Page 20 of When Kings Fall

He nods to his men, and one by one, they begin to file out of the room. I can’t believe it. That’s it? He asks a question and then just gives up that easily? It doesn’t make sense. There has to be a trick, some kind of trap he’s setting. He can’t really be leaving.

Recklessly, without thinking, I whip the gun around and point it at Victor’s back, my finger hovering over the trigger. “What are you going to do to Diarmuid?” I shout, my voice shaking with rage and fear.

Victor stops and slowly turns to face me, his eyes locking onto the gun. He doesn’t seem afraid. If anything, there’s a glimmer of something almost like pity in his gaze, and it makes my blood boil even more.

“That was a foolish decision,” he says, his tone condescending, as if I’m a child who’s just made a silly mistake.

And then, without warning, the world goes dark.

When I finally come to, it’s like surfacing from the depths of a black ocean, every sense dulled, every thought sluggish. My head feels like it’s been split open, the pain radiating in sharp pulses from my skull. The first thing I see is Sabre’s face hovering above me, her eyes wide with fear, her hands trembling as she fusses over me like a frantic nurse with a dying patient.

“Amira!” she gasps, her voice trembling. “Thank God, you’re awake! I didn’t know what to do—I thought they—”

I push her hands away, trying to sit up, but my legs are unsteady, wobbling beneath me more from the head injury than the motion of the yacht as it cuts through the choppy waters of the Irish Sea. My vision blurs, the room spinning slightly as I stagger to my feet, ignoring Sabre’s protests.

“Amira, please, you need to rest—”

“I need to see,” I mutter, my voice hoarse as I make my way outside, stumbling onto the deck. The cold wind hits me like a slap, but I welcome it, anything to clear the fog in my mind. I lean against the railing, staring out at the endless expanse ofwater, the dark waves churning beneath a sky that’s as bleak and unforgiving as I feel.

Victor let me go. After everything, after I threatened him, he let me go. The realization hits me like a punch to the gut. This was a big deal; a man like him doesn’t just walk away from something like that. But why? What game is he playing? I can’t shake the feeling that I’m missing something, that there’s a piece of this puzzle I haven’t found yet.

And Diarmuid… what will happen to him? I feel a pang of worry, but I push it down. That life, that world, is over for me. I can’t afford to think about it, to care about it. I have all these women to take care of now. They’re my responsibility, and I can’t let anything distract me from that.

But as I stare out at the vast, unforgiving sea, I can’t help but wonder—if a King like Diarmuid couldn’t protect himself, who really could?

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Niamh

“TYRONE LYNCH’S REACTION proves that we are on the right track.” Selene’s voice cuts through the silence, her tone as resolute as ever.

I’ve heard her say this too many times to count—certainly not just the first, second, or even tenth time. Each repetition feels like she’s trying to convince herself as much as me. I can only nod, a faint “uh-huh” escaping my lips. I’m on autopilot, really, because I know where this is heading. I watch as the familiar gears begin to turn in her mind, her eyes narrowing slightly, lips pursed in that way that signals she’s about to launch into another round of theories.

But what’s the point? I feel it deep in my bones—we’re stuck. We’ve been working on this case for weeks, chasing shadows, and yet, here we are, no closer to the truth than when we first began. I bite back the frustration rising in my throat. There’s nowhere else to go, no new leads to follow, just the same tangled web that’s slowly strangling us both.

Sophia Hughes. Her name alone sends a cold shiver down my spine. She worked for Cóisir Amárach, the party that’s currently in power—the same party that Diarmuid’s brother, Lorcan, is backing. And Sophia… she was a Bride. That word carries so much weight, so much history, and it’s all wrapped up in blood and betrayal.

We’ve always suspected Tyrone Lynch’s involvement with the Hands of Kings, that shadowy group lurking behind the scenes, pulling strings. And Sophia’s murder? It stinks of their handiwork. She worked directly on Lynch’s campaign, and therewere whispers, rumors—nothing solid, but enough to suggest that she and Lynch were more than just colleagues. Lovers, they said. I can’t help but wonder how much of that is true and how much is just another layer of deception.

Tyrone’s reaction at the benefit dinner—it was telling. A slip, a crack in his otherwise polished facade. It’s the first real sign that we might be onto something. Yet, despite the spark of hope it ignites in Selene, I feel nothing but a deepening sense of dread. We have a theory, sure, but what good is that when we’re completely stumped on how to proceed? We’re stuck in this endless cycle of what-ifs and maybes, and I’m starting to doubt we’ll ever break free.

And then there’s Diarmuid. He wasn’t at dinner tonight—another empty seat, another voice we desperately needed but didn’t have. His perspective and insight are always invaluable, especially in moments like this when Selene and I are spinning our wheels. But he isn’t home. And without him, it’s like we’re missing a crucial piece of the puzzle.

In the beginning, I used to worry when Diarmuid didn’t show up on time. I would sit by the window, pacing, imagining the worst—accidents, attacks, or worse still, betrayal. But that was a lifetime ago, or at least it feels like it. I’ve long accepted that the life of a King’s Bride is one of waiting. Constantly waiting. Waiting for a glance, a word, a sign that I still exist in his world of secrets and shadows. It’s exhausting, but it’s the reality I’ve chosen. Or maybe it chose me.

I wonder if that’s where Sophia went wrong. Did she grow tired of the waiting? Or did she step too far out of the shadows, trying to carve out a space where she could be seen, recognized? I can’t shake the feeling that she made a mistake somewhere along the line—a fatal one. And now, I’m here, trying to piece together the fragments of her life, hoping to avoid the same fate.

I push myself up from the chair and start pacing, my eyes tracing the photos pinned to the wall. Each one is a snapshot of a moment, frozen in time, yet all part of a larger, more sinister picture. Sophia’s face is everywhere, always in the background, always the supportive figure behind Tyrone Lynch. She’s smiling in most of them, but there’s something in her eyes—something I can’t quite put my finger on. Was it fear? Resignation? Or is it just the weariness that comes from playing a role for too long?

Sophia was a master at blending into the scenery, yet she was always there, at every public event, standing just behind Tyrone, her presence reinforcing his power. But she wasn’t the only one. As I go through the photos again, I notice him—the man we almost overlooked too many times. Michael Reardon. Amira’s brother and Victor’s Page.

At first, he’s just another face in the crowd, easy to dismiss, easy to miss. He’s rarely facing the camera, always just on the edge of the frame, like a shadow. It took us a while to even realize it was him. He’s good at hiding, but there’s a way that those in Amira’s family hold themselves, a subtle arrogance or confidence—it’s hard to describe—that makes them stand out once you know what to look for. It’s in the set of the shoulders, the way they carry their heads just a little higher than the rest. After being tormented by Amira, I can spot it a mile away.

Despite Michael’s low position in the cult, there’s no mistaking the way he carries himself—like someone who could do serious damage if the moment called for it. He’s not just another lackey; there’s something dangerous simmering beneath that calm exterior. And he had been stalking Sophia. That much is clear now. It’s as if he’s the dark shadow that loomed over her every move, unseen but always there, always watching.

“We could always start at the beginning, from the time she disappeared.” Selene’s voice is distant, almost like she’sspeaking to a ghost rather than to me. She’s rambling, caught up in her own thoughts, and I know better than to interrupt. I’ve learned to be patient when Selene gets like this, when she’s locked in that loop of obsessive analysis, going over the facts again and again until something clicks, until she can make sense of it all.

But it’s exhausting. It’s like watching someone try to force together pieces of a puzzle that just don’t fit, yet refusing to stop until they do. I watch her, feeling a mixture of sympathy and frustration. She’s talking out loud, but not to me—not really. She’s speaking to herself, chasing down every loose end, every stray thought, hoping that one of them will lead to a breakthrough.

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