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

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREENiamh

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Niamh

NONE OF THIS was covered in ballet school.

I’ve done everything right my whole life. Listened to my parents. Obeyed every teacher. Did what I was told, without ever asking why. And yet here I am, standing in the president of Ireland’s private office, about to confront him about a murderous cult, alongside the man I love, who just took down an entire mafia on his own, and a woman who has been running for her life ever since we met.

Diarmuid slides the panel open with practiced precision. My heart slams against my ribs, and I instinctively hold my breath. Every muscle in my body locks as I wait for the explosion of violence I’ve come to expect. Any second now, men will pour in, guns raised, fingers on triggers. They’ll shoot first, ask questions later. They’ll kill us before we get a single word out. Diarmuid, Selene, me—we’re already dead.

But when I open my eyes, it’s just… quiet.

The room is empty, almost absurdly so. No guards. No chaos. Just a few plump chairs arranged around a glowing fireplace. The carpet is so thick it’s like stepping into a dream, and the walls glisten with rose gold and deeper gold accents, like something out of a museum or a fairytale. It’s beautiful. Wrong. All of it is wrong.

And then there’s him.

Dain Kavanagh, the president of Ireland, doesn’t move. He sits at his desk, frozen mid-action, papers in his hands, staring at us like we’re ghosts. His light blue eyes, the kind which seems to see through you, narrow in confusion but not fear. Not panic. He’s… calm. No sudden movements, no scrambling for security. He just watches us, his tie hanging loose around his neck, stubble lining his sharp jaw like he’s been too busy to shave. Too busy doing what, I wonder. Plotting? Killing? How deep does this go?

We’ve walked into the lion’s den, and the lion doesn’t even blink.

The silence grows unbearable. It claws at my throat. I look at Diarmuid, expecting him to say something, but he remains cold, immovable, like stone. Typical. But then I glance at Selene. Selene, who’s always quick with a retort, who never lets a man in power intimidate her—and yet she’s still. Too still. That blow to her head did more than we thought. It knocked the fight out of her. This isn’t Selene. This isn’t right.

I swallow the lump in my throat, about to speak when Selene finally opens her mouth.

“Mr. President,” she says, her voice low and steady, but there’s a dangerous edge to it. It’s the sound of a woman pushed too far. “I’m Selene. This is Niamh, and this is Diarmuid. We’re here because you need to know what’s happening in your country.”

Dain doesn’t respond. His eyes flick from Selene to Diarmuid, then to me, sizing us up, calculating. He’s reading us, trying to figure out if we’re a threat or just a nuisance. For a heartbeat, I wonder if he’s going to call security and end this right here. But he doesn’t. He lets her continue.

“We are here about a young woman called Sophie Hughes,” Selene says. Her voice sharpens, cutting through the tension. “We believe she was killed by Tyrone Lynch.”

It’s like a bomb goes off internally. For the first time, hearing Selene say it out loud, I feel the heaviness of the accusation. We are accusing the Minister of Justice of a murder.

The president doesn’t speak at first; his brows furrows, there’s no shock. No real surprise. He leans back in his chair, fingers tapping the papers in his hand. “I must say, Miss Selene, I am intrigued to know how you came to this conclusion.”

“So you know who Sophie Hughes is?” Selene asks a question instead of answering the president.

“I do.” He answers.

“Then you know she was killed,” Selene says. Her voice is gaining strength now, pushing through the haze of fear. “But what you don’t know is why. Or maybe… maybe you do.”

His lips twitch, almost into a smile. It sends a chill straight down my spine. “Enlighten me.”

Selene exhales loudly. We have poured over so much for the last few months, and I want to zone out as Selene starts from the start of the horrific death of Sophie Hughes.

“She was a Bride to Tyrone Lynch, who is part of a cult.” Selene’s words cut through my thoughts.

“A cult?” The president asks.

I glance at Diarmuid; he hasn’t moved a muscle.

“A powerful cult called the Hands of the Kings. They took her life; Tyrone Hughes took her life.” Selene’s voice hitches at the end.

Selene’s voice finally dies down, her explanation complete, but the air between us is still thick with unsaid things. The weight of the truth she’s just laid out hangs like a guillotine, waiting to drop. I watch Dain closely, waiting for his reaction. Will he dismiss us? Call us mad? Order our deaths?

Instead, the president nods once, slow and deliberate, his eyes never leaving Selene. “Thank you,” he says quietly, the politeness in his voice unsettling. “I appreciate the clarity you’ve brought to this... situation.”

I can’t tell if he’s genuine or if there’s something more sinister lurking beneath his smooth, controlled demeanor. My skin prickles with unease. How can a man like him be so calm in the face of what we’ve just told him? He’s heard enough to shake anyone to their core, yet there he stands, unflinching.

Then, he excuses himself. “I’ll need to make a few calls,” he says as if this is just another political affair to tidy up. “Please, wait here.”

Wait? What choice do we have?

Dain strides toward the windows, the soles of his shoes sinking soundlessly into the lush carpet. He pulls out his cell phone, turning slightly so that his murmured words are barely audible. I catch fragments—names, places—but nothing that forms a complete picture. His tone is too low, too measured—a man used to controlling situations.

My heart pounds so loudly in my ears that it drowns out the quiet, fractured conversation. All I can do is stand there, staring at him, at his back, at the windows he’s framed against. This is too big. We shouldn’t be here. We never thought this far ahead, never imagined what would happen if we actually got an audience with the president of Ireland. What if we’ve made a mistake? What if we’ve handed ourselves over to someone just as dangerous as Victor?

I glance at Diarmuid, but his face gives nothing away. His jaw is clenched, eyes locked on Dain with the intensity of a predator sizing up its prey. I know him well enough to sense the storm brewing beneath his surface. He’s ready to explode. One wrong word from Dain, and he’ll act. He’ll fight his way out or die trying.

What if that’s exactly what Dain wants?

I swallow hard, my throat dry as sand. My mind races with a thousand possibilities, none of them good. What if Dain finds a reason to arrest us? Diarmuid? What if he turns us over to someone higher up, someone worse than Victor? Could someone like Dain be more dangerous than Victor? He has the power of an entire nation at his fingertips. He could crush us like insects with a single command.

I picture it all too clearly. Diarmuid in handcuffs, dragged away, his life ruined. Selene, shattered by guilt. Me, standing there helpless, watching as everything we’ve fought for comes crashing down. And what if Dain—this man we’re standing in front of—doesn’t wake up tomorrow? What if Victor takes him out like he’s taken out everyone else who’s gotten in his way? The thought makes my stomach twist. I force myself to take slow breaths, but the air feels too thick to pull in.

Minutes pass, but it feels like an eternity. I’m trapped in my own mind, spiraling deeper into every possible nightmare that could come from this moment. How did it come to this? I’ve always done what I’m supposed to do, stayed on the right side of everything. Now, I’m in the middle of a war I never asked to fight, and it’s too late to back out. There’s no going back, not now. Not ever.

When Dain finally turns back to us, sliding his phone into his pocket, my stomach flips. His face is calm, unreadable, but there’s something about the way he moves that makes me think he knows something we don’t. I brace myself.

“Thank you for your patience,” he says, his voice smooth as ever. “I want to commend you for what you’ve done. The risks you’ve taken. Not many would be brave enough to confront a threat like this.”

I exchange a glance with Selene, unsure where this is going. Why is he thanking us? What’s his angle?

“But,” Dain continues, stepping toward us with a measured pace, “I have some information that may surprise you.” He pauses for dramatic effect, his gaze flicking to each of us in turn, like a performer savoring his audience’s tension. “Tyrone Lynch... is innocent.”

I feel the words slam into me like a punch to the gut. I can’t even react, not immediately. My mind races to catch up with what he just said. Innocent?

Selene’s breath hitches beside me, her composure cracking for the first time. “How do you know that?” Her voice is sharp, desperate for an answer.

Dain’s lips curl into the faintest smile like he’s enjoying this. “Because Sophia Hughes wasn’t just any victim. She was one of my Brides.”

Time slows to a crawl. I can barely breathe, the air around me thick with disbelief. Diarmuid takes a sharp step forward, the force of his movement shaking the ground beneath me, but he doesn’t speak. I can feel his rage radiating off him, but he’s holding it in—for now.

“I rejected her,” Dain continues, his voice so casual it makes my skin crawl. “And Tyrone took a liking to her. She took a liking to him, as well. Unfortunately, that posed a problem.”

Selene’s voice trembles with fury. “You had her killed.”

Dain’s expression doesn’t waver. “I couldn’t allow a rejected Bride to become involved with my former Minister of Justice. It was… unfortunate, but necessary.”

The way he says it, so calmly, like it’s just another part of his daily routine—it makes me sick. My fists clench at my sides, nails biting into my palms. I want to scream, to lash out, but I can’t move. My feet feel glued to the ground, my mind reeling.

Diarmuid’s voice is a low, dangerous growl. “Why put her body on Andrew O’Sullivan’s grave?”

Dain shrugs as if the answer is beneath him. “That wasn’t my decision, Diarmuid.”

The air in the room shifts, thickening with something darker. There’s a noise behind us—footsteps, faint but unmistakable. I whip my head around just in time to see the door open, and the room fills with men. Security. Guards. They swarm in like a tide, surrounding us.

Diarmuid reacts first, lunging at the nearest guard, his fist connecting with a sickening crack. The man crumples to the floor, but more rush in to take his place. Diarmuid fights like a man possessed, savage, and unstoppable, but there are too many. Selene’s scream pierces the air as a guard grabs her, twisting her arm behind her back. She goes limp in his grip, too hurt, too weak to fight back.

I want to help, but I’m frozen in place. Diarmuid throws another guard into the wall, but they keep coming. They pile on him, dragging him to the ground, pinning him down with sheer force of numbers. He’s strong, but even he can’t fight this many at once. My heart lurches in my chest as they force him to his knees, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

And then, in the thick of the chaos, the door opens again.

Victor steps into the room, and everything goes still.