CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
THE INTERIOR OF Diarmuid’s townhouse is bathed in the soft glow of evening light. But tonight, the elegance of my surroundings is marred by the scene unfolding within its walls. Diarmuid stands at the center, a figure of defiance and pain, his shirt clinging to his skin with blood. Cuts and bruises litter his skin, and one of his knuckles looks to be broken.
I can’t think about what happened to Rian. I can’t think about the violence that I watched pour from Diarmuid. A man always so finely dressed, well presented… I never would have known such darkness lived inside him. But he protected me and Niamh.
“Sit down,” I say to him, He looks ready to fall down. He does, slumping into a white plush couch. Niamh has already gone to the kitchen, and I hear water running. I think her mind is as fumbled as mine.
I stand over Diarmuid, trying to figure out where to start. When Niamh returns with water and a washcloth, we work in tandem. She hands me one, and I start to mop up some of the blood on Diarmuid’s arm, each stroke showing me the blood isn’t his. He had arrived with blood on him…who else had he killed?
Diarmuid pushes our hands away. His phone is in his hand, and he keeps hitting a call button. The noise of the engaged tone has his worry growing.
“Have you seen Amira?” he asks.
I glance at Niamh and shake my head.
“No,” Niamh says.
He hits the call button again. I had always thought Amira to be overdramatic, her tendency to find trouble a constant source of irritation. But tonight, the fear in Diarmuid’s eyes mirrors my own. Despite everything, despite the harsh words and harsher feelings between Amira and myself, the thought of her in danger, potentially facing death, is a cold wake-up call. She may be a bitch, but she doesn’t deserve to die.
I start to open the buttons of his shirt, and he continues to call Amira. Each time I hear the dead line, my stomach drops a little further again. There is so much blood on his chest, and this time it’s his own. The largest cut was from Cormick.
“You need stitches,” I say as I hold the cloth to his chest.
“I was supposed to keep you all safe, protect you from harm.” His voice rises. He doesn’t seem to be aware of the damage that was inflicted on him. Niamh washes his free hand, and he hisses as she rubs across his damaged knuckles.
“Sorry.” Her voice is a whisper.
Diarmuid seems to come out of the fog he is under and looks at Niamh. “I’m sorry,” he says, the gentleness in his voice bringing tears to Niamh’s eyes.
“My sister, Ella. I need to get her. She could be in danger.”
Diarmuid nods. “I will find her and protect her.”
Niamh sniffles. “Thank you.”
“I will take the four of you somewhere safe.” His hopes for Amira are still high.
When Diarmuid looks at me, fire lights up in his eyes.
“Why were you at Rian’s apartment?” I can hear the jealousy in his voice.
The intensity of his gaze is unnerving.
“We heard there was a body placed on top of Andrew O’Sullivan’s, and we wanted to know who she was.”
He’s glaring at me. His reaction is a mixture of concern and barely contained fury.
“How could you be so stupid?” His voice is grave, and I’m stunned at the level of venom in his words.
“I needed to know more about you. I needed to learn about what I might be marrying into.” My words send my heart racing. I did this to learn about him.
“Jesus, Selene. This ends now. Do you understand how dangerous this is? Someone wants that murder covered up, and they will stop at nothing.”
I nod because the moment I watched Rian die, I knew we had gone too far.
“How do you not want to know who killed your uncle?” Niamh asks. I know her mind is still on Ella. If Ella had died in such a brutal way, she would want to know who killed her.
“I already know who killed Andrew O Sullivan,” Diarmuid says. Something shifts in his gaze, and he glances from me to Niamh. “I did.”
His confession seems to draw the very air from the room. The murder of Andrew O’Sullivan wasn”t just another headline in the news; it was a deed done by Diarmuid”s own hand.
I want to ask why, but I can’t bring the words to my lips.
Niamh quietly excuses herself, retreating to the sanctuary of the guest bedroom. Her departure is a silent echo of the turmoil that Diarmuid’s confession has stirred within us.
At Diarmuid’s words, I dropped the washcloth, and blood found its way onto the white sofa. I watch it soak in.
“I’m going for a shower.” Diarmuid rises, and I give him some space as I try to process what he just told us. He killed Andrew O’Sullivan.
He killed Cormick, too, to save us. Maybe he had his reasons for killing Andrew. My stomach continues to curl, and I find myself following him. I never thanked him for saving us. Our fate would have been in the hands of Cormick, and most likely, right now, we would be rotting in a shallow grave.
I open the door to thank him, my words poised on the tip of my tongue, but they die away at the sight that greets me. Reflected in the mirror, Diarmuid’s back is a tapestry of scars, each mark a story of pain endured, of survival against odds that would break lesser men. The scars, numerous and brutal, speak of hundreds of strokes of the whip, each one a testament to his torment.
My heart clenches at the sight, a mix of horror, sorrow, and an indescribable urge to reach out, to somehow ease the pain that each scar represents. “What happened to you?” The question is out before I can think, a demand for understanding, for the story behind the scars that mar the skin of a man who has become an enigma. Did Andrew do this? Is that why he killed him? But these marks are years in the making.
Diarmuid’s shoulders tense, and he turns to me. His chest is marred with fresh cuts. Jesus, he has endured so much.
“Andrew and Victor had a very unique way of punishing me.” His words bring tears to my eyes. No one should suffer like this.
“That’s why you killed him?” I ask and swallow the sorrow that threatens to consume me.
“I will kill Victor, too.” His words should terrify me, should have me running from him.
“Good,” I say as tears make a pathway down my cheeks.
The man before me is not just a protector. He is a survivor, carrying the weight of his past with every step, every decision marked by the trials he has endured. The revelation does not weaken my perception of him; rather, it deepens my respect and my understanding of the battles he has fought, those both visible and those hidden beneath the surface.
“Rian spoke of a council, one that’s even higher than Victor.”
“I know it’s deeper than they allow me to see. But I will find every player.”
I step deeper into the bathroom. “I’ll help you.”
He immediately shakes his head. “I won’t let you get hurt.”
“I won’t give up.” I raise my head. Seeing the marks on his body has solidified my decision.
Diarmuid steps closer to me and takes my face in his hands. “Troublemaker,” he says with a soft smile.
“But we must find out what happened to Sofia Hughes. I can’t let it go, Diarmuid,” I state.
He rests his forehead against mine. “Okay, Troublemaker.”
I lean back so I can look up at him. “Now, get in the shower.” He needs to wash off the blood; we need to see the true extent of his injuries.
He slowly takes off his trousers, his back to me again, and my heart squeezes. I want to ask when the abuse started, but instead, I peel off my clothes. He glances at me for a brief moment but finishes getting undressed. The water pours from the showerhead, and he steps in under the spray. I grab a washcloth and enter the shower with him.
He’s facing me, and all of a sudden, I’m nervous and heartbroken, but I swallow the emotions and start to wash him down.
He hisses now and then but closes his eyes. “I have sent men to find Amira and bring Ella here.”
I nod but remember he can’t see me. “Okay,” I say.
He glances down at me, and his large hand covers mine. He loosens the cloth from between my fingers and starts washing me. I allow it. I need some form of kindness now after all the violence. My parents never showed me any affection, and I lean into this moment with Diarmuid. My hands rise up, and I touch his broad shoulders, allowing them to run down his arms. This is why he never took his shirt off. He was hiding the brutality that was inflicted on him.
The water pours down his chest, the stream of blood turning from red to pink. He still needs stitches, but the cut isn’t as ugly as I thought it would be.
“Cormick trained you?” I ask as my hands trail down to his elbow before running along his forearms.
“Yes, as an assassin.”
My heart races, and I look into his steel eyes. I need to know.
“Did you kill a child?” I ask.
He tilts his head, the cloth he was using to wash me forgotten.
“No.”
I can’t help the relief that floods my body. “Was each death for the greater good?” I ask.
This time, his gaze shadows over. “No,” he answers honestly.
I nod.
“I just do as I’m instructed.” He sounds so tired.
He tilts my chin up so I’m looking at him. “But, I won’t for much longer. I’ll take you all somewhere safe.”
I want to ask him how he really thinks that will play out, but time will tell.
His lips brush mine, and they are warm and gentle as he kisses me, like he’s sealing our fates deeper together.
Stepping into the shower with Diarmuid was a choice. My one move in this game of kings and pawns...perhaps the only one worth making.
But mine, nonetheless.
My choice right now is to kiss him back, our mouths moving together assuredly with passion and conviction. I am no longer a pawn in this game.
I’m now a player.