Page 63 of When Kings Rise

In a moment of raw, unfiltered emotion, I clutch my jaw, stepping into the room with a determination I hadn't known I possessed. My eyes fixate on one of the tables, and without thinking, I grab a bat. My grip is tight, knuckles white as I advance, every step fueled by years of suppressed anger and hurt. But before I can swing, my arm is caught in an iron grasp. Wolf's smile is chilling, a silent reminder of the power he holds in this moment.

“When was the first time she hurt you?” he asks, his voice calm.

The memory surfaces unbidden—Dominic's funeral, six years ago, a day when grief was met with cruelty instead of comfort.

“Six years ago. At Dominic’s funeral.” I say, still looking at my mother. She’s still struggling, still screaming at me, telling me I’m a whore. I’m useless.

“If you hurt her now, it will be over in a moment. A lifetime of hurt deserves a lifetime of pain.” He releases my arm as if allowing me to make my choice.

He steps behind me and speaks in my left ear.

“LSD is coursing through her veins. You could create nightmares for her.” He steps to my left.

“You could be the architect of her terror.” He smiles at me.

“Why? Why do this for me?” I ask a question that feels too small for the gravity of this moment.

He exhales and glances at my mother, who’s still struggling. “I feel a kinship with you. The world hasn’t been kind to either of us.”

The revelation is unsettling. To be seen, understood, and aided by someone like Wolf—a man capable of such cruelty yet ready to offer solace in revenge—is to stand at the edge of an abyss. The choice before me is stark: to embrace the darkness offered as salvation or to reject it.

I have no one else. No one who sees me like Wolf does. Diarmuid has cast me aside, and in the space of a moment, I make my mind up.

I hand the bat to Wolf. “The world has been fucking cruel,” I snarl and he smiles.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Selene

THE INTERIOR OF Diarmuid’s townhouse is bathed in the soft glow of evening light. But tonight, the elegance of my surroundings is marred by the scene unfolding within its walls. Diarmuid stands at the center, a figure of defiance and pain, his shirt clinging to his skin with blood. Cuts and bruises litter his skin, and one of his knuckles looks to be broken.

I can’t think about what happened to Rian. I can’t think about the violence that I watched pour from Diarmuid. A man always so finely dressed, well presented… I never would have known such darkness lived inside him. But he protected me and Niamh.

“Sit down,” I say to him, He looks ready to fall down. He does, slumping into a white plush couch. Niamh has already gone to the kitchen, and I hear water running. I think her mind is as fumbled as mine.

I stand over Diarmuid, trying to figure out where to start. When Niamh returns with water and a washcloth, we work in tandem. She hands me one, and I start to mop up some of the blood on Diarmuid’s arm, each stroke showing me the blood isn’t his. He had arrived with blood on him…who else had he killed?

Diarmuid pushes our hands away. His phone is in his hand, and he keeps hitting a call button. The noise of the engaged tone has his worry growing.

“Have you seen Amira?” he asks.

I glance at Niamh and shake my head.

“No,” Niamh says.

He hits the call button again. I had always thought Amira to be overdramatic, her tendency to find trouble a constant source of irritation. But tonight, the fear in Diarmuid’s eyes mirrors my own. Despite everything, despite the harsh words and harsher feelings between Amira and myself, the thought of her in danger, potentially facing death, is a cold wake-up call. She may be a bitch, but she doesn’t deserve to die.

I start to open the buttons of his shirt, and he continues to call Amira. Each time I hear the dead line, my stomach drops a little further again. There is so much blood on his chest, and this time it’s his own. The largest cut was from Cormick.

“You need stitches,” I say as I hold the cloth to his chest.

“I was supposed to keep you all safe, protect you from harm.” His voice rises. He doesn’t seem to be aware of the damage that was inflicted on him. Niamh washes his free hand, and he hisses as she rubs across his damaged knuckles.

“Sorry.” Her voice is a whisper.

Diarmuid seems to come out of the fog he is under and looks at Niamh. “I’m sorry,” he says, the gentleness in his voice bringing tears to Niamh’s eyes.

“My sister, Ella. I need to get her. She could be in danger.”

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