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

CHAPTER ELEVENNiamh

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Niamh

“TYRONE LYNCH’S REACTION proves that we are on the right track.” Selene’s voice cuts through the silence, her tone as resolute as ever.

I’ve heard her say this too many times to count—certainly not just the first, second, or even tenth time. Each repetition feels like she’s trying to convince herself as much as me. I can only nod, a faint “uh-huh” escaping my lips. I’m on autopilot, really, because I know where this is heading. I watch as the familiar gears begin to turn in her mind, her eyes narrowing slightly, lips pursed in that way that signals she’s about to launch into another round of theories.

But what’s the point? I feel it deep in my bones—we’re stuck. We’ve been working on this case for weeks, chasing shadows, and yet, here we are, no closer to the truth than when we first began. I bite back the frustration rising in my throat. There’s nowhere else to go, no new leads to follow, just the same tangled web that’s slowly strangling us both.

Sophia Hughes. Her name alone sends a cold shiver down my spine. She worked for Cóisir Amárach, the party that’s currently in power—the same party that Diarmuid’s brother, Lorcan, is backing. And Sophia… she was a Bride. That word carries so much weight, so much history, and it’s all wrapped up in blood and betrayal.

We’ve always suspected Tyrone Lynch’s involvement with the Hands of Kings, that shadowy group lurking behind the scenes, pulling strings. And Sophia’s murder? It stinks of their handiwork. She worked directly on Lynch’s campaign, and there were whispers, rumors—nothing solid, but enough to suggest that she and Lynch were more than just colleagues. Lovers, they said. I can’t help but wonder how much of that is true and how much is just another layer of deception.

Tyrone’s reaction at the benefit dinner—it was telling. A slip, a crack in his otherwise polished facade. It’s the first real sign that we might be onto something. Yet, despite the spark of hope it ignites in Selene, I feel nothing but a deepening sense of dread. We have a theory, sure, but what good is that when we’re completely stumped on how to proceed? We’re stuck in this endless cycle of what-ifs and maybes, and I’m starting to doubt we’ll ever break free.

And then there’s Diarmuid. He wasn’t at dinner tonight—another empty seat, another voice we desperately needed but didn’t have. His perspective and insight are always invaluable, especially in moments like this when Selene and I are spinning our wheels. But he isn’t home. And without him, it’s like we’re missing a crucial piece of the puzzle.

In the beginning, I used to worry when Diarmuid didn’t show up on time. I would sit by the window, pacing, imagining the worst—accidents, attacks, or worse still, betrayal. But that was a lifetime ago, or at least it feels like it. I’ve long accepted that the life of a King’s Bride is one of waiting. Constantly waiting. Waiting for a glance, a word, a sign that I still exist in his world of secrets and shadows. It’s exhausting, but it’s the reality I’ve chosen. Or maybe it chose me.

I wonder if that’s where Sophia went wrong. Did she grow tired of the waiting? Or did she step too far out of the shadows, trying to carve out a space where she could be seen, recognized? I can’t shake the feeling that she made a mistake somewhere along the line—a fatal one. And now, I’m here, trying to piece together the fragments of her life, hoping to avoid the same fate.

I push myself up from the chair and start pacing, my eyes tracing the photos pinned to the wall. Each one is a snapshot of a moment, frozen in time, yet all part of a larger, more sinister picture. Sophia’s face is everywhere, always in the background, always the supportive figure behind Tyrone Lynch. She’s smiling in most of them, but there’s something in her eyes—something I can’t quite put my finger on. Was it fear? Resignation? Or is it just the weariness that comes from playing a role for too long?

Sophia was a master at blending into the scenery, yet she was always there, at every public event, standing just behind Tyrone, her presence reinforcing his power. But she wasn’t the only one. As I go through the photos again, I notice him—the man we almost overlooked too many times. Michael Reardon. Amira’s brother and Victor’s Page.

At first, he’s just another face in the crowd, easy to dismiss, easy to miss. He’s rarely facing the camera, always just on the edge of the frame, like a shadow. It took us a while to even realize it was him. He’s good at hiding, but there’s a way that those in Amira’s family hold themselves, a subtle arrogance or confidence—it’s hard to describe—that makes them stand out once you know what to look for. It’s in the set of the shoulders, the way they carry their heads just a little higher than the rest. After being tormented by Amira, I can spot it a mile away.

Despite Michael’s low position in the cult, there’s no mistaking the way he carries himself—like someone who could do serious damage if the moment called for it. He’s not just another lackey; there’s something dangerous simmering beneath that calm exterior. And he had been stalking Sophia. That much is clear now. It’s as if he’s the dark shadow that loomed over her every move, unseen but always there, always watching.

“We could always start at the beginning, from the time she disappeared.” Selene’s voice is distant, almost like she’s speaking to a ghost rather than to me. She’s rambling, caught up in her own thoughts, and I know better than to interrupt. I’ve learned to be patient when Selene gets like this, when she’s locked in that loop of obsessive analysis, going over the facts again and again until something clicks, until she can make sense of it all.

But it’s exhausting. It’s like watching someone try to force together pieces of a puzzle that just don’t fit, yet refusing to stop until they do. I watch her, feeling a mixture of sympathy and frustration. She’s talking out loud, but not to me—not really. She’s speaking to herself, chasing down every loose end, every stray thought, hoping that one of them will lead to a breakthrough.

I can’t do this anymore, not tonight. Quietly, I slip out of the room. Selene doesn’t even notice. She’s too far gone in her own mind, too focused on unraveling this mess to see me leave.

Ever since Wolfe took Selene, the house has been filled with people—silent, watchful sentries who seem to materialize out of nowhere, always ready to pounce on any perceived threat. Their presence is unnerving. There have been nights when they’ve startled me as I made my way to the bathroom in the dark, their eyes following my every move. They know my routine, too well, it seems.

On nights like this, when Diarmuid is away, I find myself drawn to the indoor pool. It’s the only place in this house where I can find a semblance of peace, where I can escape the suffocating presence of Selene’s obsessive thoughts and the silent guards lurking in the shadows.

I don’t bother going to the bedroom to grab my swim gear. No, I’m too impatient for that, too restless. There’s a part of me that’s desperate—desperate to help Sophia, to find some way to bring justice to her name. But it feels like her spirit is hovering over my shoulder, always there watching, judging me for not being clever enough, for missing what she probably thought was so obvious.

But nothing seems obvious. We’ve run ourselves into a corner, and every lead feels like a dead end. There’s no clear path forward, no light at the end of this tunnel. I sink deeper into that familiar pit of frustration, where everything feels futile, where the weight of our failure presses down like a leaden shroud.

The windows in the pool room stretch high, almost impossibly tall, reaching for the ceiling as if trying to touch the heavens. They’re made in that clever way where I can see out, but no one can see in. I look out at the early winter moon hanging serenely in the sky, its light, cold, and distant, just like everything else in my life right now. The tiles beneath my feet are cold, a stark contrast to the warm, humid air that fills the room. Steam rises lazily from the water, swirling in the air like ghosts.

I hate that I use the heater. It feels like a betrayal of the dream that once fueled me—the dream of swimming the Oceans Seven. A marathon of swims across some of the most treacherous waters in the world, it’s the oceanic equivalent of the Seven Summits for climbers. The North Channel, between Ireland and Scotland, is 18.6 nautical miles of frigid hell, with water temperatures hovering around 55°F. It’s the coldest, most grueling swim on the list, and many fail because of the cold.

Yet, here I am, swimming in water that’s warmer than my own body temperature. It’s pathetic, really. A far cry from the cold, biting waters I once dreamed of conquering.

Hope is cruel. Poets and singers love to wax lyrical about hope, about its importance, its beauty. But they never talk about its cruelty. Hope clings to dreams long after those dreams have become impossible. It’s relentless, dragging those dead dreams out of the grave time and again, only to torture them—and me—further.

The moment I became a Bride, that dream died. I knew it then, deep down, though I refused to acknowledge it. But hope? It refuses to let go, refuses to let me let go. It keeps resurrecting that impossible dream, only to taunt me with it. To remind me of what I can never have.

Even if by some miracle, Diarmuid chooses me, it won’t matter. I’ll have to use whatever favor I have with him to protect my sister. That’s what matters now, not the cold waters of the North Channel, not the dream of swimming the Oceans Seven. My sister is my priority. She has to be.

But my soul is tired. Tired of the endless waiting, the constant fear, the cruel hope that refuses to die. Tired of this life I never wanted but somehow ended up in.

My clothes fall into a puddle at my feet, a discarded shell as I step out of them. The cool air pricks at my skin, sending a shiver down my spine, goosebumps rising in response. I walk to the edge of the pool, my toes lined up perfectly with the slick, tiled edge. For a moment, I just stand there, breathing in the humid air, letting the anticipation build.

Then, with a deep breath, I dive.

The water greets me like an old friend; its embrace familiar and comforting. It's always been this way between us. The water understands me in a way nothing else ever has. As a child, I was a talented ballerina, my movements graceful and precise, but even then, my talent wasn’t so much about dancing as it was about defying gravity, escaping the earth that tried so hard to tether me. I was always spinning, always leaping, always trying to leave the ground behind.

But in the water, I don’t have to try so hard. It muffles the harsh sounds of the world, cocooning me in silence. It surrounds me lovingly, supporting me when I’m weary, lifting me effortlessly to the surface when I need to breathe. It’s the only place where I feel truly free, where I can be myself without any expectations or demands.

I glide beneath the surface, my body cutting through the water with ease. But instead of surfacing, I let my arms dangle in front of me, surrendering to the water’s gentle pull. Slowly, I turn, the buoyancy of my lungs causing my body to flip toward the surface, where I float weightlessly. My eyes remain closed, and every now and then, I release a small bubble of air, watching as it darts toward the surface like a tiny, fleeting hope.

Time passes, though I’m not sure how much. My lungs begin to burn, a sharp reminder that I can’t stay here forever, no matter how much I might want to. But I don’t want to leave, not yet. This world—the world beneath the surface—is so kind to me, so accepting. It doesn’t judge, doesn’t demand anything of me. It simply lets me be.

But then a voice intrudes, soft but insistent, cutting through the peaceful silence. Ella. My little sister, so full of life and vulnerability. She wouldn’t be ready. She still needs her big sister. I know this, feel it deep in my core, and the thought tugs at me, pulling me back to the reality I so desperately wanted to escape.

Reluctantly, I open my eyes. The world beneath the water is blurry and distorted, but it’s still beautiful, still so inviting. Yet I know I can’t stay. Not now. Not with Ella needing me.

With a gentle kick, I swim toward the surface, breaking through the water with a gasp, the cool air rushing into my lungs.

When my head breaks the surface, I’m startled to see Diarmuid standing at the edge of the pool, his eyes fixed on me. He’s so still, so quiet that I almost didn’t notice him there, blending into the shadows. It’s unusual—he rarely seeks me out on his own, and the fact that he’s here now, sends a flicker of unease through me. Part of me wonders if I’m in trouble, if I’ve somehow crossed a line without realizing it.

But then I really see him, illuminated by the soft moonlight filtering through the tall windows. He looks rough, worn down in a way that I haven’t seen before. Whatever happened tonight, it clearly didn’t go his way. There’s a tension in his posture, a heaviness in the set of his shoulders that tells me something went wrong.

Yet, he says nothing about it. His lips remain pressed together, withholding whatever thoughts are swirling behind those intense eyes. Instead, his gaze drifts over my body, taking in the way the water clings to my skin, how it shimmers in the moonlight. The air between us is thick with something I can’t quite name—a mixture of his unspoken frustration and something deeper, something I’ve felt before but never truly understood.

I don’t move, just float there in the water, feeling the cool air against my skin and the warmth of his gaze. It’s as if the world has narrowed to this single moment, to the space between us, charged with unsaid words and buried emotions.

He still says nothing, and I don’t know if I should speak, if I should break the fragile silence that hangs between us. Part of me wants to reach out, to ask him what’s wrong, to draw him into the warmth of the water where we can both find solace. But another part of me, the part that’s learned to be cautious, to be wary, holds back.

I meet his gaze, searching for some clue in his eyes, something to anchor me in this strange, quiet moment. But all I see is the reflection of the moonlight, the same light that shimmers on my skin, and the unspoken question in his eyes. I realize then that he didn’t come here to talk. He came to watch, to observe, to lose himself in something simple and untainted, even if just for a little while.

So I stay silent, letting the water carry me, letting him watch, and hoping that in this moment, it’s enough.

My heart pounds in my chest, each beat loud and heavy as Diarmuid locks eyes with me. He’s so calm, so deliberate, like nothing else in the world matters. His hands move to the hem of his shirt, and I hold my breath as he pulls it over his head. My eyes trace the lines of his chest, the smooth curve of his muscles. He tosses the shirt aside, his gaze never leaving mine.

I can’t look away. There’s something in his eyes—something that pins me to the spot, something that makes me want him more than I care to admit.

Piece by piece, he removes the rest of his clothes, slow and purposeful. The air between us crackles with unspoken tension, and I feel the heat in my cheeks as my body reacts. When he’s finally naked, the sight of him sends a shiver down my spine. I want to look away, but I can’t.

Diarmuid steps into the water, his movements smooth, controlled, as he lowers himself into the pool. The cool water ripples around his body, but it does nothing to quench the fire building between us. He swims toward me, his gaze never wavering, and I can feel my pulse quicken with every stroke.

When he reaches me, his arms wrap around my waist, pulling me against him, our bodies pressed together under the water. His skin is warm, his grip firm yet gentle. I can feel his erection, hard and insistent against my stomach, and a soft gasp escapes my lips.

“Niamh,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough, the sound of my name sending a jolt through me.

His lips brush against my neck, warm and soft. A shiver runs down my spine, and I tilt my head to give him more access. His breath is hot on my skin, and I can feel every inch of him—his chest rising and falling with each breath, his hands gripping my waist, holding me steady.

I close my eyes, trying to steady my thoughts, but all I can think about is him. The way his touch ignites something deep inside me, the way his presence makes me forget everything else. Nothing matters right now but this moment, here in the water with him.

“Diarmuid,” I whisper, my voice barely audible, as his lips move down my neck, leaving a trail of heat in their wake.

He pulls me even closer, his hands sliding up my back, and I can feel his heartbeat, strong and steady against my chest. There’s no hesitation in his touch, no uncertainty. He knows what he wants, and right now, I’m certain that it’s me.

Our kisses grow deeper, almost frantic. His lips crash into mine, hungry, demanding, as if we can’t get close enough, as if we’re trying to devour each other. I grip his shoulders, my fingers digging into his skin, pulling him tighter against me. The world fades around us—there’s only the heat between our bodies, the water swirling around us, and the desperate need building with every second.

Diarmuid’s hands slide down my back, and I feel a thrill of anticipation as he shifts us, guiding me toward the side of the pool. My breath catches as my back presses against the cool tiles, the contrast making me shiver. He’s still holding me, his body firm and warm against mine, his lips never leaving my skin.

I’ve never done this in water. The thought sends a rush of excitement through me, mixing with the tension that’s already spiraling out of control. His hand moves lower, slipping between my legs, and when his finger slides inside me, a groan of pleasure escapes my throat. The sensation is overwhelming—the cool water, the heat of his touch, the pressure of his body against mine.

"Diarmuid..." My voice is barely a whisper, but I know he hears it. His eyes are dark with desire, his breath coming faster, and for a moment, we just stay like this, lost in each other.

Steam rises from the pool, curling in the air around us, blurring the edges of the world. It feels like we’re suspended in time, like nothing else exists but the two of us. The heat flushes his cheeks, turning them a fresh, soft pink, and for a fleeting second, I think he looks like heaven—like something pure and beautiful, something I could lose myself in forever.

His gaze locks with mine, and I see the hunger, the need mirrored in his eyes. He leans in, kissing me again, and this time, it’s slower, more deliberate, but no less intense. Every stroke of his tongue, every press of his body against mine, drives me deeper into this feeling, this all-consuming connection.

"God, you’re beautiful," he murmurs against my lips, his voice rough, filled with raw need. His words send a jolt of electricity through me, making me tremble in his arms.

I wriggle enough that his finger exits from between my legs, and I take the opportunity to wrap my legs around him, pulling him even closer, desperate for more. The water ripples around us, the steam swirling, as I reach down and place his cock at my opening.

Without breaking the kiss, we spin, the water swirling around us as I push him back against the wall. His hands slide down my waist, guiding me into place, and I can feel the tension in his body as his back presses against the cool tiles. The shift in control sends a rush of power through me, and I move, positioning myself over him. The anticipation is electric, every inch of my body alive with need.

I grip the edge of the pool with one hand, using it to steady myself, and slowly lower onto him. A gasp escapes my lips as he fills me, the sensation overwhelming. His breath catches, and his hands tighten on my hips, pulling me down, deeper. For a moment, we just stay like this, connected, the heat between us rising with each breath.

Then I start to move.

My grip tightens on the pool’s edge as I lift myself up, then sink down again, the water helping me glide over him. The pressure of his cock, the way he stretches me, sends waves of pleasure through my body. I can feel every inch of him, every movement, as I pick up the pace, my thighs burning with the effort, but the pleasure far outweighs the strain.

“Niamh…” he groans, his voice rough, strained, and I can feel him struggling to keep control. His fingers dig into my hips, guiding me, but I’m the one driving now, the one in control. I move faster, sliding up and down, gripping the poolside to give me more leverage, more speed. Each movement sends sparks of pleasure shooting through me, the water splashing around us as we lose ourselves in the moment.

His head falls back against the tiles, his eyes half-closed, and the sight of him like this—flushed, panting, completely undone—sends a rush of heat through me. I lean in, pressing my lips to his neck, tasting the salt on his skin, feeling the way his pulse races under my lips.

“Fuck, Niamh,” he whispers, his voice thick with desire. His hands roam over my body, leaving trails of heat in their wake, and I can feel him straining beneath me, holding on, letting me take him higher.

I quicken my pace, the water splashing harder now, the sound of it mixing with our ragged breaths. I grip the side of the pool so tightly my knuckles turn white, but I don’t care. All I can think about is him, the way he feels inside me, the way his body responds to every movement.

The pleasure builds, higher and higher, each thrust pushing me closer to the edge. I moan, the sound echoing off the walls, lost in the heat, the steam rising around us like a curtain of mist as I finally climax and scream out his name.