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

CHAPTER TWELVESelene

CHAPTER TWELVE

Selene

THERE’S A RESTLESS beast within me, pacing, growling, demanding to be set free. I don’t know where Niamh has gone. When did she leave? I hadn’t even noticed her slip out. Of course, she did—what sane person wouldn’t take the first chance to escape me? I don’t blame her. In fact, I admire her tact, her ability to read the room and slip away from my chaos without a word. It’s… kind. More than I deserve.

I sigh, leaning against the cold stone wall, trying to calm the storm that’s been brewing in me for days now. It’s not just Sophia’s murder—it’s everything. The way my life has been unfolding feels unbearable, like a tight rope pulling me in all directions, threatening to snap. My behavior has become obsessive, even to myself. Every thought spirals, every decision feels like a trap. I’m suffocating under the weight of it all.

A bitter laugh escapes my lips. God, I’m annoying even to myself lately.

Maybe that’s why Sophia’s murder feels like a twisted kind of relief. It’s awful, and yet—it’s a distraction, something else to focus on. Something outside of myself, my past, and this tangled mess of feelings. Her death, tragic as it is, has given me a reason to be consumed by something else.

I know why I’m like this. My whole existence has been transactional. Every moment of affection between me and my parents was a payment, a bribe for the fact that they never intended for me to belong to myself. They weren’t loving me; they were salving their guilt.

They sold their shame, their failures, their greed, and I was the price they paid to secure their way into the Hands of Kings. That’s what I am—just the cost of entry.

Once, I think I believed in the general goodness of people. I used to think people did things just to be kind, out of some innate generosity. But now? Now, I see the truth. The truth of my birth has clouded everything. It’s hard to believe in goodness when your very existence is a transaction.

Even my grandparents, who I love—god, I love them more than I can ever say—there’s always a small, poisoned part of me that whispers they only dote on me out of shame. Shame for what their son and daughter-in-law did to me, the way they rejected me. Maybe they’re trying to make up for it, or maybe they just feel responsible.

But then, there’s Diarmuid. And Niamh.

They do things for me without asking for anything in return. They’re kind, patient, and there...but I’m always tense around them, waiting for the moment they’ll hand me the invoice. I expect it, always—the day they ask for payment for all the help, all the kindness. But it hasn’t come. Not once. Not a word has been spoken about it.

I should trust it. I want to trust it.

But I can’t.

I’m not ready.

I flip through the notes again, eyes scanning over Sophia's time at university, her internship with Cóisir Amárach, and the countless interactions she had with Tyrone Lynch. The details blur together. It's all there, clear as day, but it feels like I'm staring at nothing.

With a sigh, I close the folder. I should be focusing. I want to focus—for Sophia's sake. But even now, I can’t help but wonder if I’m really doing this for her or for me.

There’s this gnawing feeling inside me, this ugly little voice that asks: Are you just using her death as an excuse?

I don’t know the answer. Maybe I am being selfish. Maybe I’m taking all these risks not just to expose the truth but because part of me has no value for my own life. It’s almost as if I want to throw myself into danger just to spite my parents.

Look at me now , I want to scream. Look at what I’ve become because of you.

Maybe that’s why I can’t stop. Why the risk feels...worth it. The more everyone warns me to stay away, to let it go, the more determined I am to push forward.

Against all the rational warnings in my head, I grab my jacket and leave. I already know Diarmuid’s put more security on me since the kidnapping. He thinks I don’t know, but it’s obvious. Getting out unnoticed is nearly impossible.

And I fail. Miserably.

Now I’ve got not one, but two tails shadowing me. They keep their distance, but they’re there, hovering like unwanted ghosts. I’m driven into the heart of the city, lights flashing by as we pass one bustling shop after another. The streets are alive, vibrant, and here I am, stuck in the back of this car with no real way to escape.

I bite the inside of my cheek, tension building in my jaw. I have to get away from them. I need space to think, to breathe.

“Can we stop at the coffee shop up ahead?” I ask. My voice sounds calm, but inside I’m already working on a plan.

The car slows, and my pulse picks up. I could go inside, pretend I’m using the bathroom, and then sneak out a window. But then I see it—a city bus, slowing to a stop just past the coffee shop.

I stare at it for a second, heart pounding in my ears. A bus. I can lose them on the bus.

Before I can second-guess myself, I shove the car door open and sprint. My boots hit the pavement hard, each step echoing in my chest. I dash toward the bus, waving wildly at the driver as the doors begin to close.

“Wait!” I yell, breathless. “Wait, please!”

The driver glances at me through the glass, eyebrows raised. He pauses, then opens the doors again. I stumble inside, panting, feeling the adrenaline surge through my veins.

“Hurry! Hurry!” I gasp, turning back toward the street. “There are men after me!”

The bus speeds away, rattling over the uneven city streets as I slump into the seat, playing the part of the frightened victim. My breath still comes quickly, but I force it to slow, steadying myself. The older woman across the aisle eyes me with a mix of concern and sympathy. I see the moment she decides to act—her hand already reaching for her phone.

"Do you want me to call An Garda?" she offers gently, her voice full of concern.

I blink, feigning the shock of someone in distress. "No, no, it’s okay," I stammer, pulling out my own phone. "I’ll call them myself. Thank you."

She watches as I lift the phone to my ear, my hand trembling ever so slightly. I force my breathing to slow, to mimic the sound of someone speaking through fear, giving an imaginary report. Every word is measured.

“Yes, I’m safe now,” I murmur into the phone, glancing out the window as the city lights blur past. “They were following me... but I’m on the bus now. I’m heading toward Phibsboro. Please, just let me get there safely.”

The woman gives me a small, approving nod. I meet her eyes with what I hope looks like gratitude before turning my gaze back to the window. I can feel her eyes on me, but she’s convinced. I’ve sold the lie.

The truth is, I know exactly where I need to go. Phibsboro—known to tourists as Victorian Village—has been on my mind since I first dug through the file on Tyrone Lynch. The Prime Minister’s temporary residence is nestled there, split between his luxury townhouse and the adjoining half, where he conducts his official duties. A perfect, discreet setup. I wonder how many secrets are tucked away behind those charming, old-fashioned walls.

It requires a bus change, but I manage it easily. I’ve spent my whole life calculating risks, playing invisible when I need to be. Tonight’s no different.

The closer I get to Phibsboro, the quieter the streets become. The historic charm of the neighborhood is undeniable—the red-brick houses with their iron gates, the Victorian facades that have been painstakingly preserved. I imagine what it looks like to tourists, with its quaint tea rooms and boutique shops. But I’m not here for tea.

The bus drops me off at a corner a few streets away from Lynch’s townhouse. I pull up my hood, blending into the shadows as I walk. The air is cooler here, the soft hum of the city quieter, almost peaceful if it weren’t for the tight knot in my stomach.

An Garda has a visible presence around Lynch’s residence—officers patrolling casually, but alert. They’re guarding Ireland’s Prime Minister, after all. I can't afford to be reckless now. One wrong move and I’m caught.

I sit on the bench, eyes fixed on the residence down the street. It’s a charming brick structure, the kind of place I could see myself choosing if my life had been different—if it were truly my own. There’s a warmth to it, despite the cold undercurrent running through the neighborhood tonight.

I wonder if Sophia Hughes ever sat where I’m sitting now. Did she spend hours watching that house, wondering if the man inside was capable of seeing her as more than a passing interest? Tyrone had been using this townhouse long before he became Prime Minister—back when he was still Minister of Justice. It would’ve been easy for him to keep things discreet. No official statement about his personal life, no one to answer to.

Part of his appeal was that he remained perpetually “available” to the public, unattached, keeping up the charm of a single man in power.

But Sophia… did she ever sit on this bench, hoping that the man behind those walls would one day make things real? It’s maddening not knowing. There’s no hard proof that Tyrone and Sophia were intimate, but something about it gnaws at me. There are few things that inspire murder, quite like a romance gone sour. And for all the secrets in his life, Tyrone has the kind of ambition that leaves little room for loose ends.

I’m so deep in thought, I almost miss it—the quiet presence settling beside me on the bench. The man sits so silently, so casually, that it doesn’t register at first. When I finally do notice, my muscles tense, but I don’t look at him. My instinct screams at me to bolt, to run, but something tells me not to.

I keep my gaze forward, fixed on the townhouse.

Then, his voice cuts through the silence, low and steady.

“So, what’s the plan now, Selene?”

He knows my name. That could mean a lot of things—none of them particularly good or safe. I resist the urge to turn and look at him, to gauge the situation with more than just my instincts. Instead, I keep my voice steady, casual, hoping to fish for more without giving too much away.

“What do you mean?” I ask.

The stranger doesn’t miss a beat. “You got away from Diarmuid’s men. You made it all the way here. What’s your plan?”

My pulse quickens, but I force myself to breathe. He knows about Diarmuid’s men?

"I don’t know,” I admit, my words coming out more defeated than I intended.

The stranger’s tone shifts, almost amused. “You snuck off to the Prime Minister’s house and you don’t have a plan?”

Now that he says it aloud, it does sound really stupid. What was I thinking? Sitting here, staring at Tyrone Lynch’s townhouse like I’d get answers just by showing up. I’ve been driving myself insane, trapped in Diarmuid’s house, endlessly flipping through photos and notes, like they’d somehow piece themselves together.

“I guess I don’t,” I murmur, the weight of my own recklessness settling in.

The stranger makes a small, disapproving sound, a ”tsk” that feels oddly like something Diarmuid would do. He stays quiet for a moment, both of us watching the townhouse.

“They’re going to notice us staring soon,” he says finally, his voice calm. “We should leave.”

We? A spike of suspicion jolts through me, and I finally turn my head slightly, just enough to glance at him out of the corner of my eye. He’s watching the house like I am, not a trace of nerves in his posture. I size him up, searching for a reason to trust—or not trust—him.

“And why,” I ask, my voice sharper now, “should I leave with you?”

The stranger shifts slightly, glancing at me for the first time. His gaze is sharp, assessing. “Look, Diarmuid’s a respectable guy. He knows his shit, runs things a lot better than his uncle ever did. But he’s too protective over you and Niamh. Always has been.” He pauses, as if choosing his next words carefully. “I came here to fetch you. But if you’re already knee-deep in trouble, we might as well try to accomplish something.”

I narrow my eyes, studying his face for any sign of a trap. “You want to help me? Aren’t you afraid of upsetting Diarmuid?”

His smirk returns, this time a little more genuine, a little more dangerous. “Oh, definitely. But I can always tell him it took longer than anticipated to find you.”

He makes it sound so simple. Too simple. My instincts scream at me to stay wary, but there’s something about his casual confidence, the way he talks about Diarmuid like they’re equals, that piques my curiosity. He’s not some random thug Diarmuid sent after me—there’s more to him.

I cast one last glance at Tyrone Lynch’s townhouse, the place that feels like it holds all the answers I need, then back at the stranger. As much as it pains me to turn away, there’s a part of me that knows I won’t get anywhere tonight without help. And this guy, whoever he is, might just be my best shot.

“Fine,” I say, standing. “But if this goes sideways, I’m not taking the blame.”

He flashes another grin, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

He leads me down two quiet streets, the clatter of the city fading behind us. His movements are smooth, almost too practiced. There’s a car parked under a lamppost, nondescript but clearly ready to go. He opens the door for me, a surprising gesture of politeness, then closes it firmly once I’m inside.

When he slides in on the other side, everything changes. The air in the car shifts. His friendly demeanor evaporates, replaced by something colder, more distant. He grips the steering wheel and speeds away from Victorian Village without a word.

I wait for him to say something, anything, but the silence grows thick. His focus is entirely on the road, his face set in hard lines. I ask him a couple of questions, starting with where we’re going, but he doesn’t respond. It’s as if he’s flipped a switch, completely shutting me out.

The unease in my chest tightens. I reach for the door handle, intending to get out and cut my losses, but the handle doesn’t budge. It’s locked. I try again, more forcefully this time, but still nothing.

“Hey,” I say, trying to keep my voice calm. “What’s going on? Where are we going?”

No answer.

“Your name,” I ask, leaning forward, trying to break through the wall he’s put up. “Who are you?”

He doesn’t look at me, doesn’t even blink. But after a long pause, he mutters, almost under his breath, “Ben Fleming.”