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

CHAPTER THREEAmira

CHAPTER THREE

Amira

THEY SAY REVENGE is a viper with two heads—whichever one you use to strike your enemies, the other will inevitably turn back to bite you. But as I step out of the tent, the sharp sting of winter air against my face, I can’t help but close my eyes and savor the glory of this moment. Wolfe is dead, and I was the one who ended him.

It’s the greatest gift anyone has ever given me.

The cold air bites harder, but it’s nothing compared to the thrill that warms me from the inside. A doe-eyed young woman, who introduced herself as Sabre, approaches with washcloths in hand. She looks so delicate, almost out of place in this brutal world. I take the cloths from her, the wet fabric quickly turning red as I wipe the blood from my hands, face, and neck.

Sabre hesitates before speaking, her voice soft and unsure. “What shall we do with him, Miss?”

My gaze drifts back to the tent. The man who tormented me for so long is nothing more than a lifeless corpse now. “Give him to the dogs,” I reply, my voice steady, almost cold. There’s no room for sentiment in this victory.

As I hand the blood-soaked cloths back to Sabre, my eyes catch sight of Diarmuid and Selene standing near a fire. Diarmuid is close to her, in a way that feels almost too intimate, too comforting. A familiar ache stirs in my chest, one I’ve felt too many times before. It’s a cruel reminder of what I’ve never had—what I might never have.

But no, I can’t allow myself to mourn a life that was never mine. That way lies madness, and madness just died in that tent. Wolfe couldn’t accept the disappointments that life threw at him, but I—I learned to exploit them. That’s what set us apart.

I grab a coat from a nearby chair and wrap it around myself, its warmth doing little to chase away the chill in my bones. As I approach Diarmuid and Selene, I can feel countless eyes on me. They’re watching, but not with the same leering pity I used to endure at the brothel. No, their expressions are different now. There’s a respect in their gazes, a recognition that I’m no longer the woman I once was.

I escaped my prison—and I burned it to the ground.

Diarmuid steps away from Selene as I approach, creating a space for me by the fire. The flames flicker and dance, but I don’t really need their warmth. The chill in the air, the breath I can see forming in front of my lips—it all seems distant after the adrenaline of what I’ve just done. Still, I move closer to the fire, more for their sake than mine.

Diarmuid’s eyes meet mine, his expression unreadable. “It’s done?” he asks, his voice low and steady.

I nod, not trusting myself to speak just yet. The reality of it all is still settling in.

Selene’s concern is evident as she looks at me, her voice soft but probing. “How are you feeling?”

A sharp edge creeps into my tone before I can stop it. “Don’t get touchy-feely with me now, Selene. I did what I should have done a long time ago.” The bitterness is like a reflex, a shield I’ve built up over years of disappointments and betrayals. But I catch myself, realizing how harsh I sound.

I sigh, forcing the tension out of my shoulders. “Thank you,” I add, softer this time, trying to convey some semblance of gratitude. It’s hard, though, to let that guard down, even for a moment.

Diarmuid remains silent, his usual way of communicating. I’ve grown used to it, but sometimes I wish he would say something, anything, to bridge the silence between us. I glance up at him, the firelight casting shadows across his face. The flickering glow emphasizes the sharp angles of his cheekbones, giving him a fierceness that makes my heart beat just a little faster. I notice the way his muscles tense beneath his clothing, the way his presence fills the space around him.

A pang of regret twists in my chest. I shouldn’t have ruined my chances with him. The thought lingers, unwelcome and stubborn, as I force myself to look away. But the ache remains, a reminder of the things I’ve lost in pursuit of my vengeance.

Another disappointment. Another thing to make my own. It’s how I’ve survived, how I’ve turned every setback into something I could use. But that doesn’t make the sting any less sharp.

I turn to Diarmuid, my voice edged with defiance. “What now? Are you going to drag me back to your house, make me fulfill my role?”

He meets my gaze, calm and unyielding. “No.”

“Good,” I reply, but the fight in me isn’t ready to settle. “I still have some fight left in me, and I wouldn’t stop myself from fighting against you.”

His expression doesn’t change, but there’s something in his eyes, something I can’t quite read. “You’re going to need that fight. How many from the brothel are still here?”

I pause, thinking of the others, the ones who were too young to remember anything before the brothel, who don’t know any other life. “Most of them,” I say, my voice softening. “Many were taken so young that they don’t remember their homes or their families. They don’t know any other way of life.”

“And you plan to stay here,” Diarmuid says, more of a statement than a question.

“It’s not like my father is going to help me,” I respond, a bitter laugh escaping my lips. “He can barely help himself. All of us are outcasts now. I’ll figure it out.”

Diarmuid’s gaze doesn’t waver. “You’re not a Bride anymore, but I do feel a responsibility for you.”

I can’t help but laugh, the sound harsh and incredulous. “You feel responsible for me?”

“I do,” he says simply, with a sincerity that catches me off guard. “If you’re willing to accept a little help, I’m offering it.”

I narrow my eyes, trying to gauge his intentions. “How can you help me?”

The words hang in the air between us, and I realize, that for once, I’m not sure what answer I want to hear.

Diarmuid’s voice is steady as he speaks, offering something I never expected. “I own property in the south of France. The weather is mild. There’s a lot of tourist activity. I can arrange for all of you to go there.”

I blink, trying to process the enormity of what he’s suggesting. “And do what?”

“Whatever you want,” he replies, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world. “Live there and get local jobs.”

I shake my head, frustration bubbling up. “These women don’t know how to live like that.”

“Then open a brothel,” he says without missing a beat. “I’ll help you in any way I can to keep it away from law enforcement. Take care of them. Take care of yourself.”

I stare at him, searching his face for any sign of deception. It all seems too good to be true. I’ve never left Ireland, never had a chance to start over. My family was destroyed when I was just a child, and ever since then, it’s been in survival mode, nothing more. Now, here’s this opportunity, and I can’t help but wonder what he’s getting out of it.

My voice hardens as I lay down my terms. “I won’t share the profits with you.”

“I don’t expect you to,” Diarmuid responds, his tone matter-of-fact.

“And you and your brothers—you’d still have to pay.”

“Naturally.”

I narrow my eyes, trying to read the shadows on his face, the way the firelight plays tricks with his expressions. “Why are you doing this?”

He pauses, and I know this is when he becomes the hardest to read. That silence of his, so typical, so infuriating. The fire casts deep shadows under his eyes, making it impossible to tell what he’s really thinking.

Finally, he asks, “Do you agree to this plan?”

I glance at Selene, standing just a little behind him, and something in me shifts. There’s no reason for him to help me. I was discarded, worthless to him. Yet, here he is, offering me a way out, a new life. Something in him has changed, but I can’t quite grasp what it is.

I take a deep breath, the weight of my decision heavy on my shoulders. “I agree.”

“I’ll begin the arrangements,” Diarmuid says, already stepping away from the fire. His phone is in his hand, raised to his ear as he walks off, leaving the warmth of the flames—and me—behind.

The air feels colder without him there, the chill seeping through my coat. I hug myself tighter, suddenly aware of how alone we are now, surrounded by strangers. The silence between Selene and me stretches out, filled only by the crackling of the fire.

“He’s going to choose you, you know,” I say, my voice quiet but firm.

Selene glances at me, uncertainty flickering in her eyes. “I’m not sure if that’s true. He’s still attached to Niamh.”

I can’t help the bitter laugh that escapes me. “Attached to Niamh like he’s attached to me. He feels responsible for her, but you’re the one who will be Consort.”

She hesitates, her gaze dropping to the ground. “What if I don’t want to be?”

“Then you’re stupid,” I reply, a little more harshly than I intended. But I mean it. To refuse something like that, something so many of us fought for, would be beyond foolish.

Another silence falls between us. I watch the flames flicker around a large log, most of its shape already reduced to embers. Every now and then, the fire pops, sending sparks spiraling into the night air. Selene looks hauntingly beautiful in the firelight, her features softened, almost ethereal. It’s something I’d never allowed myself to notice before.

But then again, I’d been trying so hard not to see it. To me, Selene and Niamh were never just other women—they were threats. Rivals. I was so focused on winning that I ended up being the first to lose.

Yet despite my best efforts, Diarmuid saw Selene. He saw her in a way he never saw me, and that meant something. Something I’m not sure I want to understand, but it’s there, undeniable.

I pull my gaze away from her, staring into the fire instead. It doesn’t make the truth any easier to swallow.

In another life, in a world where fathers didn’t sell their daughters and cruel men didn’t make commands, maybe Selene and I could have been friends. It’s a thought that lingers as I stand beside her, the firelight casting flickering shadows between us.

“I’m not sorry for what happened,” I say, breaking the silence with a truth that feels heavy on my tongue.

“I didn’t think you would be,” Selene replies, her voice steady, without a trace of judgment.

“I did what I was trained to do,” I continue, my tone as blunt as a blade.

“As expected,” she says, as if she understands, or at least as if she accepts it.

There’s a pause, the words hanging in the cold night air, before I find the courage to say what’s really on my mind. “But…I really do wish the best for you and Niamh. I don’t…I don’t want you to ever understand me. I hope that I always seem cruel to you. I hope that life never teaches you the lessons I’ve learned.”

Selene pauses, her gaze locking onto mine, and in that moment, I have to fight to hold back the tears. It’s the most honest I’ve ever been with anyone, and it leaves me feeling exposed in a way I’m not used to.

“And I hope that your new life doesn’t have any more lessons for you,” she says softly.

I manage a small, sad smile. “That wouldn’t be living, would it?”

Selene nods, a silent understanding passing between us. Slowly, I turn and walk away from the fire, heading toward my tent. The Hands of Kings was a global cult, and I know deep down that all of my troubles won’t magically disappear just because I’m leaving the country. If Diarmuid were to fall from power, enemies would be at my door before I could even blink.

But for now, I lower my arms, lift my chin, and walk tall. I’m no longer just Amira. I’m a Madame in my own right. The weight of that realization settles on my shoulders, but it doesn’t bow me. Instead, it straightens my spine, fuels the fire within me.

This is my life now, and I’ll live it on my terms.