Page 19 of When Kings Fall

Sabre nods, but I can see the unease in her eyes as we make our way toward the interior of the yacht. The stern is quiet, almost too quiet, as we leave the open deck behind and step into the above-deck area. The first room we enter is obviously designed as a sitting room for guests. The windows offer sweeping views of the stern and both sides of the yacht. It’s clear that this yacht was made for cruising, not for the kind of escape we’re making.

I fumble through my coat pocket, fingers grazing the cold metal of the burner phone I bought after the fire. The thought of that night still sends a shiver down my spine, but I push it aside and focus on the task at hand. I turn on the flashlight, the small beam of light cutting through the darkness, and move toward the next door.

The light from my phone shines into the next room, revealing the helm and all the navigation equipment. But something’s wrong. There’s no pilot: just empty chairs and silent machines. My heart skips a beat as I swing the light to the left, searching for any sign of life.

Then, suddenly, the beam catches on something—a man. My breath catches in my throat as I realize he isn’t alone. There are more men with him, all standing in the shadows, their eyes locked on me.

I instinctively step back, reaching for the door, but it slams shut behind me with a loud, final thud. My heart races as Sabre’s voice pierces the silence, shouting my name, her fists pounding against the door. I try to open it, but it’s locked tight, separating me from her. I can hear her panicked cries, the sound of her desperation, but I’m trapped.

The lights flick on suddenly, blinding me for a moment. When my eyes adjust, I see them—strangers, surrounding me on all sides. I’ve walked right into a trap. My pulse pounds in my ears, and I start cursing Diarmuid under my breath. How could he have let this happen? How could I have been so stupid?

As I struggle to think of a way out, an older gentleman steps forward from the group. There’s something commanding in his presence, something that makes the others defer to him. His eyes meet mine, cold and calculating, and I know in that instant that this is far from over.

Victor steps forward, his presence imposing, yet there’s a strange calmness about him that sends a chill down my spine. He’s the kind of man who doesn’t need to raise his voice to command a room; the mere sound of his name can silence it. And now, here he is, standing before me, the reason this night has taken such a dark turn.

“I did not come to hurt you, Miss Reardon. Please, sit,” Victor says, his voice smooth, almost polite, as he gestures toward the only chair in the room. It’s on his side, of course. He wants to corner me, make me feel small and powerless. But I’m not stupid.

“I’m fine standing, thanks,” I reply, keeping my voice steady. I see the flicker in his eyes, a brief spark of fury that he quicklyhides behind a mask of indifference. He’s not used to being disobeyed, and it’s clearly getting to him.

Victor’s face remains impassive, but I can feel the tension simmering beneath the surface. “I apologize for delaying your departure, but you must understand why I am here.”

Oh, I can think of a hundred reasons why he might be here. I pushed Wolfe over the edge, made him drown himself in booze and cocaine the night he tried to attack Victor. I burned down a brothel that brought the Hands of Kings more money than I care to think about. And now, I’m taking all of Wolfe’s prized "workers" out of the country, putting an end to their sick trade. Of course, Victor would seek me out. I’m just kicking myself for not being more careful, for not seeing this coming.

“Diarmuid’s offer was a ploy, wasn’t it?” I say, narrowing my eyes at him. “You just wanted to get us all in a compressed place.”

Judging by the relentless banging on the door, Sabre hasn’t given up or run off to warn the others. The thought gives me a sliver of hope, but it’s small, barely enough to cling to in this room full of enemies.

Victor’s eyes light up at my words, a twisted amusement playing on his lips. It’s a condescending look, one that makes my blood boil. I want to slap that smug expression off his face, despite the armed men surrounding us. But I hold back, knowing that it’s exactly what he wants—to provoke me, to make me lose control.

“Miss Reardon,” Victor begins, his voice unnervingly calm, “I must apologize for the journey you have experienced thus far. It was never my intention for you to suffer as you have. You must understand that my goal was to diminish the influence of your father, not cause your mother, your siblings, and you so much suffering.”

I stare at him, my heart a mix of rage and disbelief. The calm way he speaks, as if offering a simple apology could erase the hell he’s put me through—it’s infuriating. “Whatever you intended,” I say through gritted teeth, “it happened all the same.

Victor nods, a sorrowful expression on his face that I don’t buy for a second. “It did. I’m sorry. But Diarmuid did not betray you tonight. He sought to help you because he is a good King; he takes care of his Brides. Unfortunately for Diarmuid, my eyes are everywhere.”

“Eyes?” I ask, my voice sharp with suspicion. “Why would you be watching me?”

Victor’s gaze sharpens, and for a moment, there’s a hint of something dangerous in his eyes. “Because Diarmuid’s Brides have been quite interested in me and what they think are my secrets. I need to know what his Brides are after.”

I shake my head, trying to make sense of his words. “I wouldn’t know that. The three of us were not exactly friends.”

Victor’s expression changes—disappointment, maybe even frustration—and I see his eyes flick up toward a few of his men. They move without a word, one of them grabbing the chair that’s been looming in the room like a dark omen.

Panic shoots through me. I know what’s coming. They’re preparing to break me, to hold me down, just like my mother did, just like Wolfe did. A wild, feral instinct surges inside me, something primal that I haven’t felt in years, something that refuses to be caged again.

Before I can think twice, I reach into my jacket, fingers closing around the cold metal of the gun hidden there. In one swift motion, I pull it out and press the barrel against my temple, hard enough that I can feel the bruising pressure. The pain is sharp, but I embrace it—it keeps me grounded, keeps me from spiraling into the terror that’s threatening to consume me.

My heart is pounding so loudly in my ears that it drowns out the stunned silence that follows. I’m practically screaming as I speak, my voice raw with desperation. “Don’t you dare touch me! You think you can control me? You think you can make me relive that hell?”

“YOU WON’T BIND ME!” I scream, my voice raw and jagged, echoing off the cold walls. “You stay the fuck away, or I will fucking blow my brains out. I’M SERIOUS!” My hand shakes as I press the gun harder against my temple, the cold metal digging into my skin. I can feel the pressure building, the barrel practically vibrating with the force of my desperation. “This is not happening again. I can’t. I won’t!”

My free hand tangles in my hair, fingers clawing and pulling until I feel the sharp sting as strands rip free from my scalp. The pain is a welcome distraction, something real to focus on in the midst of this madness. I feel like I’m losing my mind, like something inside me is breaking apart and scattering into a thousand pieces.

The memories flood back, crashing over me like a dark wave—being held down, powerless, violated in every way imaginable. The terror, the humiliation, the helplessness. I can’t go through that again. I won’t let a man, any man, hold me down ever again. I’d rather die right here, right now, than be captured, caged like an animal.

But Victor… he doesn’t back away. He doesn’t even flinch. Instead, he steps forward, his head tilted slightly to the side, studying me with those cold, unblinking eyes. He gazes at me like I’m some kind of fascinating specimen, like a zoo visitor observing a caged beast rather than a man witnessing the mental breakdown of another human being.

“She doesn’t know anything,” he says, his voice smooth and detached, as if I’m not even here, as if I’m just a piece on his chessboard, insignificant in the grand scheme of things.

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