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

CHAPTER FIFTEENNiamh

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Niamh

I WALK THROUGH the suffocating hallways of this place, my steps echoing against the cold stone floor. Each door I pass is shut tight, locked away like the secrets buried in these walls. Secrets that no one dares speak of, but I can feel them. They hang in the air, thick and stifling, wrapping around my throat like invisible hands. I grit my teeth and keep walking, my thoughts spiraling into places I don’t want to go.

Róisín. Her name drags at me like a memory I’ve tried to bury but can’t. I wasn’t even that close to her, not really. But there’s something about her story that I can’t let go of. The perfect ballerina, the graceful angel everyone admired. She had it all—beauty, talent, the admiration of everyone around her. It’s funny how it’s so easy to be kind when you’re untouchable. I remember how she used to float into the studio, her smile as bright as the lights on the stage. She was always so nice. Always so supportive of everyone else.

But that was before the competition came. Before she realized she wasn’t the only one capable of perfection. The moment someone threatened her, the mask cracked. I saw it, we all did. She stopped being that sweet, carefree girl. It was slow at first, a tightening of her jaw when someone outshone her in rehearsal, a harder edge to her voice when she offered her so-called advice. Then it got worse.

She started pushing herself like she was possessed. She wasn’t just rehearsing anymore—she was punishing herself. I saw her in the studio once, long after everyone else had left. She didn’t know I was watching. She stretched her legs into painful splits, holding them for minutes on end until I thought her muscles would snap. Sweat poured off her, but she wouldn’t stop. She kept going, her movements jerky and desperate, like she could somehow dance away her fear of being replaced.

And then the diets. God, the diets . It wasn’t enough to be thin. Róisín had to be lighter, more fragile, more delicate as if losing another pound would make her soar higher. I’d watch her stare at her reflection in the mirror, pinching her skin, looking for flaws no one else could see. Her eyes were hollow by then, deadened by the hunger gnawing away at her insides, but she didn’t care. The stage was all that mattered. Being the best was all that mattered. Nothing else.

Nineteen. She was nineteen when it all came crashing down. She’d been heading to practice at some ungodly hour, four in the morning, as if rehearsing during daylight hours wasn’t enough. Her heart just... gave out. It had nothing left to give. She lost control of the car, and that was that. Just another casualty in the war for perfection. Dead before she even had a chance to realize none of it mattered.

And now I think of Selene. The way she throws herself into whatever insane mission she’s on. The way she burns through every bit of energy she has, chasing her goal like a woman possessed. I can see the same madness in her that I saw in Róisín. That single-minded obsession that leaves no room for self-preservation. Selene would rather die than fail. And for what? Some stupid answers that probably won’t even matter in the end? She’s not saving anyone. She’s not a hero. She’s just another fool chasing her own destruction.

I stop in front of one of the portraits lining the walls. This one’s different. It’s a painting of Diarmuid when he was a child, no more than ten or eleven, with Wolfe, Lorcan, and Ronan standing beside him. I stare at it for a long moment, my eyes tracing the faces of people I know, people who have shaped this twisted, messed-up world. But it’s Diarmuid’s face that holds me. Even as a boy, there was no softness in him. He looks severe, stern, like someone who already understood the weight of the world pressing down on him.

And standing behind him, looming like a dark shadow, is Andrew O’Sullivan. His face makes my skin crawl. The smugness in his expression, the arrogance that oozes from every brushstroke... it’s like he’s daring me to feel anything but contempt for him. I can see it now, clear as day—why Diarmuid is the way he is. How could he have been anything but hard with someone like that breathing down his neck?

The anger bubbles up inside me, sharp and bitter. I can feel it rising, burning through me like acid. I hate Andrew O’Sullivan. I hate everything he stands for. And more than that, I hate what he did to Diarmuid. How he twisted him, broke him, made him the man he is today.

Without thinking, my hand closes around the candlestick resting on the small table beside the portrait. It’s heavier than I expected, solid and cold in my hand. The weight feels good. It feels right . I lift it, my muscles tense with the effort, and I bring it down on Andrew’s face in the portrait. The first strike sends a dull thud through the air, but it’s not enough. I hit him again. Harder this time. And again. And again.

I keep going, keep swinging, until the canvas rips, and Andrew’s face is nothing but a mess of shredded fabric and splintered wood. My breath comes in harsh gasps, my chest heaving as I stand there, staring at the destruction I’ve caused. But the rage inside me doesn’t go away. It’s still there, simmering, boiling, threatening to spill over.

“Miss Niamh?”

The voice startles me, but I don’t turn around right away. When I finally do, I see a servant standing at the end of the corridor, eyes wide with fear and confusion. The candlestick is still in my hand, its weight suddenly feeling too real, too heavy. I don’t say anything. What could I possibly say? That I couldn’t control it? That I needed to destroy something, anything because the anger inside me was too much to bear?

I let the candlestick fall to the floor with a loud clang, the sound reverberating through the hallway. Then I walk past the servant without a word, my steps quick and unsteady. My head is spinning, my heart pounding in my ears. I don’t know where I’m going, but I need to get away from here. Away from the destruction I’ve caused, away from the mess inside my head.

By the time I make it back to the drawing room, I feel hollowed out, like the rage has left me empty. But it’s still there, lurking beneath the surface, waiting for the right moment to strike again. The room is buzzing with activity, Diarmuid’s men gathered around a table, discussing something in low voices. I ignore them, my eyes locking onto the photo they’re passing around.

It’s grainy, the image distorted by distance, but I can see her. Selene . They’ve been tracking her movements—public buses, Lynch’s townhouse, now a diner. And sitting across from her in the photo is a man I don’t recognize. The men around me are whispering, speculating about who he could be, but I already know one thing for certain: Diarmuid knows who this man is. He’s staring at the photo with an intensity that makes my skin crawl, his jaw clenched so tight I can see the muscles twitch.

He knows. And he’s not saying a damn thing.

The anger flares up again, hotter this time. He’s hiding something. Something important. Something about Selene, about that man. And whatever it is, it’s tearing him apart. I can see it in his eyes, the same way I saw it in Róisín’s. The fear. The desperation. The need to control something, anything , even if it means destroying everything in the process.