Page 1 of When Kings Fall

CHAPTER ONE

Selene

THE PLASTIC ZIP ties dig into my wrists so tightly that I can’t tell if the moisture beneath the plastic is sweat or blood. The biting pain keeps me anchored, keeps me from slipping into the dark places my mind threatens to drag me to. I need that pain. It’s the only thing that keeps me aware of just how real this situation is.

Wolfe took me. Ripped me away from my home, from Diarmuid. I can still feel the echo of his hands on me, the rough shove that sent me stumbling into this barn. The smell of damp earth and rotting hay fills my nose, mixing with the metallic tang of fear that I can’t seem to shake.

I sit against the wall, trying to make myself as small as possible. The rain taps a haunting melody against the metal roof above, each drop like fingers playing a discordant tune. The hay beneath me isn’t fresh; it’s been trampled into the dirt so thoroughly that it’s become a part of the ground itself, a damp, foul-smelling carpet that squelches under my weight. A steady drip, drip, drip of water leaks through a hole in the ceiling, landing just a few feet from me, forming a small, muddy puddle.

A single industrial bulb hangs from the ceiling, casting a dim, flickering light that barely holds back the shadows. The thunder rumbles in the distance, a low growl that makes the bulb shiver in its socket. I can feel my arms starting to ache from being held behind my back for so long, the muscles screaming for relief. But I can’t afford to think about that. I can’t afford to think about anything but the man in the room with me.

Wolfe. He’s pacing, muttering under his breath, sometimes speaking out loud to someone who isn’t there. His words are a jumbled mess of accusations and pleading, a conversation with a ghost. I listen carefully, piecing together what I can. He’s talking to Andrew O’Sullivan, his father.

“I’ll make it right,” Wolfe says, his voice low and urgent. “I’ll bring justice to your name, I promise. They won’t get away with it. I won’t let them.”

I can only guess at the weight of those words, the twisted sense of duty that drives him. I don’t know much about Andrew O’Sullivan; Wolfe’s father is long dead, andhis ghost still haunts his son.

My heart races, each beat a reminder that time is slipping away. I need to figure out how to get out of here, how to survive this. But Wolfe’s voice pulls me back, making it impossible to focus on anything but the madness unraveling before me.

“I’ll make them pay, Andrew,” he continues, his eyes wild as they dart around the room, never quite landing on me. “I’ll make them pay for what they did to you.”

He’s not just talking to a ghost—he’s talking to himself, convincing himself that this, all of this, is justified. That taking me, binding me, is part of some grand plan to right the wrongs of the past.

But I’m not a part of that past. And I sure as hell don’t plan on being a part of his future.

I tug at the zip ties again, biting my lip against the pain. I need to focus; I need to find a way out. Diarmuid will come for me—I know that—but I need to hold on until then. I need to stay strong, stay alive.

Wolfe’s pacing grows more frantic, his words more desperate. The storm outside intensifies, the rain pounding against the roof, drowning out everything but the beating of my own heart.

Wolfe is still wearing the clothes he had on when he fell into the river. The suit, once crisp and tailored, has dried in a way that makes it look like he slept in it, the fabric rumpled and stiff. His hair is a tangled mess, a part of it matted with dried blood where Diarmuid bashed his skull with a fire extinguisher. Every time I glance at it, a part of me wishes Diarmuid had hit him harder, and had finished the job.

This barn is the only place Wolfe has taken me. I expected him to be on the run, a man consumed by revenge, dragging me from place to place until he decided to end it. When he hauled me out of the house, my feet kicking and my hands clawing at him, I thought for sure he’d take me somewhere remote and kill me. I was ready to fight to the end.

But instead, he brought me here. And he’s stayed. It doesn’t make sense.

I’m lost in my thoughts, trying to make sense of the situation, when Wolfe’s voice cuts through, sharp and angry. I didn’t catch what he said; I was too absorbed in my own head. I blink and force myself to focus on his face, trying to hide the revulsion that rises in my throat. The sickly yellow light from the single bulb casts shadows over his features, but I know he’d look just as ghastly in daylight. His eyes are hollow, both dead and violently alive at the same time, a terrifying combination.

“I’ve been talking to you,” Wolfe snaps, his voice harsh, as if he’s been shouting for a while.

“I’m sorry; I couldn’t tell,” I reply, my voice steady despite the fear twisting in my gut. I can’t let him see how terrified I am.

“Where is Diarmuid?” His eyes narrow, suspicion flickering behind the madness.

“How would I know that?” I say, my tone laced with skepticism. “I’ve been with you.”

“He should be here. I left a note.” Wolfe’s frustration is palpable, his hands clenching into fists as if he could will Diarmuid into existence through sheer determination.

“Where is ‘here’?” I ask, trying to keep my voice calm, to keep him talking instead of acting on whatever violent impulse is simmering beneath the surface.

Wolfe doesn’t answer right away. His eyes flicker around the room as if seeing it for the first time, or maybe as if he’s trying to remember why he brought me here in the first place. I can see the struggle in his expression, the war between his fractured mind and the reality of the situation.

The silence stretches, the tension thickening like the storm outside. I wait, every muscle in my body coiled tight, ready to react if he finally snaps.

Finally, he speaks, but it’s not an answer. Instead, it’s a muttered, almost inaudible, “He’ll come. He has to.”

I don’t know if he’s talking to me or to the ghost of his father again. I just know that I need to survive long enough to find out.

But Wolfe is gone again, lost in whatever dark recesses of his mind he’s trapped in. He’s mumbling to himself, cursing under his breath. I can’t make out the words, but the anger in his tone is unmistakable. Occasionally, he draws his weapon, a handgun that he waves around wildly as if he’s fighting off invisible enemies. His eyes—those frantic, hollow eyes—dart around the room, filled with the same desperation you see in a cornered animal. He’s dangerous like this, unpredictable.

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