Page 4 of When Kings Rise

I glance up at my home. The estate house shrouded in darkness is beautiful. A light shines from the second floor. It’s my welcome home. The light of my sanctuary, my bedroom, that I left on. It’s the only welcome I will receive.

The pressure against my thigh is relieved as my guard gets out. The driver opens my door, and I step out into a soft but sharp breeze. I roll my shoulders and imagine armor materializing on my shoulders and spreading across my chest.

The front door is opened for me, and I turn to see the guard sink into the darkness as he takes his station beside the front door. The driver doesn’t enter but returns to take the car to the garage.

I close the door, and the sound is loud. I turn to the darkened hall. I must win Diarmuid’s heart; I must be his bride. The words repeat in my mind with each step I take into our estate home. It once was beautifully maintained, but it crumbled when my father fell apart. He left our family in ruins, and I intend to turn this all around for us.

I nod to myself; I will fix what he destroyed.

My foot touches the first step of the staircase that leads to my room, but I pause and listen to the low hum of the house. Pipes gurgle somewhere deep in the mansion. A breeze touches my back, and I turn to the main drawing room. Inside, it’s dark, but I find the source of the breeze. One of the windows has been left ajar.

I push the heavy gold drapes aside, and a scattering of dust flutters down on top of me, making me cough. I ignore the assault on my lungs , grab the handle of the window, and yank it toward me. It doesn’t budge but creaks in resistance. A chair is in my way, and I push it aside to get closer. Using both hands, I pull, and the window slams shut.

I push the handle down and lock the window. Another cough erupts as I step back from the window that overlooks the garden. Weeds merge with once-blossoming flower beds, and the hedge line coexists with trees and hangs down onto the overgrown lawn. I want to pull the drapes so I don’t have to look at the offending state of the grounds, but I’m sure the dust would suffocate me. I turn to the rows of bookshelves. They, too, have their very own coating of dust. The books that line the shelves are not for reading pleasure but for decoration. My father bought them for their visual appeal, not the words that are printed between the hardbacks.

I crave the privacy of my room, away from the dust and musty smell of our home.

I pause in the hallway as my stomach rumbles. I haven’t eaten. The nerves earlier today didn’t allow me to even have a sip of water.

The kitchen has a lamp on the counter that spreads a small amount of light. The overhead chandelier is in darkness, its bulbs long blown, and no one to replace them.

I open the fridge and find some fresh ham I had bought two days ago. If I hadn’t ventured into our local village, we would starve. I close the fridge door and pause.There is something different. It’s not something I can see but smell first. Vodka has such a distinctive smell to me, and I scan the darkened corners and stop when my mother appears from the other side of the kitchen.

My mother stares at me, and my fingers tighten around the ham.

She snorts before she speaks. “Eating again, I see?”

The glass hangs loosely from her fingers as she walks toward me with a snarl plastered on her face. “A fat bride isn’t really a good look.”

I’m tempted to look down at my frame. I always make sure I stay close to 1000 calories a day to remain slim.

“I haven’teaten today.” My voice is so frail, and I hate it.

“You look like you eat plenty to me. Put the ham back.”

I don’t want to fight, and I do as she says. I’m ready to walk away as she laughs. It’s cruel, slurred, and intended to hurt.

It finds its mark, and my stomach clenches.

“I never thought my own daughter would be a whore.”

I think of how Diarmuid favored the other girls, how he never touched me. I wish he had. I wish he had made me feel something beyond what I always feel—Insignificant.

“Isn’t that what you raised me to be, Mother?” My bold words give me a moment of satisfaction. I didn’t choose to be a bride; my parents handed me over on a platter. Just like they had my brothers. The thought of my brothers sends another wave of grief through me. Grief that I have never been allowed to deal with. My father is mafia, my brothers were recruited into the Hands of the Kings, and being part of the organization took my brothers’ lives. It's our world. Now, it might take mine.

She marches to me, and my bravery dies quickly, it becomes a pool around my ankles on the grimy kitchen floor.

“I gave you everything. The best parts of me.” She runs a hand through her thinning hair. She once was a woman men stopped to look at for her beauty; now they look for a different reason. They look down on us, the family who fell from grace by the hand of a king.

“When you have a daughter, they say she takes your beauty away, and didn’t you do that to me?” She grips my face and tightens her fingers painfully along my jaw. “You don’t deserve my beauty.”

I pull my face away from her. “Goodnight, Mother.” I’ve heard this since I was a child. How I stole her beauty and grace. My brothers, of course, didn’t—only me. I took everything from her as I grew in her womb. When my brothers died, her grief manifested into a deeper hate for me, along with her indulgence of alcohol.

“All of a sudden, you think you can treat me like this.” Her anger grows. “You think because you are a whore to the O’Sullivans, that you can just walk away from me.”

I stand my ground as she rants, and when her glass flies from her fingers and smashes against the counter, I flinch.

“Disgusting.” She’s irate, and I want to leave but try to make myself small so I don’t anger her further. My shoulders hunch closer to my chest, but I’m never going to be small enough.

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