When Kings Fall (The O’Sullivan’s Brides #3)

CHAPTER TWODiarmuid

CHAPTER TWO

Diarmuid

THE ENGINE HUMS softly as I sit in the driver's seat, staring at the old barn. The headlights are off, blending me into the darkness. I should be able to move, to get out of the car, but I’m frozen, eyes locked on that decaying structure. Niamh wanted to come with me; she said she could help me track down Selene, but there was no tracking to do this time. Wolfe left a note, clear as day: “I took her where I lost her.”

Where he lost her. There's only one place that could mean. I glance around at the newer houses, all lined up in neat rows on land that used to be paddocks. This was once a grand estate, Andrew O’Sullivan’s pride and joy. Now, it’s just this single barn, a stubborn remnant clinging to less than an acre, still owned by the O’Sullivans. Everything else was sold off, developed into these soulless suburban homes.

I close my eyes, remembering the stories. Andrew’s wife, Aine, spent almost all her time here. She was one of those girls who had a way with horses, could calm even the wildest stallion with just a touch. And Andrew, he doted on her, spared no expense. Some of the horses they kept here probably cost more than this beat-up car I’m sitting in.

But then, that day. A feral dog spooked her horse, and everything changed. Aine didn’t survive the fall. Neither did the stables, in a way. Andrew lost his mind in his grief, slaughtered every horse, sold off all the land to developers. All except for this barn. He just couldn’t let it go. Grief has a way of sinking its claws into you, and no matter how hard you try to escape, it holds tight, drags you back. This barn was Andrew’s prison;now it’s become Wolfe’s.

Andrew never could have imagined that the barn he clung to in his grief would become an obsession for his son. Yet, here I am, once again, knowing exactly where to find Wolfe. Over the years, I’ve found him in that barn more times than I can count—passed out cold from too many beers, women, or whatever drugs he could get his hands on. It’s like this place calls to him whenever his life spirals out of control, a sanctuary for his chaos.

I didn’t need to track Wolfe down this time. I didn’t even need confirmation that he was the one who took Selene. The second I saw that note with that phrase, I knew. Knew he was alive, knew exactly where he’d be heading. It was like a sick code between us, a shared understanding forged from too many years of this twisted dance.

The rain streaks down the windshield, heavy and relentless, as I sit here, checking my gun. My fingers are steady, but my mind is racing. Wolfe isn’t just some desperate man; he’s a wild animal backed into a corner, and I’ve seen what animals do when they’re desperate. Sometimes, they even sacrifice their own young just to survive. That thought sticks in my gut like a knife. I could walk into that barn, and Wolfe might want to talk, to negotiate. Or I could walk in just in time to watch him put a bullet in Selene’s head right in front of me.

Every instinct I have is screaming at me to storm in there, to crush skulls and end this. But I’ve been trained to kill, and training means control. I can’t let the animal in me take over. I have to be smarter than that, colder. If I lose my head now, we’re all dead.

I ease the car door open and slip out, careful not to shut it all the way. The last thing I need is for Wolfe to hear me coming. The rain is cold, seeping through my clothes in seconds, but I don’t let it bother me. I move silently, rolling my foot with each step, like a predator stalking its prey. I’ve done this a thousand times, but this time is different. This time, it’s personal.

Shards of light slice through the damaged walls of the barn, casting faint beams into the darkness. Each one is a window, a chance to assess the situation before I go in. I approach the first hole, pressing my face close, straining to see and hear anything that might give me an advantage. Wolfe’s voice is a low mumble, but all I can see is an empty, bare room—no sign of Selene.

I move to the next hole, hoping for more, but it’s the same story—nothing. My pulse is pounding in my ears, the rain dripping off my hair into my eyes, but I force myself to stay calm. There’s still another chance.

On my third try, I catch a glimpse of Selene. She’s sitting against the far wall, her eyes closed, head slumped. For a split second, a cold dread grips me. Am I too late? Did my caution cost her life? But then her head lifts, and she opens her eyes. Relief floods through me as we lock eyes through the tiny hole. She’s alive.

But before I can do anything, Wolfe’s face suddenly fills my view, his wild eyes staring directly into mine. There’s a moment of frozen time, a split second where we both know what’s coming next. I jerk back just as a knife slashes through the hole, narrowly missing my face. My foot slips in the mud, but I catch myself, adrenaline surging through my veins.

There’s no more time for caution. I sprint to the side door and burst into the barn, my gun ready, but Wolfe is already there, standing in the middle of the room with a pistol raised. His face is a twisted mask of fury and desperation.

“Let’s talk,” Wolfe says, his voice laced with a dangerous calm.

Wolfe’s hand waves the pistol in my direction, and I freeze, my fingers barely grazing the handle of my own gun. His eyes are locked onto mine, wild and unhinged, the madness swirling behind them almost tangible. With slow, deliberate movements, I pull my gun from its holster and place it on the ground, the cold metal clinking against the dirt floor.

“Step away from it,” Wolfe commands, his voice a low, venomous hiss. I do as I’m told, stepping back, never breaking eye contact. The Wolfe I used to know is gone. What stands before me now is a creature of pure chaos, a man twisted and broken by his own demons. His eyes are wide, pupils blown out, darting from me to Selene and back again as if he’s trying to piece together a puzzle only he can see. The skin around his eyes is pale, stretched too thin, and there’s a gauntness to his face that speaks of sleepless nights and the gnawing of insanity.

I can see it in the way he moves, the erratic jerks of his head, the way his lips twitch as if struggling to hold back a scream. This isn’t just madness; this is something far darker. Poe would have written about men like Wolfe—souls devoured by the abyss, lost in the labyrinth of their own minds. His hair is matted, clinging to his forehead with sweat, and his clothes hang off his body as if he’s been shrinking inside them, withering away under the weight of his own delusions.

“You are Him, aren’t you?” Wolfe’s voice cuts through the air, sharp and accusing. There’s no hesitation, no doubt in his tone—just a grim certainty that chills me to the bone.

“How could I be Him?” I respond, keeping my voice steady, trying to pull him back from the edge. “That hitman has been active for decades. I’m not old enough.”

But Wolfe’s eyes narrow, a cruel smile twisting his lips. “No, but you had training. Secret training. My father and Victor used to take you on your own. You replaced the old one, didn’t you?”

The words hang in the air between us, heavy and suffocating. There’s no use lying. Not anymore. “Yes.”

His grip on the gun tightens, and I can see the tremor in his hands, the way his whole body seems to be vibrating with the effort of holding himself together. Tears well up in his eyes, but they don’t soften his gaze. If anything, they make him look more monstrous, as if the pain has twisted him beyond recognition.

“So, if Victor wants someone taken out, he calls you?” Wolfe’s voice is almost a whisper now, fragile like he’s on the brink of breaking.

“Usually.”

“There are others?”

I pause, weighing my words carefully. “I wouldn’t know.”

The tears spill over, tracking down Wolfe’s face, leaving streaks in the grime. But there’s no mercy in those tears, no redemption. Just raw, bleeding pain. The kind that makes people do terrible things. I can see it in his eyes—the flicker of something dark and final, a decision teetering on the edge.

Wolfe isn’t just a man anymore. He’s a force of nature, a storm of rage and sorrow, and I’m standing in the eye of it.

Wolfe’s voice cracks as he speaks, the desperation thick in the air between us. “He did it, Diarmuid. He ordered my father killed. I know it now. That’s why he wanted me dead. I figured out his secret. But we’re family. We can beat him. Together. Get our revenge.”

His words hang in the damp air, thick with the promise of violence and betrayal. I glance over at Selene, making sure she’s okay. She’s sitting there, eyes locked on Wolfe, but there’s a fire in her gaze, a recklessness that has always gotten under my skin. She should be terrified, trembling in fear, but instead, she’s almost… curious. Like she’s watching a play, waiting for the next act. It’s that recklessness that irks me, that makes her unpredictable, dangerous in her own way.

I turn my attention back to Wolfe, feeling the weight of his expectations, his need for validation, for some kind of twisted brotherhood. “You really were the dumbest of us,” I say, the words slipping out before I can stop them.

Wolfe’s face twists in confusion. “What?”

“Ronan, Lorcan, me… we all have our strengths,” I continue, my voice cold, detached. “I suppose you have some, too, but you were always the dumbest.”

His eyes widen, a mix of hurt and fury flashes across his face. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

There it is—the crack, the moment when he realizes the truth isn’t what he wanted it to be. Wolfe always thought he could outsmart us, outplay us, but he never understood the game. The truth is, he was always a pawn, always a step behind. And now, standing here, thinking he’s found some grand revelation, he still doesn’t see the bigger picture.

“Victor never ordered the hit on your father,” I say, my voice steady, almost clinical. “It would make no sense for him to do that. Andrew was a powerful ally for the Kings, always doing what Victor told him to do.”

Wolfe’s eyes narrow, confusion flickering across his face. “Then, who would have the power to order a hit on a King?”

I let the silence hang for a moment, watching as the realization starts to creep in. “No one ordered me to make that hit. I did it on my own.”

His face contorts, disbelief and confusion warring within him. “You?” The word barely escapes his lips, a breathless whisper, as if he can’t quite believe it. His mouth opens and closes, struggling to form a coherent thought. He mouths the word “no” over and over again, but the sound never comes out. It’s like he’s trapped in some internal battle, trying to reconcile the truth with the lies he’s clung to for so long.

But the shock doesn’t last. I see the rage seep into his eyes, poisoning whatever sliver of sanity he had left. His head shakes violently; his teeth bared in a snarl as the madness takes hold again. He raises the gun, his hand trembling with fury, and squeezes the trigger.

Click.

Nothing happens—the gun jams.

The shock returns to his face, eyes wide, desperate. But I don’t stop, don’t hesitate. I start walking toward him, each step deliberate, my eyes locked on his.

“You were in the river, cousin,” I say, my voice low and almost pitying. “I can see the filth on that pistol from here. Didn’t your father always tell us to treat our guns better than we treat our women? You didn’t take the time to treat her right, and she betrayed you.”

Wolfe’s eyes dart to the gun, his mind racing, but it’s too late. His hand shakes, the rage and desperation clawing at him, but he knows he’s lost. The madness in his eyes is now laced with fear, the realization that his own carelessness has sealed his fate.

I’m close enough now that I can see the sweat on his brow, the frantic way his chest heaves. The man before me isn’t Wolfe anymore; he’s just a husk, broken and crumbling under the weight of his own delusions.

“Diarmuid, please,” Wolfe’s voice trembles, fear replacing the fury that had consumed him moments before.

I don’t hesitate. I grab the pistol in his hand, wrenching it from his grasp with a single, sharp twist. Before he can react, I drive my fist forward, the weight of his own gun crashing into his face. The impact sends him sprawling backward, but I don’t let up. I’m on him in an instant, my fists raining down blow after blow, the dull thud of bone against flesh filling the small, dim space of the barn. Wolfe’s resistance fades quickly, his body going limp under the relentless assault, until finally, he’s unconscious, a crumpled heap on the dirt floor.

I rise, wiping the sweat and blood from my knuckles, and turn to Selene. She’s been watching the whole time, her expression unreadable. I crouch down beside her, pulling out a knife and slicing through the zip ties that bind her wrists. She rubs them, but her eyes stay on Wolfe’s unconscious form. I notice the blood and red marks around her wrists.

The skin is red and broken; the pain must be unbearable, yet she is still focusing on Wolfe. I touch her chin with one finger, making her look at me.

“Are you okay?” I ask. Knowing she can’t be.

The shake of her head is quick, but her breath comes out like the sputter of a broken-down car. “I am now.”

She bites her lip like she’s fighting back tears, and God, I want to wrap her up and take her away from here.

“Are you going to kill him?” she asks, her voice calm, almost too calm for the situation.

Her question makes me realize that I can’t just take her away; I need to end this with Wolfe. I shake my head, my voice low and resolute. “No. Not me.”

“Can you stand?” I ask, helping her to her feet. She doesn’t sway but holds strong. I don’t release her arms, and her gaze travelsto mine. I lean in and press the briefest kiss to her lips. It’s enough to convince myself that she is okay. She’s alive.

“My car is outside; I’ll be there in a minute.” Selene hesitates, but she walks around Wolfe’s body like she expects him to spring up and grab her, but he doesn’t move a muscle.

Once Selene is out of the barn, I work quickly after that, packing Wolfe’s limp body in some old blankets that once would have covered the horses. Slinging him across my shoulder, I load him into the trunk of the car. The rain has let up, but the night is still thick with the smell of wet earth and the cold bite of late autumn. Before I get into the car, I send a text of our location and explain the package I have before I get in.

We drive in silence; the city lights giving way to the shadowy outlines of trees as we head toward a forested area on the outskirts of town. Every once in a while, I reach across and take Selene’s hand, careful not to touch her damaged wrists. Her shivers have settled since I turned up the heat in the car.

It’s a desolate place that I finally stop at, a makeshift encampment where the forgotten and the lost gather to survive.

“I’ll only be a moment.” I leave the car running to give Selene plenty of heat as I search through the camp for an empty tent. I find one, the tent is half-collapsed and barely held together, but it will do.

When I open the trunk, Wolfe is still in the moth-eaten blankets, but I grab him and throw him across my shoulder again. This time, Selene gets out of the car and walks around to the driver’s side where she cuts the engine. She wraps her arms around her waist and follows me along the small path to the tent I found.

I set Wolfe up in a battered chair inside. I stand over him, waiting, watching, as Selene keeps a lookout outside.

It takes time, but eventually, he stirs, a low groan escaping his lips as he regains consciousness. His eyes flutter open, taking in the dim, unfamiliar surroundings, and then they land on me.

“What are you going to do to me?” Wolfe’s voice is hoarse, fear dripping from every word.

I lean in, my face inches from his, my voice cold and devoid of emotion. “Oh, I’ve thought of many things that I wanted to do to you, so many different ways to end your life, but I realized that someone has earned that right more than I have.”

I turn and walk to the tent flap, pulling it open. The night air rushes in, and with it, Amira steps inside. Her eyes are hard, filled with a rage that has been simmering for far too long.

Without another word, I leave the tent, letting the flap fall shut behind me. Outside, the night is alive with the crackling of a fire and the quiet murmur of voices. Selene is standing with some of the others, their faces turned away, lost in their own thoughts. We all ignore the sounds of Wolfe’s screams as they begin to echo from inside the tent, his voice rising in desperation and pain

I stand beside Selene, the warmth of the fire doing little to chase away the cold that has settled in my bones. This is what justice looks like in our world. It’s brutal, it’s unforgiving, and it’s exactly what Wolfe deserves.