Page 48 of When Kings Rise

With Wolf’s hungry gaze on me, I make no attempt to shield myself.

“I hoped I'd run into you again,” he says, and the memory of watching him train the last girl assaults my memory, along with the things I learned watching him. I had used the same techniques on Diarmuid, hoping to gain the upper hand.

I don’t speak, and Wolf takes a step closer.

“Speak to me.” There is nothing soft in his words.

“I need to go home,” is all I manage, my tone flat, devoid of the turmoil that rages inside me.

“Do you have Diarmuid’s permission to leave?”

His question sparks a bitter smile that doesn't reach my eyes. “One could say that,” I murmur, the irony not lost on me.

He looks at me for another minute. “I’ll drop you home.”

I don't exactly want to be alone with Wolf, but standing in the driveway with the image of Diarmuid and the girls laughing at me has me following him around the back of the mansion where his car waits.

The drive home is a silent journey, punctuated only by the occasional flick of Wolf's lighter and the soft exhale of smoke. The car's interior is filled with the sharp, acrid scent. Wolf doesn't fire any questions my way. Either he doesn’t care, or his mind is somewhere else. It's a relief, in a way, to not have to explain, to not have to relive the humiliation and pain through recounting.

Outside, the city moves past us in a blur of lights and shadows. Streetlamps cast shadows on the pavement, fleeting glimpses of people living their lives—a couple laughing on a street corner, a group of friends sharing a late-night snack—moments of normalcy that seem so alien to me now. The world goes on, indifferent to the upheaval in my own life.

As we turn down the long driveway to my house, a sense of unreality washes over me. Wolf, without having asked, knew where to take me. Under different circumstances, I might have found that alarming, questioned how he knew where I lived. But tonight, I'm beyond caring, beyond questioning. I'm just a shell.

When the car comes to a stop, I don't thank Wolf. I don't say goodbye. I simply get out and walk toward my front door. Wolf is gone before I even close the door behind me.

The moment I step inside, the house embraces me with an eerie silence, save for the faint hum of light emanating from the kitchen. My body is a tight coil of tension as I tiptoe through the foyer. I want to go to my room, but the state of the entry to the kitchen stops me cold.

The trash can lies on its side, contents spilled. The sugar bowl, once a fixture on the counter, now lies shattered against the wall, its contents strewn about in a chaotic spray of white against the darkened tile. The scene is one of absolute destruction.

Despite my urge to keep moving, I'm rooted to the spot. And there, amid the devastation, sits my mother. Her presence is almost ghostly, her head resting on the countertop, her eyes closed.

For a suspended moment, I entertain the thought that she's finally drank herself to death. But then her eyes blink, and the harsh light of reality washes away the brief illusion of peace. Her face contorts.

“Amira!” Her scream sounds like a dying animal. It shatters the coldness inside me. I need to run to get to my room. But my legs won’t cooperate.

“Get in here!” She roars again. I close my eyes briefly, praying for a respite from my mother’s madness. If I don’t do as she says, what will she do?

I take a small step into the chaos of the kitchen. I don’t ask what happened.

When I come into full view, her face pinches in anger. “I would trade you for your brothers,” she spits out, a confession so cruel it seems almost unholy. “I ask God every day to do this.” Her words are venom, designed to wound, to break.

Her next words strike hard. “Whore,” she hisses, a label meant to degrade, to diminish. It's a blow aimed not just at who I am but at the very essence of my being.

In that moment, something within me shifts. The pain of her words is real, but it ignites a spark of defiance. “You don't have to worry about me being a whore anymore,” I respond, my voice steady despite the chaos inside. “I'm not a Bride anymore.” It's a declaration, not just of my status but of my refusal to be caged by her judgments, her expectations.

“So, not only are you a whore, but you are a bad whore.” Her voice drips with disdain.

My hands tighten into fists.“I am only a whore because you and Da fucked up our lives,” I shoot back, my voice laced with a venom born of years of suppressed anger and hurt. “You’re the reason why my virginity was given away. You’re the reason why Da is out with the hooker of the week. You’re the reason why my brothers are dead.” I’m smiling as each word drips from my lips. I laugh at her as her face turns white.

She’s still for a moment, but it’s only a short moment before she launches herself from the seat, and my back slams heavily into the kitchen floor, taking the air from my lungs.

“You dirty bitch.” She grabs the rubbish around us, stuffing it into my mouth, cutting off any air that tries to find its way into my starved lungs.

Before I can react, she drags me off the floor with a strength she shouldn’t be able to wield. She turns the tap of the sink on, and cold water violently splashes across my face before she rams a bar of soap into my mouth.

“You will wash your mouth out, you sinful, sinful girl.”

I choke on the acid taste of the soap. I push her away, and she stumbles, the soap dropping to the floor. She’s ready to launch herself at me again when I scoop up ice-cold water and aim for her face. The shock has her screeching, but she’s already grabbed a pan caked with grease and swings it, missing my face, but it slams against my shoulder. I cry out as I tumble to the ground.

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