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

CHAPTER NINEDiarmuid

CHAPTER NINE

Diarmuid

AS I BUTTON up my shirt, the fabric sliding over my skin, I catch a glimpse of Selene’s bare form in the morning light. Her skin glows, soft and warm, but there’s something else—a shadow on her arms. My breath catches in my throat as I see the faint bruises, the perfect shape of my fingertips, stark against her pale skin.

I didn’t mean to hurt her, at least not like that. Last night…last night was a blur of jealousy and fury. Seeing Lorcan parade her around, treating her like she was his, it ignited something primal in me. I tried to keep it under control, to not cross that room and rip him apart in front of everyone. But when we got home… when it was just the three of us… that control shattered.

My touch wasn’t gentle, wasn’t loving. It was possessive, a silent claim I needed to stake. But now, looking at her, I feel a pang of guilt. I pull the collar of my shirt up, trying to cover the tightness in my chest with the crisp, white fabric.

Selene stirs slightly but doesn’t wake. Her breathing is even, peaceful. At least she’s still asleep, unaware of my moment of weakness. I turn to leave, knowing I need to put some distance between us before the regret starts to show on my face.

I walk down the stairs, each step heavy with the weight of what I’ve done, of who I am. I should’ve known better, should’ve had more control. But the truth is, I’m not just battling Lorcan or my own instincts—I’m battling the monster Victor molded me into.

As I reach the foyer, my phone buzzes in my pocket, pulling me out of my thoughts. I pull it out, frowning at the unfamiliar number. When I open the message, all I see is a single emoji: a church.

My heart skips a beat, and I feel the cold fingers of dread curling around my spine. No one, not even my brothers, knows about the things I do for Victor. They don’t know about the lives I’ve taken, the blood that stains my hands. The only person who knew was the original Him, and he’s in pieces, scattered in the Irish Sea, just like Victor ordered.

But now, it seems, someone else knows. And they’re calling me to duty.

I stare at the emoji, the little image mocking me with its simplicity, reminding me of the other role I play in this twisted family. I thought that with all my new responsibilities, I’d be free of this, that I could put that part of my life behind me. But it seems like the past isn’t done with me yet.

I pocket my phone and head for the door. Whatever this is, it can’t be ignored. I can’t afford to ignore it.

I’ve always suspected there are others like me, shadows lurking in the corners of Victor’s empire, silent killers waiting for the word. It makes sense—Victor isn’t the kind of man to put all his eggs in one basket. But when he handed me the reins of the O’Sullivan empire, I assumed he’d turn to those other ghosts, let them carry out the dirty work while I focused on running the show.

That’s why I’m surprised, no, irritated, when I’m summoned back to the same confession booth I’ve always used. The familiar path through the church is almost laughable now, a twisted ritual I thought I’d left behind. But here I am, slipping into that cramped wooden box, the faint scent of incense and dust clinging to the air.

I sit there, waiting, and then I hear it—Victor’s voice, smooth and controlled, oozing confidence from the other side of the velvet curtain. Once upon a time, that voice might have sent chills down my spine. But now? Now it just makes me anxious, impatient. I want to rip that curtain down, reach through, and wrap my hands around his throat. Squeeze until that calm, assured tone is nothing but a gurgle.

But I don’t. Because Victor’s never alone. The people sweeping the floors, dusting the pews—they’re not just there for upkeep. They’re his honor guard, his personal army, ready to lay down their lives at his command. And as much as I’d love to arrange that, it will have to wait. Timing is everything.

Victor’s note had been cryptic as always, leading me to an abandoned car on the outskirts of town. The place was as desolate as you’d expect—overgrown grass, rusted metal, and the quiet hum of the wind cutting through the silence. I approached the car, an old sedan, paint peeling away like dead skin. The trunk didn’t put up much of a fight; a quick pry and it popped open.

Inside, there was only an envelope, thick with papers. I grabbed it, glancing around out of habit, though I knew no one would be out here. Victor’s always careful like that. Back in my car, I tore the envelope open, spreading its contents across the passenger seat.

The first thing I see is a photo of a man—middle-aged, weathered, the kind of face you’d pass on the street without a second thought. I don’t recognize him, which isn’t surprising. But what does surprise me is the thoroughness of the information. Victor usually gives just enough to get the job done, expecting me to fill in the gaps myself. This, though, this is almost too much. Every detail of this guy’s life is laid out in front of me like an open book.

I skim the files, taking it all in. The guy’s name is Ben Fleming. A simple name for what seems like a simple man. A fisherman, of all things. Spent most of his life on the water, hauling in nets, living off the sea. No wife, no kids, just him and the ocean. I almost laugh at the absurdity of it. How does a guy like this end up in Victor’s crosshairs? It doesn’t make sense.

Maybe it’s a debt situation. I’ve seen it before—guys who owe too much, who make the wrong enemies. A fisherman’s life isn’t exactly lucrative. Or maybe Ben saw something he wasn’t supposed to. It wouldn’t be the first time some poor bastard stumbled onto something in the Irish Sea he shouldn’t have.

I glance at my watch. Niamh’s making dinner tonight, and if I play this right, I might be able to wrap this up quickly enough to make it home in time. I flip through the last of the papers, memorizing the details. Ben Fleming. A simple man with a simple life. If only he knew how complicated it was about to get.

I shove the papers back into the envelope, my mind already shifting gears. This should be straightforward—get in, take care of business, get out. I start the car, the engine roaring to life. Time to find Ben Fleming and figure out why he’s on the radar of the Hands of Kings. And then… then I’ll make sure he’s off it for good.

I pull into a spot near the public dock, parking where I can watch without drawing attention. December in Ireland isn’t exactly beach weather, and the biting cold has driven most people indoors. The few stragglers that were milling about have now retreated, leaving me alone with the sea. The wind howls, cutting through my coat, and I shove my hands into my pockets, staring out at the choppy, late-afternoon waves.

Just as I start to think I might miss dinner, after all, the fishing boat comes into view. It’s an old schooner; its once vibrant green hull is now faded and weathered by years of harsh saltwater. The white sails billow in the wind, but I can hear the engine puttering even from this distance. The boat bounces on the waves as it approaches the shore, the front lifting and dropping with the rhythm of the sea.

I squint, trying to make out the name on the hull, but I don’t need to see it to know. Deirdre. Named after the tragic figure from Irish legend, the woman who died of a broken heart. Fitting, in a twisted way.

I get out of the car, moving silently toward the pier, keeping to the shadows. The schooner coasts smoothly toward the dock, the hull scraping lightly against the wood as it comes to a stop. A large man jumps off the boat, rope in hand, and begins tying up the schooner with practiced ease.

This must be Ben Fleming. Even from here, I can see the years of hard work etched into his broad shoulders, his every movement deliberate and strong. He finishes securing the boat and turns back, ready to climb aboard again, when he hears the click of my gun.

“Let’s take a ride, Ben,” I say, my voice cutting through the stillness.

He freezes, his back to me. For a moment, I expect him to panic, to bolt, or at least stammer out some excuse. But he doesn’t. Instead, he straightens, his shoulders stiffening, and slowly turns to face me. There’s no fear in his eyes, just a weary resignation like he almost expected this.

Something tugs at the back of my mind, a warning, but I push it aside. Paranoia. That’s all it is, leftover tension from dealing with Wolfe. This man isn’t Wolfe. This is Ben Fleming, a simple fisherman who got caught up in something bigger than himself.

“Untie the boat,” I command, keeping my gun trained on him.

Without a word, Ben obeys, his large hands deftly undoing the knots he just tied. The schooner drifts slightly as he releases it from the dock. I gesture with the gun, and we both climb aboard. The boat rocks underfoot, the cold sea spray hitting my face as I keep my eyes locked on him.

“Take us back out to sea,” I tell him.

Again, he complies without a fight, moving to the controls and guiding Deirdre away from the dock. The engine grumbles as it powers up, and soon we’re gliding back out into the open water, the shoreline slowly fading from view.

The plan is simple: kill Ben, dump him at sea, and be done with it. As I stand behind him, the cold steel of the gun in my hand, I can’t help but feel a twinge of disappointment. This isn’t what I’d hoped for. No challenge, no thrill—just another task to tick off the list. I might as well be running errands for all the excitement I’m getting out of this.

The waves slap against the hull, the cold wind biting at my face, but there’s no adrenaline, no rush. I was hoping for more—a fight, something to get the blood pumping. But Ben just stands there, quietly steering the schooner like a lamb resigned to the slaughter.

I shift my weight, considering how quickly I can make this all end. Just one pull of the trigger, and it’s over. But before I can make my move, Ben does something unexpected. He slams the throttle forward, gunning the engine with a sudden roar.

The boat lurches violently, throwing me off balance. I stumble backward, my feet slipping on the wet deck. The next thing I know, something heavy and hard connects with the side of my head. An oar. Pain explodes across my skull, and I crash to the deck, the gun slipping from my grasp and skidding across the floor.

The boat surges forward, cutting through the choppy waves with no one at the helm. I can feel the cold spray of the sea on my face as I struggle to clear my vision, the taste of salt on my lips. Ben has left the controls, and he’s coming at me again, the oar raised for another strike.

I barely have time to react, rolling to the side as the oar comes down where my head was a second ago. The deck tilts beneath me, the schooner still plowing ahead, out of control. I scramble to my feet, scanning the deck for my gun, but there’s no time. Ben’s on me again, swinging the oar with surprising strength.

I grab the oar as it comes at me, gripping it with both hands, trying to wrestle it from him. The wood digs into my palms, the muscles in my arms straining as we struggle. Up close, I can see it in his eyes now—Ben Fleming is not a simple man.

There’s a ferocity there, a wildness that I didn’t expect. His weathered face is twisted with determination, his teeth gritted as he fights back. The oar shifts between us, our bodies pressing against each other as we grapple for control.

This isn’t how it was supposed to go. My mind races, trying to reassess, to adapt, but the boat lurches again, throwing us both off balance. Ben uses the moment to his advantage, wrenching the oar free from my grip. I barely manage to duck as he swings it at my head again.

I can feel my heart pounding now, adrenaline finally surging through my veins. This isn’t just a routine hit anymore—this is a fight for survival. The thought crosses my mind that maybe this is exactly what I wanted. A real challenge. But there’s no time to savor the irony as Ben comes at me again.

We’re locked in a deadly dance, the boat careening through the waves, neither of us in control. Each move is calculated, every second counts. Ben isn’t going down easily, and it’s clear now that he’s been in a fight like this before.

As much as I want to deny it, one thing is certain: Ben Fleming is far more dangerous than I ever imagined.

Ben moves faster than I expected, just as fast as I am. The way he shrugs off pain, like it’s nothing more than a mild inconvenience, tells me everything I need to know. This isn’t some simple fisherman—this is a killer, a man cut from the same bloody cloth as me.

When I lunge at him, trying to get a grip, my hands only tear away his shirt. That’s when I see them—the scars crisscrossing his back, eerily similar to the ones I bear. My blood runs cold. This isn’t just a hit. This is a battle with someone who knows the same darkness I do.

He comes at me again, relentless, and I barely manage to pull myself up to the console. My hand finds the wheel, and I spin it hard, sending the boat into a sharp turn. The schooner leans violently to the side, the masts swinging as the sails adjust to the sudden change in wind direction. Ben stumbles, losing his footing, and for a brief moment, I have the upper hand.

I straighten the wheel quickly, pointing the boat back toward shore. I can’t afford to be stranded out here, not with this maniac coming at me. The sea is no friend to me, not like it is to him.

But Ben’s quick to recover, grabbing a rope and coming at me with murder in his eyes. I know what he’s planning—he’s going to try and strangle me. But I’m ready for it. The moment he loops the rope around my neck, I slip my hands under it, stopping him from tightening the noose. My muscles scream in protest, but I hold on, refusing to let him choke the life out of me.

The fight is brutal, a drawn-out battle where neither of us can gain the upper hand. The boat lurches and sways beneath us, making every movement a risk. Ben has his sea legs, moving with the boat’s rhythm like he’s part of it. I’m at a disadvantage, struggling to maintain balance, every step a fight against the shifting deck.

The gun is long gone, lost somewhere in the chaos, and exhaustion is starting to seep into my bones. My muscles burn with every movement, and for the first time in my career, I feel something unsettling—fear. I’m not just battling Ben; I’m battling my own limits, and I’m starting to realize that I might lose.

Then, through the haze of pain and fatigue, I see it—a glimmer of hope. The docks are getting closer. We’re almost back to shore. Ben doesn’t seem to notice, too focused on trying to end me right here, right now.

He lunges at me again, the rope in his hands, his eyes filled with lethal intent. But I see my chance, the only chance I have left. As he commits to the attack, I pivot, using his momentum against him, and leap from the boat.

The cold air rushes past me as I hit the water, the shock of the icy sea nearly taking my breath away. I surface, gasping for air, my limbs heavy with exhaustion but alive.

The fight isn’t over, but I’ve bought myself time. Time to regroup, to figure out who the hell Ben Fleming really is, and why he was sent after me. And most importantly, time to get the hell out of these freezing waters and back onto solid ground.

The water is ice cold, slicing through me like a thousand knives as I plunge into the sea. Every muscle in my body screams in protest, my limbs going numb almost instantly. When I finally break the surface, I gasp for air, my lungs burning as they suck in the frigid, salty air.

I force myself to look back, just in time to see the schooner crash into the docks with a deafening crack. The boat flips over itself, the masts snapping like twigs under the weight of the hull. It careens into the other boats moored there, smashing them to pieces as it skips across the water. The destruction is total, a chaotic end to what was supposed to be a simple job. Not the ending I would have preferred, but an ending nonetheless.

It doesn’t take me long to reach the shore, but the cold has done its work. My limbs feel like lead, stiff and uncooperative as I drag myself out of the water. My joints scream with every movement, my body a mess of aches and numbness. All I can think about is getting home, sinking into the warmth of Niamh’s dinner, and forgetting this nightmare of a day.

Staggering to my car, I can barely keep my thoughts straight. Victor sent me after another hitman—that much is obvious now. I’ve fought trained men before, but this was different. There’s something about facing someone whose entire purpose in life is to extinguish others, someone who’s been molded into a weapon just like I have. The real question gnawing at my mind is: Did Victor know? Did he send me after Ben Fleming knowing exactly who and what he was?

Why would Victor pit me against someone like that? Was this a mistake, or was it some kind of sick test, a way to measure whether I’m still sharp, still dangerous enough to keep in his employ? And if it was a test, did I pass, or was this a warning that I’m not the only killer in Victor’s stable?

My thoughts are cut short by the sudden crack of gunfire. My windshield explodes in a spiderweb of cracks, and instinct takes over. I slam the car into gear and tear out of the lot, gravel spitting out from under the tires.

As I speed toward the main road, I see him—Ben, soaked and bedraggled but alive and well. He must have bailed from the schooner just like I did. He’s holding a gun, leveling it at my car again.

I duck just in time as another bullet shatters the passenger window, glass raining down onto the seat. My heart pounds as I press the accelerator, trying to put as much distance between us as possible.

Ben Fleming was prepared for this. He had a gun stashed on shore, ready for a fight, and he wasn’t going down easily. This wasn’t just a botched hit—it was something else, something bigger. I can feel it in my bones, in the way my heart won’t stop racing even as I get farther from the docks.

As I drive away, I force myself to focus, to regroup. This was no ordinary job, and I need to figure out what the hell just happened. I have no idea whether this was a mistake on Victor’s part or a deliberate test. And the uncertainty gnaws at me.

Did I pass? Or did Victor just remind me that no matter how deadly I am, there’s always someone else out there, just as lethal, waiting for their shot?

The only thing I know for sure is that this isn’t over. Not by a long shot.