Page 37 of When Kings Rise

Every so often, Wolf stirs, each time awakening with a parched throat and a confused look in his eyes. He reaches out for a glass of water, his hand shaking slightly. To him, I'm a stranger—a face without a name. And why should he recognize me? My interactions with Wolf have been fleeting, and the more I've learned about him, the more I've felt a creeping sense of unease.

He is just as deadly as his cousins, maybe more so because Wolf is unpredictable, based on the rumors I’ve heard. The most disturbing whispers, the ones that send shivers down my spine, are his involvement in the family's sex trafficking ring. I had shared this knowledge with Niamh and Selene with a smile, but inside, my stomach soured.

He starts to cough again, and I sit and watch him struggle to catch his breath. I’ve heard of people choking on their own vomit. If he does throw up, I won’t be able to clean it. Knowing that I need to impress Diarmuid, I rise and walk around the bed, picking up the glass and bringing it to Wolf’s lips.

“You’re okay; just take a sip.” I try out a smile as his gaze focuses on me. He does as I command. The water seems to lodge itself in his throat, and he’s sputtering again. A memory thick and hard slices through my mind.

My mother bent over a small bucket as she gasped for air, but there was no forgiveness for all the alcohol she had indulged in. Her hand had reached out to me for help, and I remember standing in the hallway watching her, hoping her last breath would be stolen on the kitchen floor.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t.

Wolf gasps and takes in a few lungfuls of air. His brows furrow. He won’t remember this tomorrow, so I have nothing to fear. But just in case, I offer words of encouragement. “There you go. You are doing great.” The pitcher on the bedside table is empty, and I pick it up and leave to refill it. I’m contemplating using the tap water in the bathroom, but even as a child, I was scolded if I drank from the bathroom taps. The system in the attic wasn’t safe for drinking, and it fed into the bathrooms. The thought of going downstairs and bumping into my mother, though, made me choose to take my chances with the tap water.

I take one final glance at Wolf, who has his eyes closed again, before I slip out of the room. I don’t have to walk far before a figure in a crisp, white uniform catches my eye—a maid, moving with purpose toward me. She glances at the empty pitcher in my hand, and without a word, she reaches out for it. I’m not used to people helping me, but it’s something I could get used to. So when she takes the empty pitcher from my hands with a nod, I release it. She disappears out of sight. I’m not sure if I should wait or return to the room, but the chirp of my phone from the pocket of my dress distracts me. I fish it out of the small pocket along the thigh of my dress. The one thing I always ask for is for my garments to have pockets. The screen lights up with a message that instantly sends a shiver down my spine. It’s from my mother.

“Where are you?” The text is brief, but I can hear her voice in it. Her voice is edged with that familiar blend of worry and disapproval. My fingers hover over the keyboard, my mind racing. How do I explain, yet again, that I am attending the most important yearly social event in our city? An event that, for better or worse, could shape my future and that of our family? She knows this, but with all the alcohol fueling her body, she’s very forgetful.

I type out a response, reminding her of where I am.

No sooner have I sent the message than a reply comes through, and with it, a knot forms in my stomach.

“Whoring again.” Her words lash through the phone. She’s always been angry at me, but even more so since the loss of my brothers—a void that nothing can fill—has left her grappling with a depression so deep it colors every word she says to me. The absence of my youngest brother, Michael, who we only hear from through sporadic letters, adds to the constant fear that one day, those letters will stop coming.

But I shouldn’t have to be her punching bag. That’s all I am to her.

“No. Securing our family’s future, Tess.” I use her name for extra emphasis.

“Your water.” I glance up at the maid, who has returned with the water, and I take it from her before making my way back to Wolf.

I slip the phone back into my pocket, a sense of resolve hardening within me. Today, proving myself to Diarmuid is more important than fighting with my mother.

With a deep breath, I lift my chin and step forward, ready to face whatever is behind this door. But my ringing phone has me pausing.

“Can I hold that for you?” The maid is still standing in the hallway. I want to tell her to leave, but instead, I hand her the pitcher and answer my mother’s persistent rings.

“I’m busy, Mother,” I say.

“Have you so easily forgotten about your brothers?” Her words are slurred and filled with pain. This week marks a painful anniversary—the death of Dominic, my older brother. The memory is a sharp, constant ache, a reminder of the price paid by those forced to serve the Hand of Kings. Dominic and Kevin, both lost to a cause they had no choice in, their futures snuffed out prematurely. Dominic's death, in particular—gunned down during a police raid—haunts our family, a wound that never truly heals. But I feel that pain, too.

The timing of the anniversary only serves to heighten my mother's volatility, a fact I'm painfully reminded of as she continues to spew her poison down the phone.

“Of course, you have forgotten. All Amira cares about is Amira.”

I turn away from the maid and hiss into the phone. “I haven’t forgotten. But you seem to forget you still have a daughter.” I’m braver with the distance between us. If I were home, she would surely strike me. I don’t want to go back to that house, to the suffocating atmosphere of sorrow and resentment.

“You're not much of a daughter.” Her words lash out, and I end the call. The pain of her words is too much.

I turn to find the maid watching me. I slip the phone back into my pocket. I reach for the pitcher, but not before the maid’s gaze meets mine, a flicker of concern in her eyes. It's a kindness, perhaps, but in that moment, it feels like pity, and something within me recoils.

“What are you looking at?” The words snap from my lips, sharper than I intended. It’s a defense mechanism, an instinctual cover for the pain that's threatening to spill over. The maid, taken aback, merely hands me the pitcher and moves past me, her momentary concern replaced by a professional detachment.

I retreat to the guest room, only to find Wolf sitting up in bed, looking woozy but alert. He finishes a glass of water as I enter. When Wolf’s gaze meets mine, I recognize something in his deep gray eyes. Like me, he carries his own pain. A shadow seems to cling to him, visible in the weariness of his eyes and the careful way he holds himself.

“Where is Diarmuid?” are his first words.

I place the pitcher on his bedside table. “I’m not sure,” I answer honestly. “I think he’s with Lorcan and Ronan.”

He huffs at that. “I’m sure they are discussing what to do with me.”

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