Page 64 of When Kings Rise

Diarmuid nods. “I will find her and protect her.”

Niamh sniffles. “Thank you.”

“I will take the four of you somewhere safe.” His hopes for Amira are still high.

When Diarmuid looks at me, fire lights up in his eyes.

“Why were you at Rian’s apartment?” I can hear the jealousy in his voice.

The intensity of his gaze is unnerving.

“We heard there was a body placed on top of Andrew O’Sullivan’s, and we wanted to know who she was.”

He’s glaring at me. His reaction is a mixture of concern and barely contained fury.

“How could you be so stupid?” His voice is grave, and I’m stunned at the level of venom in his words.

“I needed to know more about you. I needed to learn about what I might be marrying into.” My words send my heart racing. I did this to learn about him.

“Jesus, Selene. This ends now. Do you understand how dangerous this is? Someone wants that murder covered up, and they will stop at nothing.”

I nod because the moment I watched Rian die, I knew we had gone too far.

“How do you not want to know who killed your uncle?” Niamh asks. I know her mind is still on Ella. If Ella had died in such a brutal way, she would want to know who killed her.

“I already know who killed Andrew O Sullivan,” Diarmuid says. Something shifts in his gaze, and he glances from me to Niamh. “I did.”

His confession seems to draw the very air from the room. The murder of Andrew O’Sullivan wasn't just another headline in the news; it was a deed done by Diarmuid's own hand.

I want to ask why, but I can’t bring the words to my lips.

Niamh quietly excuses herself, retreating to the sanctuary of the guest bedroom. Her departure is a silent echo of the turmoil that Diarmuid’s confession has stirred within us.

At Diarmuid’s words, I dropped the washcloth, and blood found its way onto the white sofa. I watch it soak in.

“I’m going for a shower.” Diarmuid rises, and I give him some space as I try to process what he just told us. He killed Andrew O’Sullivan.

He killed Cormick, too, to save us. Maybe he had his reasons for killing Andrew. My stomach continues to curl, and I find myself following him. I never thanked him for saving us. Our fate would have been in the hands of Cormick, and most likely, right now, we would be rotting in a shallow grave.

I open the door to thank him, my words poised on the tip of my tongue, but they die away at the sight that greets me. Reflected in the mirror, Diarmuid’s back is a tapestry of scars, each mark a story of pain endured, of survival against odds that would break lesser men. The scars, numerous and brutal, speak of hundreds of strokes of the whip, each one a testament to his torment.

My heart clenches at the sight, a mix of horror, sorrow, and an indescribable urge to reach out, to somehow ease the pain that each scar represents. “What happened to you?” The question is out before I can think, a demand for understanding, for the story behind the scars that mar the skin of a man who has become an enigma. Did Andrew do this? Is that why he killed him? But these marks are years in the making.

Diarmuid’s shoulders tense, and he turns to me. His chest is marred with fresh cuts. Jesus, he has endured so much.

“Andrew and Victor had a very unique way of punishing me.” His words bring tears to my eyes. No one should suffer like this.

“That’s why you killed him?” I ask and swallow the sorrow that threatens to consume me.

“I will kill Victor, too.” His words should terrify me, should have me running from him.

“Good,” I say as tears make a pathway down my cheeks.

The man before me is not just a protector. He is a survivor, carrying the weight of his past with every step, every decision marked by the trials he has endured. The revelation does not weaken my perception of him; rather, it deepens my respect and my understanding of the battles he has fought, those both visible and those hidden beneath the surface.

“Rian spoke of a council, one that’s even higher than Victor.”

“I know it’s deeper than they allow me to see. But I will find every player.”

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