When Kings Rise : A Dark Irish Mafia Romance intensified by the presence of a cult. (The O'Sullivan

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

THE CHANDELIERS CAST a warm, luxurious glow over the long dining table. I sit, somewhat stiffly, in my designated seat of honor, surrounded by the echoing laughter and the clinking of fine china. This dinner is Victor”s doing, a chance to parade the prestige of our order before eyes hungry for the slightest hint of weakness. But to me, it feels like a gilded cage, each course a rib in the frame.

The starter arrives, a tiny marvel in the bowl of a spoon, crafted by a French chef whose name escaped me as quickly as he had introduced himself.

Next, the scallops, a sea-kissed treasure from the cold waters of Bedford, Massachusetts, are placed before us. They”re seared to perfection, a testament to the journey they”ve undergone to grace our plates. Yet, as the flavors unfold on my tongue, I can”t help but crave something as simple as a pot of stew.

The main course is presented with a piece of A5 Wagyu beef so small it almost seems lost on the expansive porcelain. The chef from Kobe, who had tenderly prepared it, speaks of the beef as if it were a piece of fine art.

As the courses parade before us, each more elaborate than the last, my thoughts drift to the real reason behind this grand display. I”ve watched other Dukes undergo this bridal ritual, a test to see how potential Consorts fit in with high society.

Amira shifts her chair subtly yet decidedly closer to mine, her movement smooth and deliberate. She has drawn the attention of nearly everyone in the room. It isn”t hard to see why. Her dress, if one could call it that, openly displays her cleavage. The small black spaghetti straps are tiny on her tanned shoulders, and I know when she stands, the dress will barely cover her. The fabric clings to her form in a way that leaves little to the imagination. Plunging necklines and daring slits were its signature, making it a piece more suited for a sultry night out than a fine dining experience. The smirk on her face and joy in her eyes suggested she was fully aware of the effect she had, reveling in the attention. As much as I tried to focus on the culinary artistry before us, I can”t ignore how sexy she is.

“Are you enjoying the meal?” She coos up at me, her hand slowly moving under the table to rest on my leg. I thought after having her, my need would die down, but now it starts to grow again.

“It’s delicious,” I declare.

Even though I want her body, I can’t help but feel a sense of distrust with Amira.She is someone who seems to crave the spotlight with such intensity. Was it a result of neglect, a plea for attention unmet by her parental figures, or simply a facet of her personality?

I glance at Niamh. She barely makes a ripple in the social currents of the dinner. Her modesty and poise suggest years of discipline. In her is a quiet strength, a resolute spirit that doesn”t need the limelight to affirm its worth. Maybe she would be better suited to me.

I shift my leg away from Amira’s touch, and straightaway, a frown appears on her face.

My gaze then drifts to Selene. She elegantly navigates the raspberry champagne sorbet. She must sense me watching her as her gaze clashes with mine. In that glance, I see not just her earlier anger or irritation but a challenge, an invitation to delve deeper than the surface. It’s an anger that isn”t raw or uncontrolled but calculated, a reflection of a mind as sharp as it is beautiful.

She drops her gaze from mine, not in shyness, but as if she has seen enough.

So, have I had enough? As the last course is served, people retire to the lounge. The ladies leave to refresh themselves, but not before I notice one last look from Selene. She intrigues me.

The lounge I enter is quiet. I select a glass of whiskey from a tray of assorted spirits.

I take my drink and step out onto the balcony, where I”m greeted by the cool evening air, a stark contrast to the heated atmosphere of the dining hall. The whiskey burns a path of warmth as I sip, watching the driveway stretch out before the main door.

Lorcan”s presence is announced not by the sound of his footsteps but by the shared understanding of needing a moment away from the festivities. He leans against the balcony railing beside me, his gaze fixed on the darkness beyond.

”Twelve courses.” He finally breaks the silence, his voice carrying a mix of awe and incredulity.

”Yes,” I reply.

”Twelve fucking courses,” he repeats, with a chuckle that borders on disbelief.

I lift my drink in a silent toast to his observation. ”I’m having my thirteenth now,” I say, a smile tugging at the corner of my mouth.

Lorcan laughs.

”I noticed that you had an extra appetizer,” Lorcan says, his voice casual, as if he”s commenting on the weather.

”I won’t talk about this,” I respond firmly. What I do with my Brides is private, and my business alone.

”Come on, you know that Ronan or I will be next. I just want a little bit of information,” Lorcan persists, but his ”just” feels heavier than it sounds.

”My moments with them are mine,” I say again.

I can almost sense Wolf approaching before he steps out onto the balcony and joins me and Lorcan. His steps are heavy. He”s already been drinking, a fact that surprises none of us. It”s become part of his persona, a shield as much as a weakness.

”I need a gun,” he slurs slightly.

”Wolf, this is not the place,” I respond instantly.

His words become reckless, teetering on the edge of madness. ”Well, if anyone tells the authorities, I’ll just kill them. People are allowed to do that in Ireland. No one gets punished if you kill someone in Ireland,” he proclaims, a twisted smile playing on his lips, oblivious to the gravity of his own words.

Lorcan”s response is immediate, his voice laced with anger and fear. ”Shut the fuck up, man. Get a hold of yourself! The fucking cardinal is over there.” His eyes dart towards the dignitary, a silent plea for Wolf to recognize the danger of his rantings.

Wolf, however, seems lost in his own vendetta, his voice rising. ”Perfect. I can ask his forgiveness after I kill my father’s murderer.”

It”s then that Ronan appears, his question simple yet loaded with concern. ”What the hell is going on here?”

”Wolf is trying to drag our entire business down,” I explain.

Ronan nods, understanding flashing in his eyes. ”We need to get him away from everyone before someone tells Victor.”

Together, we box around Wolf and try to guide him back to the house. But he’s being awkward, pushing against us. I shove him; he wobbles but rights himself. The guests” curious gazes feel like spotlights on us, but a glare from me is enough to make them avert their eyes, a silent command they dare not disobey.

As I help Wolf up the stairs, I hear the front door open. Looking down, I catch a glimpse of Niamh exiting, her silhouette graceful and determined, with Selene following close behind her.

Their departure is a silent alarm. Selene’s exit, with Niamh in tow, is not just an escape; it”s a statement, they have bonded. I don’t have time to follow them, not with Wolf in such a volatile state.

I focus back on the task at hand, guiding Wolf away from prying eyes and ears before he says something that will get him killed.

But Wolf notices my two Brides leaving too.His finger, unsteady yet determined, points directly at Selene, his words slurred but clear: ”Get out while you can, love.”

She nods, a silent acknowledgment of a warning perhaps long expected, and leaves without a word.

Wolf”s attention, however, swiftly shifts. His gaze moves, heavy with alcohol, and he points upwards. ”But you, you can stay.” His words float up to Amira, who leans over the railing, curiosity etched into her features.

Anger crashes through me, and in a moment of decision, my hands release their grip on Wolf, a calculated risk. His body, unprepared for the sudden absence of support, sways and then crashes against the banister, the impact sharp and sudden. The combination of the blow and the alcohol coursing through his veins proves too much, and his lights go out, his body slumping to the ground in a heap of silence.

”Alcohol thins the blood, Diarmuid. A hit like that could kill him.” Lorcan glances around to see if anyone saw, his disapproval of my actions evident in his tone.

I don’t give a fuck. He deserved it.

”Then, half of all our problems are fucking solved,” I retort.

Loran and Ronan pick up Wolf and carry him upstairs to a guest room, the effort obviously draining with each step my brothers take. Wolf isn’t small by any means. But I enjoy the view of him slumped over, his feet trailing along the wooden floor. At least he’s quiet.

I’m aware that Amira follows closely behind.

“Can you open the door?” Lorcan asks me, glancing over his shoulder. I don’t move, so Amira does as my brother asks.

“Thank you, Amira,” he says as he and Ronan get Wolf into the room.

Wolf groans loudly from the bed. Amira steps in again. “I’ll get a washcloth,” she says and disappears into the adjoining bathroom.

The tension in the room thickens as my brothers glance at me. ”She is not taking care of him.”

”I barely take care of myself; I’m not about to do it for him.” Ronan”s retort is quick, laced with his own brand of humor and resignation.

”Diarmuid, what is the point of having spare women if you can’t get them to mop up a drunk?” It”s Lorcan”s comment, though, that breaks the strained peace, his words cutting deeper than he probably intends.

The disrespect in his tone ignites something within me. Without fully processing the decision, I find myself pinning Lorcan against the wall, my anger finding a physical outlet. The threat in my eyes is as clear as the words unspoken between us.

Ronan steps in before things escalate further. “There is no need for that,” he says, pushing us apart.

Amira returns, her arrival marked by the practical items in her hands—a washcloth, a water pitcher, and a glass. Her posture, one hip jutted out, an eyebrow lifted, speaks volumes, her words cutting through the tense silence. ”Either you three have become really close and cuddly, or I missed a fight.”

Her comment, light yet pointed, draws no response from us. She moves to the side table, setting down her washcloth and pitcher.

She places the cloth on Wolf’s forehead, and he groans again. When none of us move, Amira glances at me. “I can watch over him until he wakes.”

“No,” I say immediately.

“She’s right. Let her watch over him so we can return before people start to notice,” Ronan says. If it was Lorcan after his smart-ass comment about Amira, I would be saying no again, but I glance at Amira, who nods at me.

“Go,” she says.

With a final nod, we file out of the room. The reminder of Selene and Niamh leaving has me walking down the stairs.

“Come, we can have a drink,” Lorcan calls from behind me.

”I have somewhere I need to be,” I tell him, my mind already steps ahead of my body.

I find myself outside of Selene”s house. The knowledge of where each of my Brides lives is something I found out before they even met me. Selene”s home, a converted garage beside her grandparents” house, stands quiet under the night sky.

Knocking on her door, I”m met not with the warm welcome one might hope for but with annoyance. Her expression is clear; her willingness to entertain me, markedly less so.

“May I come in?” I ask as she folds her arms across her chest. Her dress from earlier has been swapped for denim jeans and a loose-fitting sweater.

“No.” Selene barks.

I raise my brow. “You know you can’t stop me from coming in.” I remind her of my power here.

”If I can’t stop you from doing whatever you want, then don’t fucking ask. Selene fires back, her voice sharp enough to stir the quiet of the night, catching the attention of a neighbor. A light flashes in the dark, and I take another step toward her, but she doesn’t back away from the door.

It’s clear she doesn”t want me in her home, but I’m not giving up. “Let’s take a drive, then.” I offer an olive branch.

Her expression morphs, showing her discomfort at the thought of being alone with me.

I grit my teeth, not one to bow to the whim of a woman. But I want to know what has made Selene so upset.

“A brief walk down the street. A public place.”

She unfolds her arms and lets out a heavy huff. “Fine, wait here.” She closes the door in my face. She doesn’t keep me waiting for long before she appears with a heavy pair of brown outdoor boots and a heavy cream jacket thrown over her sweater.

“I see you and Niamh have bonded,” I start.

“She’s very nice.” Selene weighs each word.

“And Amira?” I ask.

Selene glances at me now, her gaze intelligent and yet concealed. “You seem to like her.”

I hide a smile. Is that jealousy I detect? “I like all three of you.”

“Why are you here?” she asks. From meeting her the first three times, my impression of her was that she was always controlled—but not tonight. I wonder what transpired. But I had pegged her as the troublemaker.

“To find out why two of my Brides left so abruptly.”

Selene starts walking again. “The night was almost over, and I was tired. So, you came all this way to find out why I left?”

I came for more than one reason. I wanted to get away from Wolf and my brothers” disapproving looks.

I nod.

”I”m not a dumb, spoiled, rich girl. I”m educated. I can tell when people are lying, and you do nothing but lie,” she accuses, her voice a mixture of anger and disappointment. Her abrupt words make me stop walking this time.

“I have to be deceitful in my business,” I answer honestly. We have so many secrets to carry. Sometimes, the lies can get tangled with the truth.

“What business?” she probes, but her voice isn’t as sharp anymore.

“Imports,” I answer.

“Liar.”

“Be careful, sweet Selene,” I whisper and give her a warning glance.

“I know what you are.” Her voice is heavy, too heavy, and I don’t like it.

I immediately go with humor. “Fuck, are you going to call me a vampire?” My attempt to deflect with humor sounds feeble even to my own ears.

“How do you know about that movie?” She counters, a smirk playing at the edge of her words.

“How does an intellectual such as yourself know about that movie?” I retort.

“You are redirecting the conversation,” she accuses, pinpointing my tactic with ease before tightening her jacket around her perfect frame.

“You are easy to redirect,” I shoot back before I run my thumb along my lips, lips that she glances at for a moment. I swear her blue eyes soften before they ignite again with something close to fear.

“You are a killer,” she states, a declaration so raw that it strikes a chord inside me that hasn’t been pulled since I was a kid.

“Am I now?” I reply, with a raised brow, attempting to regain control of the conversation, and steering us back into a more humorous footing.

“Stop it! I know what you’ve done. And who you’ve done it to,” she insists, her voice a mix of anger, fear, and a daring kind of courage.

“You have entered a dangerous world, Selene,” I warn.

“So, you’ve done it. You’ve killed people. Men, women, and children,” she states, a cold summation of my sins laid out in the open, each word a weight, each accusation a mirror reflecting a version of myself I”ve fought to keep hidden, not just from the world, but from myself.

The discipline of masking my emotions has been a cornerstone of my existence since childhood, a necessary armor forged from the unforgiving punishments from Victor and Andrew. I have perfected the steady stare and a firm lip that has seen me through countless situations. Yet, Selene”s accusation causes me to pause. It”s a microsecond of hesitation. To any onlooker, it would have been invisible, insignificant. But Selene’s eyes widen.

Her reaction is immediate; her breath falters, and then she sprints back toward the safety of her home. Her steps are panicked, and it takes me a moment to respond.

I chase after her. As I run, my mind races, trying to piece together the hows and whys of her accusation. She”s made it clear she knows about the killings, the lives I”ve taken, even mentioning children—a detail so specific, so damning, that it sends a chill through me.

Howcould Selene know? Her inference, her mention of children, implies she believes Brien Cahill is among my victims.

I push my body harder, and the need to understand andclarify become my sole focus.

She’s made it nearly to her home, running alongside the building, when my arm circles her waist, and she’s airborne before I swing her and pin her to the wall. She’s breathing heavily and, straightaway, she starts to fight me.

As I cover her mouth with one of my hands, anger races through me. “The world isn’t fair. Sometimes your parents are shitty, and you have a shitty life. Sometimes, people die who shouldn’t have died. Sometimes, a father drives up a gambling debt, so his son gets killed for it.” My emotions become erratic; I’ve never lost control like this, and it isn’t fair, but I‘m not working to make the world fair. I am working to get what is mine.

Tears fall from her eyes and soak my hand. She stops fighting me, and I remove my hand from her mouth. She licks her tears before she glares at me. “You are a monster.”

Her response cuts deeper than any knife I”ve ever wielded. I agree with her.

I press my body against hers.“I am a monster with clearances, allowances, and ultimate freedom. I could tear into you right now, and nothing would happen to me.”

My anger turns to something darker as I look down at her wet lips. Raising a hand, I run my thumb along her bottom lip. She swivels her head quickly away from me. Like my touch disgusts her, I grip her face, forcing her to look at me. “This kind of monster needs to be pleased, or no one is safe.”

Her heavy breath fans across my face. My movements are abrupt and almost frantic as I press my lips to hers. She doesn’t kiss me back, but that doesn’t hinder me from taking what I want.

My tongue shoots out and runs across her lips, forcing them to part. When my hand trails across her breasts and in between her legs, she speaks.

“Please don’t.” Her plea is soft.

But the darkness she has ignited in me doesn’t allow me to stop. “Are you going to stop me?” I ask.

Her gaze darts around the space. “Physically, I can’t.” She grits her teeth.

“Did you not swear obedience when you became one of my Brides?” I dip my head in and kiss her again before trailing kisses up to her earlobe. “Who told you that I was a hitman?”

When I look back in her eyes, I see her resolve as strong as before. I hate that she is protecting someone.

“Tell me, and I’ll stop.”

“If I tell you, will you kill the person?” She questions.

I grin. “Most likely.”

“Then I won’t tell you.” I hate the thought that she could care for someone else. She must know she’s mine; if she doesn’t, I will show her.

I run my hand back between her legs, and she tightens her thighs together as if she could stop me.

“You like my touch; I remember how wet you were for me.” I pop the first button of her jeans and then pull down the zipper while holding her hands above her head.

“Let’s see if you are as repulsed as you are acting?” I dip my finger inside her, and she’s wet. I grin in victory.

She tries to wiggle, but my tight hold on her keeps her back firmly against the wall.

“I think my troublemaker likes this,” I whisper in her ear again before I push my finger deeper.

“So, tell me, who you were talking to?” I insert a second finger, and she gasps, her core tightening around me. She’s fucking perfect. As I watch her gaze transform from hate to pleasure, I almost don’t want her to tell me who told her. I want to make her come right here and now on my fingers.

I use my thumb to rub her clit as I continue to fuck her with my fingers. I want nothing more than to bend her over and take what is mine, but I’ll wait for the right moment for that. For now, she will learn who her master is.

“Give me a name, and I’ll stop,” I whisper, moving my fingers harder and faster inside her while my thumb circles her clit. She’s shuddering, her gaze glazed over.

“No,” she whispers as her eyes flutter closed.

I love that she won’t give in; I love what I’m doing to her.

She groans, and her core tightens. I work harder on her clit, knowing she’s close to coming, and when moisture fills my palm, dripping down from my fingers, I know I have gotten what I wanted.

She comes hard on my hand, and when her body stops shaking, I extract my fingers and lick each one slowly. Her mouth is open as she watches me. “I can keep coming back and doing this until you tell me.”

A spark of something flashes in her eye. Maybe she wants me to come back every night.

Tears still stain her face, and she wipes her cheeks with the back of her hand.

Looking at her and into her eyes is a declaration that I am indeed a monster, and she has no intention of telling me.