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

CHAPTER TWENTY- FIVEDiarmuid

CHAPTER TWENTY- FIVE

Diarmuid

THE RAIN IS relentless, each drop like a needle against my skin. The cold gnaws at me, soaking through to my bones, but I keep running. I have to. I’m nine years old, and failure isn’t an option. The darkness presses in around me, thick and suffocating, the trees looming like ancient, indifferent giants. Their branches reach out, clawing at my face and arms as I push through the undergrowth. My shoes slip on the wet grass, and I stumble, barely catching myself before I hit the ground. Keep going.

There’s no time to think. Only the raw, animal instinct to move. My heart is pounding in my chest, each beat heavy and sharp, like a drum echoing in the hollow of my ribs. Was that lightning? I squint through the rain, eyes straining to see. The flash was brief, illuminating the world for just a heartbeat before plunging everything back into darkness. I can’t remember the rule about lightning and trees, but it’s not part of the test. Focus. You need to focus.

The rain pours down harder, turning the ground to mud. My legs feel like they’re moving through quicksand. Every step takes more effort than the last. My clothes, soaked through, cling to my body, adding weight to every movement. The cold seeps into my skin, making my muscles stiff, making my fingers numb. I can barely feel my hands as they brush against the branches, the cuts on my arms burning, but the pain is distant. The only thing that matters is the wall up ahead, somewhere beyond these trees.

The branches catch at my sleeves, snagging on my clothes, ripping at the fabric. Thin, jagged twigs scrape across my skin, leaving shallow cuts that bleed in the rain. I can’t stop. I can’t even slow down. What if I’m already too late? What if I fail? The thought twists in my gut like a knife, driving me forward even as my legs scream for rest.

A flash of lightning illuminates the forest again, just for an instant, but it’s enough to show me the edge of the trees. I push harder, breaking free from the suffocating grip of the branches. The forest falls away behind me, and I find myself in an open pasture, the rain pouring down in torrents. The wind howls across the field, whipping the rain sideways, stinging my face. My shoes slip on the wet grass again, but I don’t fall. I can’t fall now. Not with the wall in sight.

There it is—tall, imposing, slick with rain, the final obstacle.

The sight of it hits me like a punch to the gut. It’s taller than I remember. Much taller. How am I supposed to—? No . There’s no time for doubt. No time for fear. I have to climb it. I have to get over it. Failure is not an option.

My legs are shaking as I approach the wall, the muscles trembling from exhaustion. My arms burn with every movement, the cuts from the branches stinging, but I barely feel it now. Everything in me is focused on one thing: the wall. My hands slap against the wet stone, and I scramble for a hold, my fingers slipping, sliding, finding nothing. I grit my teeth, biting back the frustration that rises in my throat. I can’t fail. I can’t.

The stone is cold and rough beneath my fingers, but the rain makes it nearly impossible to grip. My fingers dig into the cracks, nails scraping against the jagged surface. I can feel the edge of one nail catch on something, and before I can react, it rips clean off. Pain explodes in my hand, white-hot and sharp, but I don’t scream. I don’t even whimper. Don’t make a sound. Don’t show weakness.

The blood runs down my hand, warm in contrast to the cold rain, but it’s quickly washed away. My vision blurs with the effort, but I force myself to keep going. The pain pulses through my hand, but I ignore it. There’s no room for pain, no room for anything except the wall. My fingers dig into the cracks again, nails bending and scraping, but I find a hold. I just need to make it to the top. Just a little further.

I haul myself up, inch by agonizing inch, my muscles trembling, my breath coming in harsh, shallow gasps. The rain pours down harder, making everything slicker, more dangerous, but I don’t stop. I don’t let myself stop. I’m almost there.

With a final, desperate lunge, I reach for the top of the wall, my fingers outstretched, clawing for the edge. I’m so close I can almost feel the rough stone beneath my fingertips. But then— I slip.

My hand misses. I feel the weight of my body dragging me down, and in that split second, I know what’s coming. The fall is brutal. The air rushes past me, cold and unforgiving, and then—impact. The ground slams into my back, knocking the breath from my lungs. For a moment, I can’t breathe. I can’t move. The pain radiates through my body, sharp and overwhelming. My vision swims, and the rain pounds against my face, blurring everything.

I’m gasping, my chest tight, but the air won’t come. My limbs feel heavy, useless, like they don’t belong to me. All I can do is lie there, the rain beating down on me, washing away the blood, the mud, everything.

And then I see him.

My uncle stands over me, his face obscured by the rain, his eyes cold, dispassionate. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to. The disappointment is clear in the way he looks down at me. I’ve failed. I’ve failed. The thought crushes me, heavier than the weight of the rain, heavier than the pain in my body. I choke on a sob, but I push myself up. My hand is a ruined mess of blood and torn flesh, my clothes soaked through, sticking to me like a second skin. But I stand. Because there’s no other option.

The church is enormous, its high ceilings arching toward the heavens. The stained-glass windows line the walls, the colors muted in the stormy night. I’m dripping wet, blood trailing from my hand, but I’m led inside with no regard for my condition. My uncle doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t have to. We both know what’s coming.

Lightning flashes, casting the church in sharp, fractured light. For a brief moment, the shadows stretch long across the floor, twisting into grotesque shapes before disappearing as quickly as they came. Thunder rumbles in the distance, but it’s muffled by the thick stone walls. The air inside is cold, even colder than the rain outside. My teeth chatter, my body trembling, but I don’t make a sound. I can’t.

The whip cracks through the air, splitting the silence like a gunshot.

The first lash hits my back, and the pain is immediate, searing, like fire licking at my skin. I bite down on my lip, hard enough to draw blood, but the scream forces its way out anyway. The sound echoes off the walls, swallowed by the vastness of the church, but it feels deafening to me. I clutch the edge of the pew in front of me, my nails digging into the wood, but it doesn’t stop the pain. Nothing stops the pain.

Another crack.

Another scream.

The world narrows down to that sound—the sharp snap of the whip, the raw, agonizing pain, the weight of my failure pressing down on me. The storm outside rages on, but it’s distant now, muted by the walls, by the relentless pounding in my head. All I can hear is the crack of the whip, the sound of my own ragged breaths, and the blood roaring in my ears.

I’m nine years old.

Victor’s eyes are locked on mine, his expression a mask of calm. His lips curl into a slight smile, barely perceptible, but I see it. He’s mocking me without saying a word, confident in his control, confident that no matter what happens next, he’s already won. He’s always known how to manipulate, how to turn every situation to his advantage. The weight of the gun in my hand feels heavier with every second, the cold metal biting into my palm, but I don’t lower it. I can’t.

My breath is slow, deliberate, but inside, everything is chaos. The memories of my uncle, of the church, of that whip, churn through my mind, blending with the present, twisting together until I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins. It’s him. It’s always been him. Victor stands there, waiting, his eyes never leaving mine. He knows exactly what he’s doing. He knows that he’s pushed me to the brink, just like Uncle Andrew did all those years ago. And now, I’m holding the gun.

I glance at Selene, her face pale but determined. She’s standing beside me now, her eyes locked on Victor, but she’s ready. We all are. Niamh is behind us, silent, tense. We knew what this was the moment we stepped into this room. We knew we were dead men walking. There’s no turning back now. No escaping what’s coming.

Victor tilts his head, his voice barely a whisper, but it cuts through the tension like a blade. “There are worse monsters than me, Diarmuid.”

Worse monsters. The words sink into me, twisting in my chest. I know there are. I’ve seen them. I’ve felt their hands on my back, their breath on my neck. I’ve faced them, lived through them. And I know that in moments, I’ll be meeting them again in Hell. But at least this time, I won’t be alone. Selene and Niamh—they’ll be with me. We’ll face it together.

But first, we take Victor down.

I tighten my grip on the gun, my finger hovering over the trigger. The room is silent, waiting, the tension so thick it feels like it’s suffocating me. My breath comes slowly, deliberately, each inhale a battle to keep control. I can’t hesitate. I can’t let him win.

Selene shifts beside me, her body tense, and in that moment, something in me snaps. I pull the trigger.

The gunshot is deafening. The recoil jolts up my arm, but I don’t flinch. I watch as the bullet hits Victor, as his body jerks back, the look of shock flashing across his face. For the first time, I see fear in his eyes. Fear.

He stumbles, blood spreading across his chest, dark and vivid. He opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. His knees give way, and he crumples to the floor. Just like that. He’s gone.

I wait. I wait for the retaliation, for the chaos, for the end. But nothing happens. The room is silent. I turn, slowly, my heart still racing, trying to understand why I’m still standing, why the world hasn’t erupted into violence. Why my body hasn’t been torn apart with an onslaught of bullets.

Victor’s men are frozen, their hands raised, their eyes wide. They don’t move. I blink, my mind trying to make sense of it, and then I see them.

Ronan and Lorcan step forward from the shadows, their faces hard, guns raised, their own men slowly melt away from the walls and it’s clear, Victor’s men are outnumbered.

They look at me, then at Victor’s body, and something passes between us. Something unspoken.

“Despite everything,” Ronan says, his voice low, steady, “we know where our loyalties lie.”

Tears burn my eyes. Ronan has put himself in the worst possible situation, but he has done that for me.

I always thought the Hands of Kings was first for all of us, but right now I see that’s not true.

Family comes first. Blood over water, even if that water is blessed.