Page 50 of When Kings Rise

“Let me have the honor.” He smiles softly.

As I follow the usher up the stairs and down a hallway tinged with the muffled sounds of an audience settling back into their seats, a familiar anticipation builds within me. The red curtains that mark the entrance to the private boxes loom ahead, but it's the sight of one particular box, distinguished by its door, that signals this is no ordinary seating upgrade.

The usher opens the door, and I peek inside.Diarmuid is there, his presence commanding even in his silence.

“Sit next to me,” he says without even turning around.

The opulence of the private box is immediately apparent, not just in its furnishings but also in the presence of bodyguards, discreetly hidden behind curtains at both the front and back.

“Leave us.” Diarmuid’s terse command has them departing, and it leaves us alone.

As I take my seat beside him, my attention is involuntarily drawn to Diarmuid. Dressed for the occasion, his appearance transcends the usual definitions of formal attire. There's an undeniable elegance to him, a refinement that accentuates his presence. The realization that he's both familiar and entirely enigmatic brings a blush to my cheeks. Here is a man who has changed the course of my life, and yet, the gravity of our situation feels all the more real in this secluded setting.

Selene's warnings echo in my mind that Diarmuid is dangerous. That he survives, and indeed, thrives in his world is a testament to his strength and perhaps, to aspects of his character that are better left unexplored. The severity of his deeds, as hinted by Selene, keeps rising to the forefront of my mind.

As the curtains of the box draw back and the performance resumes with the vibrant depiction of Summer, Diarmuid breaks the silence. His voice is calm amidst the storm of my thoughts.

“I wanted to make sure you are okay after the other night,” he starts.

My body tenses at that question. The night he put his hands around my neck, and all I could think about was that poor girl in the morgue, with marks around her neck, too. I don’t think Diarmuid killed her, but it had pulled me under a dark current of fear and panic that I wasn’t able to escape that night, not even when he had returned and questioned me. I had no answer for him then, and I have none I can give him now.

“You're kind,” I say, a simple truth.

“You are one of my Brides, a role that carries with it duties and responsibilities. It’s my job to take care of you,”he answers simply.

“What about Amira?” I ask, remembering she hadn’t returned after he had escorted her from the room.

“Amira is my concern, not yours.”

Maybe he’s right. I’m not overly fond of her. I take another peek at Diarmuid. “How did you know I was here, and how did you get tickets?”

He looks at me, and a slow smile crosses his lips.

“The Kings own the private box,” he states.

This doesn't surprise me as much as it should. Their reach and influence, it seems, extend even into the cultural heart of the city.

“And how I knew where you were… I had you followed.” He continues with a matter-of-fact tone.

However, the fact that Diarmuid had me followed here sends a chill down my spine. It's one thing to be under the protective gaze of a powerful organization, quite another to be shadowed without my knowledge.

“Why am I being followed?”

Diarmuid doesn’t answer straightaway, as if he is weighing his words. “The organization has its own unseen dangers; this level of protection and surveillance is necessary.”

That doesn’t exactly answer my question. His lack of detail shows me he doesn’t fully trust me. But we don’t know each other that well. The only time we are together is with Selene and Amira.

“Why are you here, at this ballet?” he asks, shifting the conversation. I allow the turn of questioning, knowing I’m not going to get any more out of him.

“My sister Ella is in the play. She has the role of Bacchante. She’s only sixteen, so her role is very significant for someone her age.”

“It sounds like your sister has a bright future ahead of her,” he states.

“I guess.”

“The role of Bacchante at sixteen doesn’t guarantee success in the world of ballet?”

The moment stretches between us, charged with an energy I can't quite name. Diarmuid's gaze is intent, probing, as if he's trying to read the very essence of my thoughts. It's disconcerting, and yet, I find myself unable to look away.

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