates.
I told her I wouldn’t stay in that bed. She said I wouldn’t last five minutes.
Right now, I’m proving us both right. The pain’s blinding—white-hot and full of warning—but I don’t stop because every second counts.
Nora drives like a maniac. Her grip on the wheel is too tight. Her face is a mask of fury and fear, eyes scanning ahead, never blinking.
"Slow down," I bark, gritting my teeth as the wheels fishtail over some gravel.
"You said get us there," she snaps, flicking her eyes toward me for half a second before refocusing. "So I’m getting us there."
She jerks the wheel again, narrowly missing a body in the road.
One of her father’s men—face down, already cooling.
Blood paints a long streak in his wake, but she doesn't seem to notice, or if she does, she has steeled herself so this won't affect her.
She parks a ways off, under a large sprawling tree with only a few leaves left dangling.
"You stay in the car," I say, reaching for the handle, locking my eyes on her.
"Connor—" she starts, her voice cracking.
"I mean it. Stay," I insist in a direct order that feels more like hatred than the love I want to express to her. "I don’t know what’s left in there, but I can’t protect you if you follow."
She’s staring straight ahead, unmoving. Her fists are still clenched on the wheel. "If you don’t come back?—"
"I will," I say, cutting her off gently, and step out of the car. I can't waste time on sentimentality when my brothers are being slaughtered alongside her family. Ronan's car is here, Killian's too. I don't see them, but I hear plenty of gunshots and know things are superheated.
The gate’s already broken—metal twisted open.
I move through it, gun drawn, the scream of distant gunfire still echoing off the stone walls.
The front lawn is a battlefield. Smoke shrouds the hedges.
Statues are shattered. The west wing is burning hard, windows blown out.
I pass two bodies. One has no face left.
"Connor." Killian’s voice shouts from somewhere up ahead, strained and breathless. "We’re losing the east side."
"On my way," I reply, pushing forward with more speed. I'm limping hard, and I can feel fresh blood oozing down my inner thigh. If I don't die here tonight, Maeve will kill me for ignoring her orders.
"They’re flanking us fast," Killian adds, and I glance up to a window overhead to see him leaning out. "Your girl's father is pinned in his study. I’ve got three of ours still inside."
I move up the steps, each lurch of my injured leg drawing fire down to the bone. The front door is half off its hinges. I shoulder it aside with a grunt.
The entryway is scorched. One chandelier has dropped to the floor in a mess of broken gold and crystal. The hallway beyond it is choked with smoke. I smell burning flesh, gun smoke, the copper tang of blood.
I take the stairs two at a time, panting hard. Every inch of me feels slower than it should, but I push through it. Through the pain. Through the smoke. Through the image of Nora sitting in the car, waiting for a man who may not come back.
Killian meets me at the corridor junction. He’s a wreck—blood on his jaw, sweat streaking his shirt. He nods once, eyes sharp.
"They’re breaching the rear wall of the study," he says quickly, motioning to the hallway. "Two on the stairwell, one on the balcony. We’ve got to clear the hallway first."
"Then let’s move," I say, lifting my weapon.
We move together. I cover right, he takes left. A Russian steps into view with a silenced pistol—I shoot him before he finishes turning, his body slamming against the wall. Another opens fire from behind a shattered column. Killian hits him clean through the eye.
We sweep the corridor, room by room. One of the Fitzpatrick guards is still alive, crouched behind a tipped-over cabinet, clutching his stomach.
"Help’s here," I say, crouching to drag him into the corner. I press a weapon into his palm. "Keep the hallway. We’ll clear the study."
He nods, blood running down his chin, eyes wild. He may not have much longer, but I know he'll fight to the death. It may buy us a few extra seconds if we have to retreat fast.
The study doors are half-open. I see flashes inside—movement, gun barrels, the crack of close-range fire.
Seamus is yelling, pinned behind the heavy desk with barely a foot of cover.
Four Russians still move inside the study—two by the window, one behind the overturned armchair, and another flanking the bookshelf.
The room’s a warzone—books shredded, floor slick with blood, wood splintered from ricochets.
Ronan and two of our men are pushing in from the west hall, coming in hot through the smoke.
I hear more shots behind us, Killian’s reinforcements finally cutting through the hallway resistance.
The Russians know they’re surrounded now.
They’re fighting harder, not smarter—desperate, spraying rounds with wild abandon.
One of them lets a spray of bullets go toward the west, forcing Ronan to duck back. The shots rock the wall, raining debris across the corridor. Killian throws a signal—three fingers up. We’ve got one shot at this. We hit hard, clean, and fast.
Seamus is running low on ammo. I can see it in the way he pauses between rounds. He’s not yelling orders anymore—just staying alive long enough for us to clear a path.
We breach fast. Killian throws the door wide and fires a burst into the back wall. I follow, taking the left. Two Russians inside—one mid-reload, the other already aiming at Seamus.
"Down!" I shout as I shoot the first one twice in the chest. He drops before his clip hits the ground.
The second tries to run, but Killian’s already there, knife drawn, driving it straight through his spine.
Seamus is hunched behind the desk. His left arm is useless—blood pours from a gash at the bicep. His right hand still clutches a pistol.
"You’re late," he snarls, breaths ragged.
"You’re welcome," I mutter, crossing the room. He tries to stand but sways. I catch him by the shoulder. "Save the pride for later," I say, stabilizing him. "You’re bleeding like a stuck pig."
He knocks my hand away with a grunt but doesn’t stand again.
Behind us, glass shatters. The final Russian drops into the study from the ceiling skylight. His rifle swings toward us.
"Move!" I yell, then shoot him through the neck.
Ronan appears behind the smoke. His coat’s black with soot, rifle slung low, hands red. He walks into the room and looks around at the carnage. I lower my weapon and suck in a breath as I press the spot on my leg that seeps blood.
"That’s the last of them," he says, stepping over the body with a grim look.
He looks at Seamus, then at me. "We’re ending this now," he says in an even tone.
My brother meets my gaze, and I see anger there, but I see understanding too.
Maybe it really did take him seeing Nora stand up to her father to understand my position.
Seamus doesn’t answer him right away. He just watches us both like we’re poison.
Months of resisting our attempts at an alliance to push the Russians back have come to a head, and given what happened here tonight, he knows now that he can't win against them without us.
The sheer loss of life here tonight should tell him that.
"You think this changes anything?" he growls, scooting against the desk. His weapon is on the ground now, hand gripping his bleeding arm.
"It changes everything," Ronan replies, wiping his brow. "We both bled for this."
"And what? You expect me to shake your hand?" Seamus snaps. He's in pain, but he's biting the hand that saved him. Not a smart move. Ronan could kill him right now and everyone would think it was the Russians. His family would fold into ours and be saved, and we'd be better off because of it.
But I can't let him do that. Nora means too much to me. "No," I say, cutting in and stepping closer. "We expect you to stand down long enough to bury your men… Then we decide how our two families will fight back against Russian interference."
Seamus glares at me, chest heaving. "You think my daughter picked you because she believes in peace?"
"I think she picked me because I didn’t come here to destroy her family," I answer, meeting his stare. "I came to protect it, even when you wouldn’t."
Seamus breathes heavily, his fingers twitching beside the pistol on the floor.
His glare bounces between Ronan and me, resentment etched into every line of his face.
I tighten my grip on my weapon, even as I lower it slightly.
Across from us, my brother Finn enters the doorway and stops, rifle up, waiting for a sign.
Ronan steps in closer. He doesn’t raise his voice or shift posture. He simply lets his presence fill the room, the heat of firelight reflecting off the sweat on his jaw.
"Call it a ceasefire," he says. "Not peace. Not forgiveness. Just a moment to stop dying."
Seamus grunts and his shoulders slump. His eyes flicker to the windows where light from the fire down the hall flickers. His men are dead. His house is half destroyed, and still, he is so hard-hearted about this.
"Ceasefire," he mutters with gravel in his tone.
Ronan doesn’t thank him. He just turns and walks out. We leave the study together. Killian pulls two wounded men out from the side room. I help lift another who’s still breathing. The smoke is everywhere now—black and cloying, crawling through the vents and cracks. Outside, the night glows red.
The front lawn is wrecked. Shell casings glint in the dirt.
The fountain’s cracked in two. The faint whir of sirens in the distance grows louder as one by one, the men left standing exit the building.
Seamus has a lot of work to cover this one up, but the house fire will do a good job at destroying most of the evidence.
Nora is still in the car when we stumble down the steps. I'm not as much walking as I am leaning on Ronan. Her eyes lock on me the second I step through the doorway. She throws the door open and runs before my feet hit the grass.
"Connor!" she gasps, throwing her arms around me. Her body shudders with sobs. Ronan lowers me to the ground and turns to go back into the burning building, probably for Seamus. "Oh, my God…" she whimpers, lavishing my face in wet kisses, salty with her tears.
I drop onto the top step, gasping for breath. "It’s done," I say.
She looks me over. Blood. Dirt. Burned fabric. Her face crumples, just for a second. "Are you hurt?" she asks, voice tight, and I force a crooked smile.
"No more than I was when we left," I answer, leaning back.
She exhales, still kneeling beside me, her hand pressed lightly to my chest as if to convince herself I’m real. Her forehead rests against mine, just for a breath, just long enough to let some of the panic drain from her limbs.
An ambulance crests the hill at the far end of the lawn. Its lights flash red across the charred remains of the estate. Ronan reappears through the smoke, half-carrying Seamus, whose face is ghostly pale. Blood stains the front of his shirt, his arm draped uselessly at his side.
We both watch as Ronan helps lower him to a stretcher. The paramedics don’t speak much. They move with efficiency, hands practiced, eyes scanning for anyone still salvageable.
Nora doesn’t say anything until they start to wheel her father away.
"Will he live?" she asks in a small voice.
"He took a bullet and lost a lot of blood," I answer. "But the medics got to him in time. He’ll live."
She nods, then looks back toward the burning house.
"Everything’s going to change now," she says.
"Yeah," I say, reaching for her hand. "It has to."
She looks down at our hands for a long moment, then back at the ambulance as it disappears through the gates.
Her father is gone now—at least for tonight.
The fire still burns behind us, crackling low against the black sky.
Somewhere behind the flames, bodies are still being counted and the fire trucks are just starting to arrive.
She turns her gaze back to me. "Do you think they’ll accept it—us?"
I pause. "Ronan already does. He saw you stand between me and a gun. That means more to him than blood."
"And my father?"
"He may never say it," I tell her, "but if he really wanted to stop this, he would have let me die. He might've killed you."
She blinks hard and exhales. "I’m not leaving you. Not now. Not ever."
I shift closer, pulling her into my lap despite the pain lancing up my side. "Then let them try to stop us."
She leans into me, forehead against mine. Her voice is barely a whisper. "They can’t."
We sit there, wrapped in the aftermath, bound by blood, fire, and the choice to love each other against all odds.