Page 1 of When Kings Rise

Chapter One

Diarmuid

Hands of the Kings Edict One

The Hand of Kings is not a political movement, rebellion, or cult. It is a natural order of life. Just as the moon and sun command the heavens, the Kings command the Earth.

THERE IS ALWAYS a sense of peace in chaos.

Quiet chaos, that’s what I walk into in the grand ballroom on the top floor of the mansion. A part of me wished this could be done in my home, but that would be unheard of. The showing of the brides was always at the Hand of the Kings’ mansion.

The long red velvet curtains have been drawn. The gold weights that keep the curtains in place, still shifting along the oak flooring inside their lining, tell me they have only recently been pulled to plunge the room into a romantic darkness.

Nonsense really.

The candles along the walls have been lit—hundreds of them—more nonsense, but this is what the arriving brides are accustomed to— or so I’ve heard. A room shimmering in romance, but their shaking figures scream anything but that.

That is their way, their duty. I run my thumb along my lip as I think about our traditions. Every King is given three candidates who must show obedience at all times. How many kings are there? That I’m not sure of.

But right now, my three brides are obedient.

All their gazes are downcast, which is what is expected. They will only look at me when I request it. I take my time glancing at the portraits of all the past leaders thathang along the walls. Their eyes follow my every move. They don’t intimidate me; they are the past, and I am the future.

The final three pictures, however, do give me pause. The first is Andrew O’Sullivan, who was the head of the family until his recent disappearance. A twinge of a smile dances along my lips, but I suppress it as I stop in front of the final two paintings. One is of Richard O’Sullivan, my father, whom everyone assumed would one day take over.

I chuckle. "You know what they say about assuming things." Beside him is my mother, Elise O’Sullivan.

I stare at her face, the steel gray eyes that I inherited from her. All else I received from her was hate. Hate for how she allowed men to take me, shape me, and damage me. She never protected me. No one did. But I would have expected some form of protection from her as my mother.

I place my hands behind my back and walk past the row of servants. Seven, to be exact. Once I reach the final one, the first turns, and the rest fall into line, leaving the room. Leaving me alone with my prizes. They are not just servants; each is chosen carefully and skilled in a variety of ways to take a life. Working in the mansion of the “Hands of the Kings” requires knowledge of how to kill—wolves in sheep's clothing.

I continue my walk to the waiting brides.

One of them I will have to marry, but until that moment, I get to play, and like my brothers would admit, I don’t play nicely. I keep walking the distance until I’m in front of the three naked ladies. The one in the center has her hands folded across her private area. Like she has any right to shield herself from me. These women have been bred for this, so she should know better.

“Place your hands at your sides.” Her response is instant, and her dusky Mediterranean skin flows along her graceful arms that hang loosely, fingertips grazing her thighs. “It’s not a good sign when you have to be corrected already.” I let out a bored sigh, and she flicks a glance up at me before focusing on the floor at her bare feet. She may be the troublesome one.

The troublemaker.

I hide a grin.

“Troublemaker, what is your name?” She glances up.

“Selene.” Her voice is soft. Her eyes aren’t the only part of her that is hostile. The shape of her shoulders and how they slouch forward like she can shield herself from my gaze isn’t lost on me.

“I think I prefer Troublemaker,” I say.

She holds my gaze for a beat more before diverting her attention to her toes. I follow her line of vision, and her toes tense along the hard oak flooring. This room is accustomed to polished shoes and dancing heels, not bare feet. She shivers, and I wonder if it is the cold or fear. Long dark brown hair is neatly arranged on top of her head. Pinned back almost severely. Nothing can shield her face from me.

Fires have been lit in the room, all three send out a soft wave of heat. One reaches the side of my face and I almost want to bat it away. I prefer no fires in my own private rooms. But this isn’t my home, so I don’t have a say.

I move on to the next girl. She reminds me of a statue with how she holds herself so still. Her fingers seem to move involuntarily along her side. Her nerves are getting the best of her. I pass her and stop at the final bride.

She looks at me directly. “What is your full name?” I ask.

“Amira Reardon.” She has soft brown eyes and an oval, innocent-looking face. She won’t be very innocent when I’m finished with her. Her complexion is pale, yet under the glow of the light, it appears slightly tanned. Once she says her name, she averts her gaze, but not before I catch something dark and intelligent hiding behind her eyes.

My darkness recognizes something inside her. Damage.

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