Page 51 of When Kings Rise

“Well, the first woman to play Bacchante, Marie Petipa, ended up dying of impulsive insanity,” I share, a bit of trivia slipping out in an attempt to lighten the mood or maybe to impress him with my knowledge.

He chuckles dryly, the sound echoing slightly in the spacious box. “You must be a very supportive sister to know so much about ballet.”

The comment stings, though I know he doesn't mean it to. I shift uncomfortably in my seat. “This used to be my world,” I confess, a hint of nostalgia coloring my words.

“You hated it,” Diarmuid observes, more a statement than a question.

I nod, the admission slipping out easier than I expected. “I did. But my mother... She wants a prima ballerina in the family.”

“Your sister isn’t a prima ballerina now?” he probes, his interest piqued.

“No, to be a prima ballerina, Ella needs to be accepted into a major ballet company and then become the best dancer in that company,” I explain, my voice tinged with a mix of hope and realism.

“So, it’s like being a general,” Diarmuid muses.

“Or a King,” I add, my words a bridge between our worlds.

The conversation shifts subtly, Diarmuid's gaze intensifying. “And you? What do you want to do with your life?”

I take a deep breath, my own dream suddenly feeling small and insignificant in the grandeur of this setting. “I want to conquer the Oceans Seven. To be a professional swimmer.”

Diarmuid's response is noncommittal, a simple nod that prompts me to push further. “What about you? What's your dream?”

“When you don’t really own your life, what use are dreams?” His words are a whisper, heavy with a resignation that surprises me.

The question hangs in the air, unanswered, as the ballet resumes onstage.

The rest of the show unfolds in a shared silence that feels both comfortable and charged with unspoken thoughts. For a moment, the world outside this private box, with its dangers and complexities, fades away. I'm just Niamh, Ella's sister, lost in the beauty of the ballet.

As Ella takes her final bow, something within me ignites. I forget about the formalities, the presence of Diarmuid, the weight of his world pressing in on us. Rising to my feet, I applaud with abandon, my hands coming together in a loud, fervent praise for my sister's performance. In this moment, I am every inch the proud sister, my heart swelling with pride.

As the curtain falls for the last time and the audience begins to filter out, the reality of my surroundings—and my company—settles back in. I'm still standing when I turn to Diarmuid. “Thank you,” I say, sincere in my gratitude for the experience, for the view, for the momentary escape from my parents, who I bet haven’t even wondered where I am.

He gestures for me to wait, moving with a deliberate calm to close the outer curtains of our box, sealing us away from the departing crowd. The privacy feels suddenly intimate, a world apart from the grand spectacle we've just witnessed.

Then, he turns to me, the intensity in his eyes a stark contrast to the quiet endearment of earlier conversations. “I want to know exactly how you like to be touched, what you want from me,” he says, his voice low and earnest. “I've been restless since our last encounter, and I want to make it right.”

His words hang between us: a confession, a question, a plea. It's a moment of vulnerability, of honesty, that strips away the layers of his guarded existence. In this secluded box, away from the prying eyes of the world, Diarmuid is not a figure shrouded in mystery and power but a man seeking connection, seeking understanding.

The air shifts around us, filled with a new tension, a new possibility. As I meet his gaze, a thousand thoughts race through my mind, each one a reflection of my own uncertainties, desires, and fears. Yet, beneath it all, there's a flicker of something else—curiosity, perhaps, or even the thrill of stepping into unknown territory.

In this moment, the roles we play—the King and his Bride, the protector and the protected—seem to fade, leaving us simply as Diarmuid and Niamh.

“I’m not sure.” My voice rattles.

Diarmuid nods and clears the distance between us. “If I did this, would it be okay?” He takes my face gently in his hands and presses a soft kiss to my lips. I taste mint, it’s refreshing, and when he sinks his tongue into my mouth, I press mine into his.

The buzz of the voices of hundreds of people below us sounds distant. The lighting in the private box is dim as Diarmuid breaks the kiss and smiles down at me. Being around Diarmuid before, I’ve always been shy, but having him alone, changes something in me. I reach up and press my lips to his.

The invitation unleashes a desire in him that surprises me; his kisses are hungry, and his hand warms around my waist, pulling me closer to him. I can feel the full extent of his excitement. My own dampen between my thighs.

A thought assaults me as fast as the strike of lightning. I like having him to myself.

I want to be as bold as Amira and as courageous as Selene. I let my hand slip across his wide chest and move lower and lower until I touch him. The outline of his bulge feels huge against my hands. He had almost taken my virginity the other night, but the act wasn’t complete. The idea of having him take it with just the two of us present makes me grip him harder and rub his full length. He groans into my mouth, his minty breath filling my own.

He breaks the kiss and rests his forehead against mine. He’s still as I continue to rub his full length. His eyes are closed, but he groans in pleasure.

After a moment, he opens his eyes, and his hand leaves my waist and trails down further, where he bunches up the fabric of my dark red dress, gathering it slowly. The cool air touches my bare legs, and anticipation has me frozen for a moment.

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