Page 21 of When Kings Fall

I can’t do this anymore, not tonight. Quietly, I slip out of the room. Selene doesn’t even notice. She’s too far gone in her own mind, too focused on unraveling this mess to see me leave.

Ever since Wolfe took Selene, the house has been filled with people—silent, watchful sentries who seem to materialize out of nowhere, always ready to pounce on any perceived threat. Their presence is unnerving. There have been nights when they’ve startled me as I made my way to the bathroom in the dark, their eyes following my every move. They know my routine, too well, it seems.

On nights like this, when Diarmuid is away, I find myself drawn to the indoor pool. It’s the only place in this house where I can find a semblance of peace, where I can escape the suffocating presence of Selene’s obsessive thoughts and the silent guards lurking in the shadows.

I don’t bother going to the bedroom to grab my swim gear. No, I’m too impatient for that, too restless. There’s a part of me that’s desperate—desperate to help Sophia, to find some way to bring justice to her name. But it feels like her spirit is hovering over my shoulder, always there watching, judging me for notbeing clever enough, for missing what she probably thought was so obvious.

But nothing seems obvious. We’ve run ourselves into a corner, and every lead feels like a dead end. There’s no clear path forward, no light at the end of this tunnel. I sink deeper into that familiar pit of frustration, where everything feels futile, where the weight of our failure presses down like a leaden shroud.

The windows in the pool room stretch high, almost impossibly tall, reaching for the ceiling as if trying to touch the heavens. They’re made in that clever way where I can see out, but no one can see in. I look out at the early winter moon hanging serenely in the sky, its light, cold, and distant, just like everything else in my life right now. The tiles beneath my feet are cold, a stark contrast to the warm, humid air that fills the room. Steam rises lazily from the water, swirling in the air like ghosts.

I hate that I use the heater. It feels like a betrayal of the dream that once fueled me—the dream of swimming the Oceans Seven. A marathon of swims across some of the most treacherous waters in the world, it’s the oceanic equivalent of the Seven Summits for climbers. The North Channel, between Ireland and Scotland, is 18.6 nautical miles of frigid hell, with water temperatures hovering around 55°F. It’s the coldest, most grueling swim on the list, and many fail because of the cold.

Yet, here I am, swimming in water that’s warmer than my own body temperature. It’s pathetic, really. A far cry from the cold, biting waters I once dreamed of conquering.

Hope is cruel. Poets and singers love to wax lyrical about hope, about its importance, its beauty. But they never talk about its cruelty. Hope clings to dreams long after those dreams have become impossible. It’s relentless, dragging those dead dreams out of the grave time and again, only to torture them—and me—further.

The moment I became a Bride, that dream died. I knew it then, deep down, though I refused to acknowledge it. But hope? It refuses to let go, refuses to let me let go. It keeps resurrecting that impossible dream, only to taunt me with it. To remind me of what I can never have.

Even if by some miracle, Diarmuid chooses me, it won’t matter. I’ll have to use whatever favor I have with him to protect my sister. That’s what matters now, not the cold waters of the North Channel, not the dream of swimming the Oceans Seven. My sister is my priority. She has to be.

But my soul is tired. Tired of the endless waiting, the constant fear, the cruel hope that refuses to die. Tired of this life I never wanted but somehow ended up in.

My clothes fall into a puddle at my feet, a discarded shell as I step out of them. The cool air pricks at my skin, sending a shiver down my spine, goosebumps rising in response. I walk to the edge of the pool, my toes lined up perfectly with the slick, tiled edge. For a moment, I just stand there, breathing in the humid air, letting the anticipation build.

Then, with a deep breath, I dive.

The water greets me like an old friend; its embrace familiar and comforting. It's always been this way between us. The water understands me in a way nothing else ever has. As a child, I was a talented ballerina, my movements graceful and precise, but even then, my talent wasn’t so much about dancing as it was about defying gravity, escaping the earth that tried so hard to tether me. I was always spinning, always leaping, always trying to leave the ground behind.

But in the water, I don’t have to try so hard. It muffles the harsh sounds of the world, cocooning me in silence. It surrounds me lovingly, supporting me when I’m weary, lifting me effortlessly to the surface when I need to breathe. It’s theonly place where I feel truly free, where I can be myself without any expectations or demands.

I glide beneath the surface, my body cutting through the water with ease. But instead of surfacing, I let my arms dangle in front of me, surrendering to the water’s gentle pull. Slowly, I turn, the buoyancy of my lungs causing my body to flip toward the surface, where I float weightlessly. My eyes remain closed, and every now and then, I release a small bubble of air, watching as it darts toward the surface like a tiny, fleeting hope.

Time passes, though I’m not sure how much. My lungs begin to burn, a sharp reminder that I can’t stay here forever, no matter how much I might want to. But I don’t want to leave, not yet. This world—the world beneath the surface—is so kind to me, so accepting. It doesn’t judge, doesn’t demand anything of me. It simply lets me be.

But then a voice intrudes, soft but insistent, cutting through the peaceful silence. Ella. My little sister, so full of life and vulnerability. She wouldn’t be ready. She still needs her big sister. I know this, feel it deep in my core, and the thought tugs at me, pulling me back to the reality I so desperately wanted to escape.

Reluctantly, I open my eyes. The world beneath the water is blurry and distorted, but it’s still beautiful, still so inviting. Yet I know I can’t stay. Not now. Not with Ella needing me.

With a gentle kick, I swim toward the surface, breaking through the water with a gasp, the cool air rushing into my lungs.

When my head breaks the surface, I’m startled to see Diarmuid standing at the edge of the pool, his eyes fixed on me. He’s so still, so quiet that I almost didn’t notice him there, blending into the shadows. It’s unusual—he rarely seeks me out on his own, and the fact that he’s here now, sends a flicker ofunease through me. Part of me wonders if I’m in trouble, if I’ve somehow crossed a line without realizing it.

But then I really see him, illuminated by the soft moonlight filtering through the tall windows. He looks rough, worn down in a way that I haven’t seen before. Whatever happened tonight, it clearly didn’t go his way. There’s a tension in his posture, a heaviness in the set of his shoulders that tells me something went wrong.

Yet, he says nothing about it. His lips remain pressed together, withholding whatever thoughts are swirling behind those intense eyes. Instead, his gaze drifts over my body, taking in the way the water clings to my skin, how it shimmers in the moonlight. The air between us is thick with something I can’t quite name—a mixture of his unspoken frustration and something deeper, something I’ve felt before but never truly understood.

I don’t move, just float there in the water, feeling the cool air against my skin and the warmth of his gaze. It’s as if the world has narrowed to this single moment, to the space between us, charged with unsaid words and buried emotions.

He still says nothing, and I don’t know if I should speak, if I should break the fragile silence that hangs between us. Part of me wants to reach out, to ask him what’s wrong, to draw him into the warmth of the water where we can both find solace. But another part of me, the part that’s learned to be cautious, to be wary, holds back.

I meet his gaze, searching for some clue in his eyes, something to anchor me in this strange, quiet moment. But all I see is the reflection of the moonlight, the same light that shimmers on my skin, and the unspoken question in his eyes. I realize then that he didn’t come here to talk. He came to watch, to observe, to lose himself in something simple and untainted, even if just for a little while.

So I stay silent, letting the water carry me, letting him watch, and hoping that in this moment, it’s enough.

My heart pounds in my chest, each beat loud and heavy as Diarmuid locks eyes with me. He’s so calm, so deliberate, like nothing else in the world matters. His hands move to the hem of his shirt, and I hold my breath as he pulls it over his head. My eyes trace the lines of his chest, the smooth curve of his muscles. He tosses the shirt aside, his gaze never leaving mine.

I can’t look away. There’s something in his eyes—something that pins me to the spot, something that makes me want him more than I care to admit.

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