Page 25 of When Kings Fall

His smirk returns, this time a little more genuine, a little more dangerous. “Oh, definitely. But I can always tell him it took longer than anticipated to find you.”

He makes it sound so simple. Too simple. My instincts scream at me to stay wary, but there’s something about his casual confidence, the way he talks about Diarmuid like they’re equals, that piques my curiosity. He’s not some random thug Diarmuid sent after me—there’s more to him.

I cast one last glance at Tyrone Lynch’s townhouse, the place that feels like it holds all the answers I need, then back at the stranger. As much as it pains me to turn away, there’s a part of me that knows I won’t get anywhere tonight without help. And this guy, whoever he is, might just be my best shot.

“Fine,” I say, standing. “But if this goes sideways, I’m not taking the blame.”

He flashes another grin, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

He leads me down two quiet streets, the clatter of the city fading behind us. His movements are smooth, almost too practiced. There’s a car parked under a lamppost, nondescript but clearly ready to go. He opens the door for me, a surprising gesture of politeness, then closes it firmly once I’m inside.

When he slides in on the other side, everything changes. The air in the car shifts. His friendly demeanor evaporates, replaced by something colder, more distant. He grips the steering wheel and speeds away from Victorian Village without a word.

I wait for him to say something, anything, but the silence grows thick. His focus is entirely on the road, his face set in hard lines. I ask him a couple of questions, starting with where we’re going, but he doesn’t respond. It’s as if he’s flipped a switch, completely shutting me out.

The unease in my chest tightens. I reach for the door handle, intending to get out and cut my losses, but the handle doesn’t budge. It’s locked. I try again, more forcefully this time, but still nothing.

“Hey,” I say, trying to keep my voice calm. “What’s going on? Where are we going?”

No answer.

“Your name,” I ask, leaning forward, trying to break through the wall he’s put up. “Who are you?”

He doesn’t look at me, doesn’t even blink. But after a long pause, he mutters, almost under his breath, “Ben Fleming.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Diarmuid

I’M STANDING NAKED in the master bedroom, the cool air brushing against my damp skin. Droplets of water slide down my chest, remnants from the shower. Niamh and I... we didn’t waste any time after the swim. It was inevitable the moment we got back here. The heat between us didn’t stop at the pool’s edge; it followed us into the shower, too. But now, the haze of that moment is gone, replaced with a gnawing irritation that’s been eating at me since the second I noticed Selene’s absence.

It’s late. Too late. She should’ve come to bed by now.

I stride down the hall, not giving a damn if any of the men see me like this—bare and dripping, frustration rolling off me in waves. I push the door to the research room open. Nothing. No flicker of light, no sign she’s been here.

Selene is gone. Again.

How incompetent are my men? How the hell do you lose track of someone twice? My pulse quickens. I press the phone to my ear, pacing, waiting—no, willing her to pick up. Ring after ring. No answer.

Goddammit, Selene.

Before I can toss the phone across the room, I feel Niamh’s arms snake around my waist, her warm skin pressing against the scars that run down my back. Her cheek rests there, offering comfort, but it does little to calm the tight coil in my chest.

“We just got her back,” I say, my voice low but strained. “Why would she do this?”

“She’s restless,” Niamh murmurs, her breath hot against my skin.

Restless? I grit my teeth. My fists clench at my sides as a thousand thoughts race through my mind. “Then I can send her hiking in the Alps! I’ll buy her a jet ski or the fastest fucking horse in the world!” My voice rises as the frustration spills out. “She can’t disappear like this!”

Niamh’s grip tightens slightly, grounding me, but her words are steady, calm. “Wherever she went, I guarantee it has to do with Sophia Hughes,” she says. “She’s been a bit... obsessive.”

Niamh is right. I know she is, and it gnaws at me that I didn’t handle this sooner. Sophia Hughes has been a thorn in Selene’s side for weeks, and I let it fester. I can’t help but kick myself for being so focused on everything else that I let this slip through. Selene is always a challenge—sharp, defiant, always ready to push the boundaries, always testing how far she can go. That’s what draws me to her, but it’s also what makes her so damn unpredictable.

The truth is... sometimes, I wonder if she even ”wants” to be saved. It’s like she thrives on dancing on the edge, daring fate to do something about it. And here I am, cleaning up the mess, again.

I turn to Niamh, pulling her closer, wrapping my arms around her soft curves. She smells like salt and soap, fresh from our time in the shower. Her body molds perfectly into mine, and I kiss her, deep and slow, letting the heat between us linger for a moment longer. It’s a brief escape, a stolen breath before diving back into the chaos. I pull away and see the understanding in her eyes.

“Thank you,” I whisper, but we both know I’m already slipping back into the role of leader, protector.

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