Page 33 of When Kings Rise

"My moments with them are mine," I say again.

I can almost sense Wolf approaching before he steps out onto the balcony and joins me and Lorcan. His steps are heavy. He's already been drinking, a fact that surprises none of us. It's become part of his persona, a shield as much as a weakness.

"I need a gun," he slurs slightly.

"Wolf, this is not the place," I respond instantly.

His words become reckless, teetering on the edge of madness. "Well, if anyone tells the authorities, I’ll just kill them. People are allowed to do that in Ireland. No one gets punished if you kill someone in Ireland," he proclaims, a twisted smile playing on his lips, oblivious to the gravity of his own words.

Lorcan's response is immediate, his voice laced with anger and fear. "Shut the fuck up, man. Get a hold of yourself! The fucking cardinal is over there." His eyes dart towards the dignitary, a silent plea for Wolf to recognize the danger of his rantings.

Wolf, however, seems lost in his own vendetta, his voice rising. "Perfect. I can ask his forgiveness after I kill my father’s murderer."

It's then that Ronan appears, his question simple yet loaded with concern. "What the hell is going on here?"

"Wolf is trying to drag our entire business down," I explain.

Ronan nods, understanding flashing in his eyes. "We need to get him away from everyone before someone tells Victor."

Together, we box around Wolf and try to guide him back to the house. But he’s being awkward, pushing against us. I shove him; he wobbles but rights himself. The guests' curious gazes feel like spotlights on us, but a glare from me is enough to make them avert their eyes, a silent command they dare not disobey.

As I help Wolf up the stairs, I hear the front door open. Looking down, I catch a glimpse of Niamh exiting, her silhouette graceful and determined, with Selene following close behind her.

Their departure is a silent alarm. Selene’s exit, with Niamh in tow, is not just an escape; it's a statement, they have bonded. I don’t have time to follow them, not with Wolf in such a volatile state.

I focus back on the task at hand, guiding Wolf away from prying eyes and ears before he says something that will get him killed.

But Wolf notices my two Brides leaving too.His finger, unsteady yet determined, points directly at Selene, his words slurred but clear: "Get out while you can, love."

She nods, a silent acknowledgment of a warning perhaps long expected, and leaves without a word.

Wolf's attention, however, swiftly shifts. His gaze moves, heavy with alcohol, and he points upwards. "But you, you can stay." His words float up to Amira, who leans over the railing, curiosity etched into her features.

Anger crashes through me, and in a moment of decision, my hands release their grip on Wolf, a calculated risk. His body, unprepared for the sudden absence of support, sways and then crashes against the banister, the impact sharp and sudden. The combination of the blow and the alcohol coursing through his veins proves too much, and his lights go out, his body slumping to the ground in a heap of silence.

"Alcohol thins the blood, Diarmuid. A hit like that could kill him." Lorcan glances around to see if anyone saw, his disapproval of my actions evident in his tone.

I don’t give a fuck. He deserved it.

"Then, half of all our problems are fucking solved," I retort.

Loran and Ronan pick up Wolf and carry him upstairs to a guest room, the effort obviously draining with each step my brothers take. Wolf isn’t small by any means. But I enjoy the view of him slumped over, his feet trailing along the wooden floor. At least he’s quiet.

I’m aware that Amira follows closely behind.

“Can you open the door?” Lorcan asks me, glancing over his shoulder. I don’t move, so Amira does as my brother asks.

“Thank you, Amira,” he says as he and Ronan get Wolf into the room.

Wolf groans loudly from the bed. Amira steps in again. “I’ll get a washcloth,” she says and disappears into the adjoining bathroom.

The tension in the room thickens as my brothers glance at me. "She is not taking care of him."

"I barely take care of myself; I’m not about to do it for him." Ronan's retort is quick, laced with his own brand of humor and resignation.

"Diarmuid, what is the point of having spare women if you can’t get them to mop up a drunk?" It's Lorcan's comment, though, that breaks the strained peace, his words cutting deeper than he probably intends.

The disrespect in his tone ignites something within me. Without fully processing the decision, I find myself pinning Lorcan against the wall, my anger finding a physical outlet. The threat in my eyes is as clear as the words unspoken between us.

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