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

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOURSelene

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Selene

MY EYES FLUTTER open, and for a moment, I don’t know where I am. The ceiling above me is unfamiliar, carved in squares of dark wood, each intersection marked with a delicate cross. It’s beautiful, detailed work—the kind you don’t forget. St. Gertrude’s. I remember now. The church. The place where everything is about to fall apart.

A sound in the room makes me freeze, my eyes snap shut again, heart pounding in my ears. I force my breathing to stay steady, slow, pretending to still be out cold. I can’t let them know I’m awake. Not yet. My head feels like it’s splitting apart, the ache deep and nauseating, but fainting? No. I didn’t faint when they took us. I went limp when the guards took me to the floor, played dead so they wouldn’t see me as a threat. I wouldn’t have been able to do anything, not even as I lay on the floor in the president’s room and could hear Diarmuid’s roars as he fought with everything in him to get free. But there was no freedom to be found in a room filled with guards.

The pain in my head is nothing compared to the fury building inside me. This is my fault . I led us here. I was the one who thought I could manipulate Ben, the one who pushed us deeper and deeper into this mess. I thought I could control him, use him. And now, because of me, Victor knows everything. Everything.

They’re going to kill Diarmuid. I can’t shake the image from my mind. Diarmuid on his knees, the cold barrel of a gun pressed to his head. And it’s all because of me.

The thought rips through me like a blade, and I squeeze my eyes shut, fighting the wave of helplessness. I can’t afford to break down. Not now. Not when there’s still time—still a chance to fix this. But God, the tears burn at the corners of my eyes.

The guard beside me shifts and my body goes still, every muscle tensed. He doesn’t react to the silent tears sliding down my face. Of course, he doesn’t. I’m nothing to these men. Nothing but a body, an object, something to use and throw away. To them, I don’t even exist. I’m no more than a weak female.

But Diarmuid sees me for who I am. My chest squeezes almost painfully. He’s the one they’re after, and they’re going to kill him. I walked him right into a trap. Even with Ben, I knew something wasn’t right when he allowed me to keep my phone. He was drawing Diarmuid out, using me as a fishing line, and I had so easily done exactly what they needed me to do.

Rage flares hot and fast, and suddenly, the tears stop. I can feel the anger tightening in my chest, cold and sharp, until it drowns out everything else. This is it. The moment they’ve been waiting for—the moment I’m supposed to break, to let them mold me into something I’m not.

But they’re wrong. I’m not theirs.

This is the moment when everything changes. If we’re going to die here, it won’t be on their terms.

The guard isn’t even paying attention to me anymore. He’s standing there, relaxed, like I’m no threat at all. His gun is still holstered, his eyes drifting lazily across the room.

Big mistake.

I lie still for a moment longer, letting the anger pool in my stomach, letting it turn into something cold and lethal. Every breath I take is slow, controlled. I gather my strength, focusing on the weight of my body, the tension in my muscles, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

And then—I move.

I explode off the couch, my body moving faster than my mind, instincts taking over. The guard doesn’t even have time to blink before I’m on him. My fist connects with his throat, and he stumbles back, gasping, hands flying up in a weak attempt to block me. But I’m not stopping.

I’m not stopping until he’s down.

My knee slams into his groin, and I hear the air rush out of him in a choked groan. He doubles over, clutching himself, and I take my chance, driving my elbow into his face. I feel something crack under the force—his nose, maybe—and blood spurts, hot and sticky, onto my hand.

The sight of it sends a sick, thrilling jolt through me. I’m winning.

But the guard is bigger, stronger. He’s not going down without a fight. He tries to grab me, fingers clawing at my arm, but I twist, slamming my knee into his chest, forcing him back against the wall. He’s gasping for air, blood running down his face, but he’s still fighting, still trying to overpower me.

Not today.

I don’t have a weapon, just pure anger and a need to make this right. An image of Ben forcing me to end the guard's life earlier in the tunnel springs up and almost freezes me, but I’m lunging toward the guard, my mind working faster than it ever has. His neck is open to me. I bare my teeth, and like a woman gone mad, I bite down hard on his ear. His fists swing and connect with my sides, but I don’t loosen my hold on his ear; I bite down even harder.

The taste of blood floods my mouth, and he screams—a horrible, guttural sound that sends a shiver through me. I don’t care. I bite down harder, feeling the cartilage give way, tearing free in my mouth. I spit it out, blood spraying across the floor.

He’s on his knees now, whimpering, hands raised in a pathetic attempt to protect himself. But I won't stop. I can’t afford to stop. Not when everything is on the line. I rush him again, and his eyes widen, and for the first time, I see fear. I bend at the last second, and I grab the gun from his holster, my hands trembling as I press the barrel to his forehead. It was all so quick, and I’m ready to smile; I’ve actually overpowered him. I’ve done it. But now what?

For a moment, I hesitate. Just a moment. His eyes are wide, terrified. He’s mumbling something, trying to beg, but I can’t hear him over the sound of my own heartbeat thundering in my ears. I’m thinking of the knife sinking into the guard's side, knowing I took his life. My finger squeezes the trigger; I can do it again; I can make this right. Sweat drips off my forehead as I battle with my morals.

And then—I bring the gun down, slamming the end into his temple. Once, twice, again, and again until his body slumps to the floor, unconscious. I’m panting, chest heaving, my vision swimming with the rush of adrenaline. He’s down. I did it.

But the victory is short-lived. The room tilts violently, and I stumble back, my legs buckling beneath me. I press a hand to my head, trying to steady myself, but the dizziness is overwhelming. Not now. Not now.

With a trembling hand, I wipe sweat from my eyes and watch the guard on the floor. I should be leaving, running but some part of me needs to know he’s alive. I see the rise and fall of his chest, and it’s good enough for me.

I stagger to the door, forcing my feet to move, forcing myself to stay upright. I can’t stop now. Diarmuid needs me.

The hallway beyond is long, dimly lit, stretching out like some kind of nightmare. Every step I take feels like a battle, my legs heavy and clumsy, my head throbbing with every movement. I drag my hand along the wall, trying to keep myself steady, but it’s no use. The world spins and spins, and I feel like I’m going to collapse.

I catch sight of myself in a mirror hanging on the wall, and the image stops me dead in my tracks. For a moment, I don’t recognize the woman staring back at me.

Blood drips from my chin; my hair is wild and matted; my eyes are hollow and wide. I look… I look like Amira .

The realization hits me like a punch to the gut, freezing me in place. Amira . The woman I swore I’d never become. The woman who let her pain consume her, turning her into a monster.

I’m not like her. I’m not.

But when I look at myself now, I see her. I see what I could become.

I tear my gaze away from the mirror, forcing my legs to move. I can’t afford to be her. Not now. Not when Diarmuid is waiting for me. I push forward, each step a struggle, the pain in my head worsening with every second. But I won't stop. I can’t stop.

Finally, in front of me is the door to the chapel, like a beacon guiding me home. I run the back of my hand across my forehead again, catching more sweat that has turned cold on my forehead. I reach the door to the chapel. I press my ear to the wood, listening for any sound. Inside, I can hear Victor’s voice, cold and commanding. My heart pounds, and I slowly push the door open, slipping inside without making a sound. Victor has his back to me; everyone is facing forward, and no one notices.

Diarmuid is there. God . He’s kneeling at the front, his hands bound behind him, his head bowed low. The sight of him like this—so still, so vulnerable—it makes my chest ache. He’s surrounded by men, shadows lurking in the corners, watching, waiting.

I duck down quickly as Victor turns, and I slip under the nearest pew, my heart racing. I need to get closer. I need to be ready.

Victor stands before him, towering over him like some kind of dark angel of death, and I know—this is it. This is the moment. They’re going to kill him.

The stone floor is rough against my palms as I crawl forward, inching my way toward the front. Victor’s voice fills the room, dripping with malice as he talks about loyalty and betrayal. I grit my teeth, my body tense with anger, but I keep moving.

I’m almost at the front when a shadow falls over me. I freeze, heart stopping in my chest . No. Please, no.

A pair of boots step down just inches from my face. I don’t breathe. I don’t move. If I make even the slightest sound, I’ll be caught. And then it’s all over.

The man doesn’t see me. He moves on, and I let out a silent breath, my heart hammering so hard I’m sure they’ll hear it.

I keep going, every inch agonizingly slow, every second stretched thin with fear. Another step, another pause. The men are everywhere. One wrong move, one small sound, and it’s over.

But I don’t stop.

Finally, I’m at the front. Diarmuid is just a few feet away, still on his knees, his head bowed low. The sight of him like this—it nearly breaks me. But I can’t let it. I won’t. I can’t lose him.

I glance to the left and see Niamh. She’s standing with the others, pale, but her eyes are on me. She knows I’m here. Of course, she does.

Without a word, I push the gun in front of me, letting her see it. She pales even further and looks forward, and I’m ready to cry out; I need you Niamh. She’s so close to Diarmuid she could help. When I’m ready to move a little more, she glances at me, and something flashes in her gaze before she gives the briefest of nods.

I tighten my grip around the handle of the gun; it’s lying flat, and with a swift motion, send it spinning across the stone floor—Victor’s voice and the men’s mumbling in agreement block out the sound of the gun. My heart is in my throat as I watch it slide—too fast, too wild. If it stops too soon, if it makes too much noise, if anyone sees—

But then, Niamh’s foot comes down on the gun, stopping its wild ride across the floor. No one notices, but Diarmuid does. His head is still bowed, but he has slightly moved as if he’s looking at Niamh’s foot. She’s aware, too, as she kicks it to him.

He’s fast—faster than I’ve ever seen him. His hand snatches the gun just as it bumps against his leg. For a split second, the world seems to freeze. No one else has noticed. No one else has seen what just happened. Diarmuid’s head remains bowed, his posture unchanged, and yet… the gun is now in his grip, hidden just beneath his hand.

Victor steps closer to Diarmuid, his words laced with menace, with cruelty; he doesn’t look down at Diarmuid but speaks to all the other men in the room. “You were always ungrateful, Diarmuid. Always thinking you could escape the inevitable. Thinking you were more than just another pawn in my game.”

I grit my teeth, anger bubbling beneath the surface . He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t understand that Diarmuid is not a pawn. He’s not some helpless victim waiting to be crushed.

He’s a predator.

And predators only kneel when they’re ready to strike.

The moment stretches, each second dragging out impossibly long. The men around us are still, waiting for Victor’s command. Waiting for the execution.

I shift slightly under the pew, ready to leap if it all goes wrong. My hand clenches around the cold stone beneath me, and I force myself to breathe, to stay calm. We have one shot at this .

Diarmuid’s fingers tighten around the gun.

Victor leans in, his voice dropping to a whisper, just loud enough for Diarmuid—and for me—to hear. “You were never going to survive this. You should’ve accepted your place. Now, you die like a dog.”

And then, Diarmuid moves .

It’s fast—so fast that I barely register it. One moment, he’s kneeling, head bowed, and the next, he’s on his feet, the gun raised, pointed directly at Victor’s head.