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

CHAPTER NINETEENSelene

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Selene

THE TUNNEL SEEMS to stretch endlessly ahead, twisting and turning, the walls narrowing and widening in odd intervals. It’s disorienting, and that feels intentional—like the whole place was designed to confuse, to break down any sense of direction. I can’t even tell if the sound of trickling water is close or far. It could be right around the corner or miles away. The dim, uneven lights cast shadows that loom and retreat, making it feel like something is always watching from just beyond the edges of my vision.

Ben walks ahead of me, his movements almost too confident, like he’s been here before. His footsteps are steady, deliberate. Each step he takes feels like a countdown to something terrible, something inevitable. And yet, I follow. I have to follow him. I tell myself it's because I need answers, but deep down, I know it’s more than that. There's a pull between us, a sick magnetism I can’t shake, even as my instincts scream at me to run.

We walk in silence for what feels like hours, though it could have been minutes. Time is just as twisted down here as the tunnels themselves. Then, without warning, Ben stops. I don’t see the guards until it’s too late.

Two men wearing dark, nondescript uniforms round the corner ahead. My heart lurches into my throat, and for a split second, I think we’re caught. My body tenses, preparing for a fight—or flight. But Ben doesn’t hesitate. Not for a second.

With a swift, fluid motion, Ben draws a blade from his side and lunges at the first guard. The man barely has time to register the threat before the knife is buried deep in his chest. There’s a sickening sound—a mix of steel cutting through flesh and the strangled gasp of a man dying. The guard crumples to the ground, dead before his body even hits the floor. My stomach twists violently at the sight, and I take a step back, my hand flying to my mouth. My heart beats wildly in my chest, like a frantic bird in a cage trying to get free. My mind flashes back to a moment of me sitting at my bedroom window, looking down on the garden, wanting freedom from my parents, from my life, even from myself. At the corner of my eye, a daddy long legs flapped its wings so hard, trying to break free from the spider web it had caught itself in. The spider had moved close but the daddy long legs kept beating its wings. I had considered opening the window and breaking the web, but I had instead sat and watched until it finally stopped and the spider moved across the insect. The memory shatters as a body is slammed against the tunnel walls close to me. Ben has the second guard.

Ben’s knife flashes again, but this time it’s not as clean. The second guard jerks back, the blade catching him in the side instead of the chest. He stumbles, his hand flying to his wound, his eyes wide with shock and pain. Blood oozes between his fingers as he collapses to his knees, gasping and choking, his face twisted in agony. He’s not dead—not yet—but he’s dying. The wet, gurgling sounds that escape his throat are like nails scraping down my spine.

I feel paralyzed, my body rooted in place as I watch him writhe on the ground, every breath a struggle. I can’t tear my eyes away from the horror unfolding in front of me. My own breath is shallow, my heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat. Every instinct is telling me to run, but my legs won’t move. I’m trapped just like the daddy long legs was. Trapped and ready to be devoured.

And then Ben turns to me.

That smirk is back, that cold, calculating expression that chills me to the core. Slowly, deliberately, he pulls a second knife from his pocket and flicks it open. The metallic click echoes in the confined space, bouncing off the walls and reverberating through my bones. He takes a step toward me, holding out the knife, offering it like it’s some twisted gift.

“Finish him.”

The words are soft, almost gentle, but they hit me like a punch to the gut.

“What?” My voice is a whisper, barely audible over the sound of the guard’s labored breathing.

“Finish him,” Ben repeats, stepping closer, pressing the knife into my trembling hand. His fingers curl around mine, forcing me to grip the handle. “He’s suffering. You don’t want to leave him like this, do you?”

I stare at the guard, his face contorted in pain, his body shaking. He’s dying, but not fast enough. Not cleanly. I feel sick. The knife in my hand is heavy, impossibly so, and my vision swims as I try to comprehend what Ben is asking—no, forcing me to do.

“I—I can’t,” I stammer, trying to pull back, but Ben’s grip tightens around my hand, holding me in place.

“Yes, you can,” he says, his voice low and dark, that smile never leaving his lips. “You don’t have a choice.”

The guard lets out a pained moan, and I flinch. His eyes meet mine, pleading, desperate. He’s begging me for mercy. I can see it. I can feel it. My heart pounds so loudly in my ears that I can barely hear anything else. I want to look away, but I can’t. Ben’s hand is still on mine, guiding me forward, pressing the blade into the guard’s side.

“Do it, Selene,” Ben whispers, his breath hot against my ear, sending a shiver down my spine. “End his suffering.”

The world narrows to this moment. My hand moves on its own, guided by Ben’s, the knife sinking into the guard’s chest. The blade slides in too easily, too smoothly, and then I feel it—the warmth of his blood, thick and hot, seeping over my hand. I want to scream, to pull back, but Ben keeps me there, forcing me to hold the knife, to feel the life drain from the man in front of me.

When it’s over, I can’t let go of the knife fast enough. It clatters to the ground, the sound sharp and jarring in the stillness of the tunnel. My hands are trembling uncontrollably, blood smeared across my fingers. I back away, stumbling, my breath coming in ragged gasps.

“Good job,” Ben says softly, and there’s something in his voice—pride, amusement—that makes my stomach turn. I look up at him, and for a split second, I see something flash in his eyes. A dare. A challenge. He’s testing me, pushing me to my breaking point.

And I break.

With a snarl, I lunge at him, my hand grabbing for the knife on the ground, but Ben is faster. He catches my wrist mid-strike and twists it hard, forcing the blade from my grasp. Pain shoots up my arm as I gasp, but before I can react, Ben slams me back against the tunnel wall. The impact knocks the air from my lungs, and I see stars. His body presses against mine, trapping me, holding me in place.

His face is inches from mine, his breath hot and ragged. There’s a wildness in his eyes now, something primal and dangerous, and I can feel the raw power radiating off him. He’s toying with me, enjoying this sick game of control.

“You really thought you could hurt me?” he murmurs, his voice a low growl. His fingers tighten around my wrist, bruising, and I wince, trying to pull away, but he’s too strong. “You’re not ready for that.”

For a second, I think he’s going to kiss me—something dark and possessive in the way he looks at me, his body pressing me harder into the stone. But then, just as suddenly as he pinned me, he releases me.

I stumble forward, gasping for breath, my heart hammering in my chest. Ben steps back, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. He doesn’t need to say anything. He’s made his point.

Without another word, he turns and walks toward the tunnel ahead. And, like a puppet on strings, I follow.

When we reach the rounded room, the air feels different—wider, though no less suffocating. Tunnels branch off in every direction, a labyrinth designed to disorient and trap. But Ben knows exactly where to go. Without a moment’s hesitation, he heads toward the upper right-hand tunnel.

And I stop.

Something inside me snaps again, but this time, it’s not fear. It’s anger. Fury. I can’t do this anymore.

“You’re not working for Diarmuid.” My voice echoes through the chamber, louder than I expect, and Ben freezes mid-step. He doesn’t turn around, but I see the tension in his shoulders. “You’ve been lying to me this whole time.”

There’s a beat of silence, heavy and thick.

“You’re not just some rival,” I continue, my voice growing stronger. “You know these tunnels. You know how to get into the president’s mansion. You’re more than you’ve let on. Who are you?”

Ben turns slowly, his smirk widening, but before he can speak, another voice cuts through the room, colder than the stone walls.

“He’s like me.”

Diarmuid’s voice sends a shock through my body. I whirl around, my heart racing. Diarmuid steps out of the shadows, his presence filling the space with an intensity that makes the air heavier, harder to breathe. His eyes are locked onto Ben, cold and unblinking, like a predator sizing up its prey.

“Ben’s a product of Victor,” Diarmuid says quietly, the words laced with venom. He doesn’t take his eyes off Ben. “Just like me.”

The tension in the room is palpable now, thick enough to cut with a knife. Ben’s smirk falters for a split second before it returns, colder this time, more calculated.

“It’s true,” Ben says, his voice casual, but there’s an edge to it. “Just like you, Diarmuid. We’re family, in a way.”

My breath catches. Family? My mind reels with the implications. I look between them, trying to piece it together. Diarmuid doesn’t move, but there’s something dangerous in the way he holds himself, like a storm ready to unleash hell on the world.