Page 55 of When Kings Rise

The right to choose our leader, once held firmly within our grasp, was relinquished the moment we entwined our fate with the Hand of Kings. A decision that, while expanding our reach and solidifying our power, also bound us to their will, making the succession a matter of their interest as much as ours.

Wolf, as a leader, is a thought I can barely entertain. His temper and his darkness make him unsuitable for a role that demands not just strength but restraint. Our world, as unforgiving as it is, requires a leader who can navigate its shadows without being consumed by them. Wolf’s love for breaking things wouldn’t bode well for him.

“My father was going to give me everything. I was going to take over.”

This is a complete surprise to me. I know I should say I’m sorry, but the words would sound as empty as they are.

“Do you remember where you were that night, the night Andrew disappeared?”

The bartender arrives back, and I’m so grateful for the distraction. “I’ll have another.” I turn to Wolf, but his drink is still full.

“I was probably in the pub, managing my affairs,” I respond with a nonchalance I don't quite feel. The question, pointed as it is, dredges up memories better left undisturbed.

“This man was your uncle,” he presses, an edge of accusation in his tone. “I know exactly where I was and what I was doing that night. Why can't you remember?”

“I'm a busy man,” I counter, the defense sounding feeble even to my own ears.

“We were all at the Church for drinks. Lorcan and Ronan were in town, everyone was there... except you.” Wolf has never sounded so sure about anything in his life.

The world around us grows silent, and I know I better get my head straight, quickly.

“If I wasn't there, then I would have been at The Silent Prince,” I offer and reach for my drink.

He nods, a gesture heavy with unspoken implications. “Lorcan called Alan that night. Alan said you weren't at the pub, either.”

The silence that follows is charged, a tangible thing that stretches between us, laden with questions and accusations unvoiced. I look into Wolf's eyes, seeing not just my cousin but the memories of a shared past. Wolf knows me, perhaps better than anyone—my preferences, my weaknesses, my secrets, well, not all my secrets. A formidable ally, indeed, but in another life, perhaps an even more formidable foe.

Wolf nods, like he got an answer, before he reaches across and picks up my drink.

He drinks the entire glass in one swallow and walks away.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Selene

THE AIR IS brisk and carries with it the scent of city life—coffee, the faint hint of exhaust, and the promise of rain. Grafton Street buzzes around us, alive and vibrant. I'm walking alongside Niamh, her presence a comforting constant in the pulsating heart of the city. The shops gleam with the allure of luxury, their windows filled with colors and lights, but it's the simple joy of exploration with Niamh that I find myself cherishing the most.

We come to a halt before a statue, its bronze form a tribute to a woman whose story is woven into the fabric of Dublin’s history. The statue depicts her with corsets that daringly reveal the top part of her breasts, a silent yet bold testament to her existence—or the lack thereof, depending on who you ask.

“People say she never really existed,” I muse aloud, tracing the lines of the statue with my eyes.

Niamh looks at me, her brows furrowing slightly. “That's ridiculous. How can they say Mary Malone was just...made up?”

I lean closer, dropping my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “There was a mix-up with the record-keeping. Turns out, Mary Malone wasn’t exactly who everyone thought she was.”

Niamh’s gaze drifts to the statue, to the baskets in the wheelbarrow, empty.

“That’s probably why she had to sell herself,” I say softly with humor.

Niamh laughs softly and links her arm with mine as we resume walking.

“I think she was real.” Niamh declares as we walk along the repaved street.

The murmur of conversations envelops us. “What are you craving to eat?” I ask.

Niamh’s response is hesitant, tinged with vulnerability. “I’m still getting used to not counting calories or carbohydrates in my food. Being an athlete...it did a number on how I see food.”

I squeeze her arm gently, a silent vow forming between us. “We'll fix that. First, we go for Chinese. Then, when we're ready for round two, we'll hit the chocolate store.”

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