Page 27 of When Kings Fall

As they filter out, my mind sharpens, focusing only on one thing: getting Selene back. And whoever has her—they’re going to regret ever laying a hand on her.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Selene

BEN HASN’T SAID much since we left the alley, and I don’t know whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing. I mean, sure, the quiet gives me time to think, but it also lets my mind spiral. And when Ben does speak, there’s that strange familiarity in his voice, like he’s trying too hard to pretend we’re still friends. But we’re not.

Wolfe made it clear he wasn’t my friend—obvious with the kidnapping, the rope burns still fresh on my wrists. But Ben? He’s playing a different game. Smiling, like we are friends, like someone who has my back.

My stomach twists, but not from hunger. I already tried the door earlier when he wasn’t looking, fingers brushing the cold metal handle, knowing full well it would be locked. I’m trapped. But I’ve been in worse situations, right? Play the part, Selene. Act like you haven’t pieced together the truth yet.

Ben glances at me, his smile casual, disarming, but there’s something underneath it. Something I’m not supposed to see. “You hungry?” he asks.

I can feel the weight of his gaze, trying to measure me, calculate my next move. I’m no stranger to people who think they’re in control. It’s how you let them feel secure, let them think you’re playing along, before pulling the rug out from under their feet.

I smile, maybe a little too eagerly, and nod. “Starving.” My voice is light, almost teasing. If I’m going to make my next move, I need to be in a public place. Somewhere with witnesses.

His eyes linger on me for a second too long, like he’s assessing whether he should trust my sudden enthusiasm, but then he shrugs and turns the car toward the main road. “I know a spot,” he says.

Perfect.

The city passes in a blur outside the window, neon lights flickering, people moving about like nothing in the world is wrong. If only they knew. We end up at one of those all-night diners that smells like burnt coffee and syrup, a place where exhaustion and anonymity blend together.

We slide into a booth, and I catch the way Ben sits—back straight, eyes scanning the room. His hands wrap around the black coffee he ordered as if it’s an old habit. Everything about him screams danger—the same kind of danger as Diarmuid.

I try not to show it on my face, but inside, I’m cataloging everything. The way he’s positioned himself to watch the exits. How his fingers tap lightly against the cup, an almost imperceptible rhythm, like he’s counting seconds or measuring something only he understands.

A waitress comes by, too tired to care about our conversation, and I order hot tea. It’s a choice that instantly makes me think of my grandparents. Of their quiet mornings, doing crossword puzzles, a place so far removed from this mess. Shame pulls at me, but I shove it down. I can’t afford to think about them now—not when I keep throwing myself into danger like this.

“So,” Ben says, once the waitress is gone, “what were you doing at Tyrone’s place?” His voice is smooth, too smooth, like this is just casual small talk. Like he isn’t testing me. I’m ready for it.

I offer a quick laugh, waving off his question as if it’s nothing. “It’s a stupid political thing,” I say. “I’ve been trying to get involved in this cause, you know, something I care about. AndTyrone, well, I thought if I could just get a minute with the Prime Minister... I didn’t think it through.”

Ben’s eyes don’t leave me, and that unnerving quiet settles over the table again. He knows I’m lying. I can feel it in the way his lips curl slightly at the edges, almost as if he’s amused by my attempt.

“You really expect me to believe that?” he says, leaning forward slightly. “Selene, I’m here to help you. You don’t need to lie to me.”

Help me. Sure. I know exactly where this is going. He’s not my friend. And yet, I can’t help but feel that familiar pull of recklessness rising in me. He’s going to betray me, sure—but maybe, just maybe, I can use him before he does.

I pause for a moment, chewing on the inside of my cheek. Fine. If we’re playing this game, I’m going to see how far it can go. “Okay,” I say, leaning in a little, lowering my voice. “It’s not about a cause. It’s about Sophia Hughes. She was a Bride.” I glance at him, measuring his reaction. Nothing.

“A Bride?” he repeats, like it’s the first time he’s heard the term. Maybe it is.

“Yeah, it’s… complicated. But to put it simply, it means she was tied to something bigger. A system. A power. She didn’t choose it, but it chose her.” I pause, watching the flicker of curiosity in his eyes. “And I think Tyrone Lynch had something to do with her murder. He’s connected to the Hands of Kings, and that connection is being covered up.”

Ben doesn’t say anything for a long time. Too long. He just sits there, sipping his coffee, his expression unreadable. Maybe I’ve gone too far. Maybe he thinks I’m crazy.

My tea arrives, steam curling up from the cup, but I don’t touch it. I wait for him to say something, anything. But he stays silent, and it’s unnerving.

Finally, he places the cup back down on the table and leans a little closer.

“You’re wasting your time with Tyrone,” he says, voice low. His eyes flick around the space like he’s waiting for a treat or for Diarmuid to appear. “If you want answers, you’re aiming too low. We need to go higher. We need to go after the president.”

I stare at Ben, my mind spinning. What does he know that I don’t?

My thoughts flicker back to Diarmuid, to the way he always seemed ten steps ahead of everyone else. Ben reminds me of him—too much, maybe. Except Diarmuid didn’t have to play games to get under my skin. Ben? He’s a master at it. Every word out of his mouth is a trap, every glance designed to make me question myself.

I can’t let him win. Not this time.

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