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

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWODiarmuid

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Diarmuid

THE LIGHTS FLICKER overhead, a steady rotation of darkness and light that grows more disorienting the further we go. The utility lamps, spaced out and weakening, do little to chase away the shadows that creep along the walls of these tunnels. The air feels thick and damp, clinging to my skin and mixing with the sweat already beading on my brow. Selene’s footsteps are uneven beside me, her breathing shallow and ragged. I can tell she’s pushing herself too hard, but she refuses to say it. She always does.

I reach out before she stumbles again, catching her arm. “Selene.”

She pulls away sharply, her eyes flashing at me in the dim light. “I’m fine.”

Her voice is clipped, tight with frustration. I know she’s not fine. Her face, pale beneath the sporadic lighting, gives her away. But it’s not just exhaustion in her expression; there’s something deeper, something pulling at her from the inside. I know that look too well. It’s the same one I see in the mirror some nights.

“Stop,” I mutter, my grip on her arm tightening, but not in a way that she can escape. I can’t let her pull away this time. “You promised me.”

That gives her pause. Her body stiffens, and for a moment, I think she’s going to snap at me again. But then, her shoulders sag just the slightest bit, and she doesn’t fight me when I pull her closer. I’m not sure if it’s because of the promise she made or if she’s simply too worn out to argue. Either way, she lets me hold her, her weight sinking slightly against me as we continue forward.

I should feel better about that—about her leaning on me—but it’s hard to shake the growing unease settling in my gut. Each step feels heavier than the last, like the ground itself is trying to pull us down. Leaving Ben’s body back in the tunnels doesn’t help the feeling. It gnaws at me, the idea of unfinished business. I hate unfinished business. But there was no other choice. We couldn’t stay back there, not with Selene and Niamh in tow. We have to keep moving.

But where are my men?

They should have caught up with us by now, and yet, it’s only been Niamh—following us in that fierce, quiet way of hers. She hasn’t said much since she rejoined us, but I know she’s there. She’s always watching. I glance back at her, her form just barely visible in the low light, her face a mask of determination. It’s a look I recognize, a look I’ve come to rely on. Still, something feels wrong.

It’s more than Ben’s absence. It’s a feeling that’s been building for a while now, creeping in the back of my mind, ever since we left his body behind in those dark tunnels. An alarm is going off inside me, a warning that I can’t ignore.

Something’s happened. Something is wrong.

But, of course, everything is wrong. We’re here, trudging through the hidden underbelly of áras an Uachtaráin, the seat of power for the president of Ireland. Everything about this mission screams wrong, from the bodies that have fallen in our wake, to the very fact that I agreed to help Selene and Niamh finish this. The moment I chose to see it through, I gave up any chance of going back to the life I had. The Hands of Kings might have given me everything once, but now... I’m walking away from all of it.

For them.

And for what? Justice? Revenge? I don’t know anymore. All I know is that if we can get to Dain Kavanagh, if we can make him see the truth of what Victor is and what the Hands have done, it’ll be the end for them. For him.

At least, that’s what I’m telling myself. The truth, though? I’m not sure I care about justice. Not really. Sending Victor to prison feels hollow. I want more than that. I want him dead, his blood on my hands. But it’s not my call to make, not this time.

Beside me, Selene stumbles again. I catch her before she falls, my arm tightening around her waist, and this time, she doesn’t resist. She’s too tired to argue, too worn down by everything we’ve been through to fight me. I hate seeing her like this—drained, vulnerable. But I know better than anyone how stubborn she can be, how far she’ll push herself before she admits she needs help.

“We’re close,” I whisper, though I’m not sure if it’s for her benefit or mine. “We’re too close to stop now.”

She doesn’t answer, but I see the fire still burning in her eyes, even through the exhaustion. It’s that fire that scares me sometimes—her relentless determination to see this through, no matter the cost. I’ve already lost so many people to this fight. I can’t lose her, too.

I glance back at Niamh again. She’s a few paces behind, her face set in grim focus. She doesn’t say anything, but I know she’s thinking the same thing I am. We’re walking a fine line between life and death, and every step we take feels like a step deeper into the abyss.

The tunnels stretch on, but as we move, something strange happens. The security we’ve been expecting, the resistance we’ve been bracing ourselves for... it doesn’t come. In fact, the further we go, the easier everything seems to get. The guards that had been patrolling earlier have vanished, and there’s nothing but empty corridors ahead.

This isn’t right. My instincts are screaming at me, but I don’t want to say it out loud. Not yet. Not until I’m sure.

The O’Sullivans’ bar had better security than this place. The thought makes my stomach churn. If something as critical as the president’s residence is this poorly protected, then someone either made a huge mistake, or this is a trap.

I know which one I’m betting on.

Finally, we reach a set of metal doors. They stand tall and imposing before us, the only barrier between us and the next step in this godforsaken mission. But there are no guards here, no locks. The doors aren’t even secured.

I stop in my tracks. Everything about this feels wrong.

Selene turns to look at me, her exhaustion masked by the fierce determination in her eyes. She’s ready to push through, ready to keep going without hesitation. I know that look too well. She won’t stop, no matter how dangerous things get. She never has. That’s the problem.

“This feels too easy,” I mutter, but I don’t look at her. Instead, I turn to Niamh. “It’s not right. We might be walking into something.”

Selene’s head snaps toward me. “We’ve come this far, Diarmuid. We’re not stopping now.”

Her voice is firm, but there’s a tremor there, buried beneath the stubbornness. She’s tired. Too tired to argue properly. But that doesn’t stop her from trying. She’s always been like this—too damn headstrong for her own good.

I grit my teeth. “This isn’t just about you, Selene. We need to think this through.”

“I am thinking!” she snaps, her eyes blazing. “You’re the one hesitating.”

“We’ve lost too many people already. I’m not about to lose—”

“Stop it,” Niamh interrupts, stepping between us. Her voice is calm, but there’s a sharp edge to it. “We can’t stand here arguing. Either we go forward, or we turn back.”

She’s right. There’s no time for this. But still, I can’t shake the feeling that we’re walking into a trap. I open my mouth to say something, but before I can, footsteps echo down the tunnel behind us. My stomach drops.

We don’t have a choice.

Without another word, we shove through the doors, slipping into the passage beyond.

The air changes immediately. This isn’t the cold, damp tunnel we’ve been trudging through for hours. The walls here are different—cleaner, warmer. Wood panels replace the concrete, and the floor beneath our feet feels sturdier, smoother. It’s like we’ve stepped into a different world, one far removed from the dank, underground corridors we’ve been crawling through.

But it’s still not right. It’s too clean, too polished. Someone’s been taking care of this place, and that only makes me more nervous. Who would maintain a passage like this? What kind of secret are we walking into?

The hallway begins to slope upward, a subtle incline that suggests we’re nearing the surface again. My heart pounds in my chest, the weight of what we’re about to face settling heavily in my gut. We’re close. Too close to turn back now. But I can’t shake the feeling that this is all too easy, too smooth.

Ahead of me, Selene stops. There’s a hole in the wall, a small beam of light streaming through it, casting a narrow ray onto the floor. Without hesitation, she crouches and presses her eye to the opening.

I can’t see her face, but I watch as her body goes still, her breath catching in her throat. After a long moment, she pulls back, her expression unreadable, and nods toward the hole.

I step forward, peering through the small opening. What I see sends a jolt through me.

Dain Kavanagh, Ireland’s president, sits at an ornate desk in a room that looks like something out of a painting. Pastel walls trimmed with gold, a lavish chandelier hanging overhead, and the man himself—calm, relaxed, flipping through papers as if he doesn’t have a care in the world.

He has no idea what’s coming.

Selene and I lock eyes, and in that brief, silent exchange, we both know what has to happen next.

There’s no going back. No turning away.

I press my hands against the wall, feeling the cool surface beneath my palms as I slide the panel open.

And we step through.