CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
I”M NESTLED HALFWAY between the stage and the back doors of the Gaiety Theater. To my left is my mother, her attention riveted upon the unfolding spectacle. My father occupies the space on her other side. Both are engrossed, their gazes never straying from the stage. Around us, a sea of formally dressed spectators share in this silent performance.
The dancers, with their vibrant costumes and energetic movements, bring the story of the four seasons to life. Winter”s chill has been banished, making way for Spring’s vivacity. It’s a transformation I”ve witnessed year after year, yet it never ceases to stir something within me. The stage is awash with colors.
I search for one performer among the many. Ella, my sister, the one person I can pinpoint in a crowd of a million without fail. Tonight, though, her role makes her stand out even more. Not a flower, nor a bird. No, Ella is Bacchante—a character with a name, a story, a presence that is undeniably her own.
A swell of pride rises in me. She embodies Bacchante with such conviction that, for a moment, I forget she’s playing a role. To me, she’s the very essence of Spring itself—wild, joyful, and unrestrained.
Intermission breaks the enchantment of the performance with the stark reality of a crowded space. The stage, just moments ago alive with the vivid storytelling of dancers, now lies hidden behind the heavy curtains, awaiting the second act. Dancers in yellow cloaks mark the transition, their movements a whirlwind of color and grace, guiding their fellow performers offstage in a final, fleeting tableau before the curtains draw close.
The shift in the auditorium is immediate. A collective exhale fills the air, the sound of hundreds of people rising, stretching limbs stiffened by the long sit, engaging in whispered conversations, or navigating the aisles toward the restrooms or concession stands.
I watch as my parents stand, my father taking the lead as he always does from his preferred spot at the end of the row. They merge into the stream of people, my mother”s voice barely audible over the hum of the crowd, discussing Ella”s performance—every movement, every leap, every turn scrutinized. The pride in her achievement is tempered by a relentless pursuit of perfection. Even in this moment of triumph, the conversation centers on what could be better, on the imperfections only a trained eye could catch. It’s an all-too-familiar pattern, their high expectations always casting a long shadow.
I find myself alone, my parents” attention anchored to Ella”s performance. Their absence by my side is a familiar scenario on nights like these, where my sister”s talent steals all their attention. Oddly enough, I like this time alone.
Navigating the throng of intermission-goers, I push my way out of the theater and onto the sidewalk. The transition from the artificially lit interior to the outside world is startling. The grand arc of the theater”s entrance frames my exit as I step into the crisp embrace of the autumn air. The freshness of it is nice after the warmth of the theater and the intoxicating scents of perfumes and aftershaves.
Outside, the city is alive—the distant hum of traffic blends with the closer sounds of conversations and footsteps on pavement. Streetlights cast a golden glow.
My moment of solitude is cut short by an usher who approaches me as I attempt to re-enter the theater for the second act.
“Niamh Connolly?” He asks, an odd formality in his tone.
“Yes.”
He nods. “I am here to lead you back to your seat.” He holds out his arm for me to go ahead.
“I already know where my seat is,” I say.
“Let me have the honor.” He smiles softly.
As I follow the usher up the stairs and down a hallway tinged with the muffled sounds of an audience settling back into their seats, a familiar anticipation builds within me. The red curtains that mark the entrance to the private boxes loom ahead, but it”s the sight of one particular box, distinguished by its door, that signals this is no ordinary seating upgrade.
The usher opens the door, and I peek inside.Diarmuid is there, his presence commanding even in his silence.
“Sit next to me,” he says without even turning around.
The opulence of the private box is immediately apparent, not just in its furnishings but also in the presence of bodyguards, discreetly hidden behind curtains at both the front and back.
“Leave us.” Diarmuid’s terse command has them departing, and it leaves us alone.
As I take my seat beside him, my attention is involuntarily drawn to Diarmuid. Dressed for the occasion, his appearance transcends the usual definitions of formal attire. There”s an undeniable elegance to him, a refinement that accentuates his presence. The realization that he”s both familiar and entirely enigmatic brings a blush to my cheeks. Here is a man who has changed the course of my life, and yet, the gravity of our situation feels all the more real in this secluded setting.
Selene”s warnings echo in my mind that Diarmuid is dangerous. That he survives, and indeed, thrives in his world is a testament to his strength and perhaps, to aspects of his character that are better left unexplored. The severity of his deeds, as hinted by Selene, keeps rising to the forefront of my mind.
As the curtains of the box draw back and the performance resumes with the vibrant depiction of Summer, Diarmuid breaks the silence. His voice is calm amidst the storm of my thoughts.
“I wanted to make sure you are okay after the other night,” he starts.
My body tenses at that question. The night he put his hands around my neck, and all I could think about was that poor girl in the morgue, with marks around her neck, too. I don’t think Diarmuid killed her, but it had pulled me under a dark current of fear and panic that I wasn’t able to escape that night, not even when he had returned and questioned me. I had no answer for him then, and I have none I can give him now.
“You”re kind,” I say, a simple truth.
“You are one of my Brides, a role that carries with it duties and responsibilities. It’s my job to take care of you,”he answers simply.
“What about Amira?” I ask, remembering she hadn’t returned after he had escorted her from the room.
“Amira is my concern, not yours.”
Maybe he’s right. I’m not overly fond of her. I take another peek at Diarmuid. “How did you know I was here, and how did you get tickets?”
He looks at me, and a slow smile crosses his lips.
“The Kings own the private box,” he states.
This doesn”t surprise me as much as it should. Their reach and influence, it seems, extend even into the cultural heart of the city.
“And how I knew where you were… I had you followed.” He continues with a matter-of-fact tone.
However, the fact that Diarmuid had me followed here sends a chill down my spine. It”s one thing to be under the protective gaze of a powerful organization, quite another to be shadowed without my knowledge.
“Why am I being followed?”
Diarmuid doesn’t answer straightaway, as if he is weighing his words. “The organization has its own unseen dangers; this level of protection and surveillance is necessary.”
That doesn’t exactly answer my question. His lack of detail shows me he doesn’t fully trust me. But we don’t know each other that well. The only time we are together is with Selene and Amira.
“Why are you here, at this ballet?” he asks, shifting the conversation. I allow the turn of questioning, knowing I’m not going to get any more out of him.
“My sister Ella is in the play. She has the role of Bacchante. She’s only sixteen, so her role is very significant for someone her age.”
“It sounds like your sister has a bright future ahead of her,” he states.
“I guess.”
“The role of Bacchante at sixteen doesn’t guarantee success in the world of ballet?”
The moment stretches between us, charged with an energy I can”t quite name. Diarmuid”s gaze is intent, probing, as if he”s trying to read the very essence of my thoughts. It”s disconcerting, and yet, I find myself unable to look away.
“Well, the first woman to play Bacchante, Marie Petipa, ended up dying of impulsive insanity,” I share, a bit of trivia slipping out in an attempt to lighten the mood or maybe to impress him with my knowledge.
He chuckles dryly, the sound echoing slightly in the spacious box. “You must be a very supportive sister to know so much about ballet.”
The comment stings, though I know he doesn”t mean it to. I shift uncomfortably in my seat. “This used to be my world,” I confess, a hint of nostalgia coloring my words.
“You hated it,” Diarmuid observes, more a statement than a question.
I nod, the admission slipping out easier than I expected. “I did. But my mother... She wants a prima ballerina in the family.”
“Your sister isn’t a prima ballerina now?” he probes, his interest piqued.
“No, to be a prima ballerina, Ella needs to be accepted into a major ballet company and then become the best dancer in that company,” I explain, my voice tinged with a mix of hope and realism.
“So, it’s like being a general,” Diarmuid muses.
“Or a King,” I add, my words a bridge between our worlds.
The conversation shifts subtly, Diarmuid”s gaze intensifying. “And you? What do you want to do with your life?”
I take a deep breath, my own dream suddenly feeling small and insignificant in the grandeur of this setting. “I want to conquer the Oceans Seven. To be a professional swimmer.”
Diarmuid”s response is noncommittal, a simple nod that prompts me to push further. “What about you? What”s your dream?”
“When you don’t really own your life, what use are dreams?” His words are a whisper, heavy with a resignation that surprises me.
The question hangs in the air, unanswered, as the ballet resumes onstage.
The rest of the show unfolds in a shared silence that feels both comfortable and charged with unspoken thoughts. For a moment, the world outside this private box, with its dangers and complexities, fades away. I”m just Niamh, Ella”s sister, lost in the beauty of the ballet.
As Ella takes her final bow, something within me ignites. I forget about the formalities, the presence of Diarmuid, the weight of his world pressing in on us. Rising to my feet, I applaud with abandon, my hands coming together in a loud, fervent praise for my sister”s performance. In this moment, I am every inch the proud sister, my heart swelling with pride.
As the curtain falls for the last time and the audience begins to filter out, the reality of my surroundings—and my company—settles back in. I”m still standing when I turn to Diarmuid. “Thank you,” I say, sincere in my gratitude for the experience, for the view, for the momentary escape from my parents, who I bet haven’t even wondered where I am.
He gestures for me to wait, moving with a deliberate calm to close the outer curtains of our box, sealing us away from the departing crowd. The privacy feels suddenly intimate, a world apart from the grand spectacle we”ve just witnessed.
Then, he turns to me, the intensity in his eyes a stark contrast to the quiet endearment of earlier conversations. “I want to know exactly how you like to be touched, what you want from me,” he says, his voice low and earnest. “I”ve been restless since our last encounter, and I want to make it right.”
His words hang between us: a confession, a question, a plea. It”s a moment of vulnerability, of honesty, that strips away the layers of his guarded existence. In this secluded box, away from the prying eyes of the world, Diarmuid is not a figure shrouded in mystery and power but a man seeking connection, seeking understanding.
The air shifts around us, filled with a new tension, a new possibility. As I meet his gaze, a thousand thoughts race through my mind, each one a reflection of my own uncertainties, desires, and fears. Yet, beneath it all, there”s a flicker of something else—curiosity, perhaps, or even the thrill of stepping into unknown territory.
In this moment, the roles we play—the King and his Bride, the protector and the protected—seem to fade, leaving us simply as Diarmuid and Niamh.
“I’m not sure.” My voice rattles.
Diarmuid nods and clears the distance between us. “If I did this, would it be okay?” He takes my face gently in his hands and presses a soft kiss to my lips. I taste mint, it’s refreshing, and when he sinks his tongue into my mouth, I press mine into his.
The buzz of the voices of hundreds of people below us sounds distant. The lighting in the private box is dim as Diarmuid breaks the kiss and smiles down at me. Being around Diarmuid before, I’ve always been shy, but having him alone, changes something in me. I reach up and press my lips to his.
The invitation unleashes a desire in him that surprises me; his kisses are hungry, and his hand warms around my waist, pulling me closer to him. I can feel the full extent of his excitement. My own dampen between my thighs.
A thought assaults me as fast as the strike of lightning. I like having him to myself.
I want to be as bold as Amira and as courageous as Selene. I let my hand slip across his wide chest and move lower and lower until I touch him. The outline of his bulge feels huge against my hands. He had almost taken my virginity the other night, but the act wasn’t complete. The idea of having him take it with just the two of us present makes me grip him harder and rub his full length. He groans into my mouth, his minty breath filling my own.
He breaks the kiss and rests his forehead against mine. He’s still as I continue to rub his full length. His eyes are closed, but he groans in pleasure.
After a moment, he opens his eyes, and his hand leaves my waist and trails down further, where he bunches up the fabric of my dark red dress, gathering it slowly. The cool air touches my bare legs, and anticipation has me frozen for a moment.
“Is this okay?” he asks as his fingers touch my bare skin.
I nod.
He continues until he touches my panties, damp with a need that both shocks me and has me leaning in closer to his hand.
“Can I taste you?”
I glance at the balcony that gave us a view of the stage. It’s now blocked with the red, heavy drapes. People still talk below us, but I know no one can see.
I nod again.
Diarmuid sits back down in my chair and pulls up my dress. He’s kneeling at my feet, his gaze fixed on my face for a moment before he bends over. Pulling my panties aside, he gives his tongue access to my folds and parts them.
I hiss with pure pleasure. He’s done this before, but being alone makes it feel different, more intimate.
He laps at my folds, and my body threatens to release the build-up that’s quickly gathering inside me, but Diarmuid’s licking turns to kisses that he continues pressing the whole way down my leg. Each kiss feels like he’s branding ownership into my flesh. He lifts my leg and slips off my high heel. He watches me as he places kisses along the inside of my foot.
“What do you want, Niamh?” His voice is husky with his own desire.
I know what I want. I”m just not sure I’m brave enough to say it, but as I glance around the dimly lit box, I know it’s now or never.
“I want you to take me,” I say.
He nods and rises to his feet, holding out his hands. I take them as he pulls me to my feet. He spins me and pulls me into his chest. Kisses are placed along my neck, and the sound of the crowd below turns to a soft buzz as I’m consumed by his roaming hands across my torso and the kisses he continues to place along my neck. He gathers the fabric of my dress again until he’s holding it securely around my waist. His lips touch my ear. “Hold onto the chair and bend over,” he whispers and kisses my ear again.
I grip the velvet of the back of the chair and arch my ass into him. I take over, holding up my dress. Warmth rushes to my checks as I hear his zipper, belt, and then the shuffle of the material of his trousers.
His fingers prod between my legs, and my eyes flutter closed at the contact. It’s only for a moment before he removes them, and a larger, meatier body part is placed at my opening. He pushes himself into me slowly, stretching me, filling me up. It burns slightly, just like the last time. One hand grips my hip while the other runs up and down my spine in a soothing movement, and then he withdraws slightly before pushing into me again. This time, the burn is less. My core squeezes around his cock, and I find myself pushing further into him.
“You are perfect,” he whispers. His voice sounds strained, like he’s struggling to hold this steady flow of in and out. He’s being careful with me, knowing I’m a virgin, and that makes my stomach tighten with appreciation and need.
He moves inside me again and pulls out; he keeps this steady rhythm as he runs his fingers up and down my spine.
I keep my hold on my dress that’s gripping the chair, and with my other hand, I reach down and touch my clit. The contact sends a new thrill through me, and I gasp as more sensations seem to override everything else.
I don’t know how he senses my need, but he starts to move faster, in and out of me. I’m so close to coming my body screams for release. I turn just enough to meet Diarmuid’s gaze. I don’t know what he sees, but he starts to move faster, and I turn back, working my clit. The climax is like the final scene of the ballet, and I’m falling, calling out as the lights shatter behind my eyes, and I come fast and hard.
When I open my eyes, I’m panting, a light sprinkle of sweat on my forehead.
“Oh, fuck.” I manage to say between dry lips.
A half-snort laugh from Diarmuid, has me apologizing.
“Please don’t apologize,” he says, removing himself from me andfixes my dress into place. I take a moment to gather some courage to face him, and when I stand straight, Diarmuid is dressed and holding my shoe in his hand.
He smiles happily at me as he kneels down and helps me place my foot into the shoe. It’s a real Cinderella moment as my prince rises.
“Did you…” I trail off, I’m wondering if he came.
“No,” he confesses and takes my face in his hands. “But we will have plenty of time for that.”
I nod, slightly disappointed.
“It was perfect.” His kind words chase my worries away.
“I’d better get back to my parents. I’m sure they are wondering where I got to.” It’s a half-truth; I doubt they even noticed my disappearance.
But Diarmuid places a kiss on my forehead. “Okay.”
I’m flustered as I enter the lobby. My parents stand together,with no sign of Ella. She will be with the production crew celebrating tonight.
My mother is the first to spot me. I blush, but she doesn’t seem to notice.
“Where were you? I want to get home,” she says.
I scramble to find an answer.
But she’s so caught up in her own thoughts that she waves me off. “The car is here, let”s go.”
I follow my parents out of the theater and take one final look at the milling crowd in the lobby, but I don’t see Diarmuid. I hope I won’t have to wait long to see him again.