Page 10 of When Kings Fall

A pang of guilt tugs at me. I never expected to be this emotionally involved, to care so much about what happens here. But finding out that my parents had created me for the sole purpose of selling me off to a cult… it shatters something inside. It’s hard to value your life when you realize it was just a transaction. That lack of regard has led me to take risks, risks that drive Diarmuid to the brink of frustration.

Yet, the more time I spend with him, the more I find myself wanting to be the one he chooses. Not just out of convenience or strategy but because he sees something in me beyond my past, beyond what I was made for. It’s terrifying and exhilarating all at once.

And then there’s Niamh. No one expects me to succeed—my parents certainly didn’t care—but Niamh… she could lose the only person she truly loves if this goes wrong. The thought of it twists my stomach with guilt. How is it fair that she bears somuch, while I’m here trying to make sense of my own chaotic existence?

I open my mouth to respond, to offer some reassurance, but before I can say a word, we’re interrupted by one of the servants who appears at the base of the stairs.

“Excuse me, miss, but there are things that we need to discuss,” the servant says, their tone deferential but insistent.

I glance back at Niamh, who gives me a small nod, understanding in her eyes. I know what the day ahead holds—more than just a simple discussion. My mind shifts gears, mentally preparing for the tasks that await. Finalizing the menu for the kitchen, assessing the new groundsmen to decide if they’re competent enough to keep their contract, selecting dates for the upcoming holiday festivities as Christmas looms on the horizon, reviewing the plans for the grand New Year’s blowout for the Hands of Kings. It’s all part of the domestic decision-making that will become routine if I am to truly step into the role of Consort.

The hours pass in a blur of decisions and logistics, the weight of responsibility pressing on my shoulders. By the time I finally make it back to the master bedroom, exhaustion clings to me like a heavy cloak. All I want is to collapse into the soft sheets and forget the world for a while.

But when I step inside, I find Niamh already in bed, the lamp casting a warm glow over her. Documents are spread across her lap, her eyes scanning the pages with that familiar intensity.

“If you have a minute—” Niamh begins, her voice breaking the silence.

As I sit beside Niamh, the exhaustion weighing down on me, I can’t help but let out a groan. “Please, no. No more. I don’t care about what color tablecloth we use,” I say, my voice tinged with a mix of frustration and fatigue. The thought of discussinganother detail about the upcoming events feels like a mountain I just can’t climb right now.

Niamh looks up from the documents, her expression softening with a hint of understanding. “It’s nothing like that,” she replies, her tone gentle yet serious. She lowers the papers in her lap, revealing a photo that immediately catches my attention. My eyes zero in on the circled figure in the crowd—Michael—at an event that Sofia Hughes attended.

A shiver runs through me as the reality of what we’re doing crashes back in. Sofia Hughes, the woman whose corpse was found on top of Andrew O’Sullivan’s grave. The mystery that’s been haunting us, driving us, ever since we discovered her existence. We’d sworn to find justice for her, and now… now there might be a chance.

“With all of these special get-togethers happening in the next few weeks, this may be our opportunity to really get to the bottom of this,” Niamh says, her voice filled with a quiet determination that pulls me back into focus.

I can’t believe I let myself get distracted by the minutiae of social events and domestic duties. We made a promise, and I won’t let Sofia’s memory fade into the background of this chaotic world. I look at Niamh, feeling a renewed sense of purpose. “Did you find anything else out?” I ask, my heart beating a little faster as I brace for whatever she’s uncovered.

Niamh shakes her head slightly, her expression tinged with frustration. “Just the same. She was probably a Bride, and someone in the Hands of Kings had something to do with her going missing.”

The implications hang heavy in the air between us. Sofia wasn’t just a random victim—she was tied to this world, to the same people we’re surrounded by. The thought sends a chill down my spine. “What do you think we should do?” I ask, the weight of the situation pressing down on me.

Niamh’s eyes meet mine, her resolve clear. “Find out who that person was.”

Her words ignite a fire in me. We’re not just playing at being investigators anymore—this is real, and it’s dangerous, but we have to see it through. For Sofia, for justice, for everything that’s been taken from us and twisted beyond recognition.

I nod, feeling the determination harden within me. “We will,” I say, my voice firm. “We’ll find out who did this.”

CHAPTER SIX

Diarmuid

THE DOOR CREAKS open under its familiar weight as I step into the dimly lit entrance of a bar called Church. The scent of aged whiskey and polished wood greets me like an old friend, but something else lingers in the air, something less familiar. Jack Higgins, the bar's manager and one of my men, stands by the entrance. His face breaks into a tight smile as soon as I enter.

“Evening, sir,” Jack says, his voice pitched lower than usual. My eyes narrow ever so slightly. Sir? Jack has always called me by my name—never "sir." The shift is subtle but unmistakable, like a draft of cold air in a warm room.

"Diarmuid," Jack continues, the word stiff on his tongue, "we’ve got a private room set up for you. Your brothers are already waiting."

I study the man in front of me. Jack’s eyes flit nervously to the floor, and he makes a hesitant move to extend his hand. My own hand remains at my side, ignoring the gesture as if it hasn't been offered at all. Jack recoils slightly, his smile tightening further, a bead of sweat glistening at his temple under the low light. The man’s demeanor has shifted since I took on the mantle of Don; that much is clear. There's fear there, a deeper kind than I've ever seen in him. If only Jack knew what Victor had him do.

I nod curtly and walk past Jack without another word, the soft thud of my footsteps swallowed by the thick carpet as I make my way down the narrow hallway. The bar is a well-kept secret, hidden away in the depths of a commercial building, far from the prying eyes of the cult that has been sniffing around theO’Sullivan family for years. It’s meant to be a sanctuary, a place where we can speak freely. But tonight, something feels off.

I push through the double doors at the end of the hall and step into the private room. The room is small, with dark wood paneling and a single, low-hanging chandelier that casts a soft, amber glow over the scene. Lorcan and Ronan sit at a table in the center, drinks in hand. Lorcan, the older of the two, immediately stands up, his broad frame casting a long shadow against the wall.

“Head of the family. I knew it would be you. Congratulations, brother,” Lorcan says, his voice carrying the warmth of genuine pride. He crosses the room in a few strides, clapping me on the shoulder with a heavy hand. The force of it is meant to be reassuring, but it only makes my shoulders tense.

Ronan, on the other hand, remains seated. He takes a slow sip from his glass, his expression unreadable. Boredom or indifference—I can’t tell. Maybe it’s both.

Ronan finally speaks, his tone as flat as his gaze. “He was the only option. I wouldn’t call it a victory.”

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