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Yet, the knowledge that this is a competition doesn’t alleviate the dark thought completely.
Scaling the second wall leaves me exhausted, and when I finally take my seat on the bus, I expect the ride to lull me into sleep. But the hum of the engine and the rocking motion do little to quiet the whirlwind of thoughts in my head.
Darkness has cast a blanket across my grandparents’ home. The bus passes it and stops only a few meters away.
Clutching the medallion tightly in my hand, I skip past my grandparents' house entirely. My feet carry me up the stairs to the apartment above their garage. I fumble with the keys, my fingers clumsy and trembling. The door swings open with a soft creak, and I flick on the light.
To my utter shock, Diarmuid and Niamh are sitting right there, waiting for me.
I'm stunned, my mind racing through calculations, trying to puzzle out how they could have possibly gotten here before me. As if reading my thoughts, Diarmuid answers, his voice calm and steady.
"I had just come home when you made it to the lawn. I watched from the balcony while you climbed the wall."
"You watched me?" My voice is a mixture of disbelief and irritation.
Diarmuid smiles, a hint of solemnity in his gaze. "I’m always watching you, pet. It’s my duty. I am your King."
His words hang in the air, heavy and full of unspoken promises and secrets, as I try to wrap my head around this new reality.
That explains why Diarmuid beat me here; I was constrained to the pace of public transport while he sped away in his car. But still, the nagging question remains—how did he know where I was going?
I glance at Niamh, seeking an ally or perhaps an answer, but she avoids my gaze, her eyes fixed on some distant point.
"Don’t redirect on her. Look at me. Talk to me," Diarmuid commands, his voice firm, brooking no evasion. "Now, what was my rule about leaving the estate?"
"Not without your express permission," I reply, the words bitter as they leave my lips.
"Yet?" His single word hangs between us like a challenge.
"I left without your permission," I admit, my voice steady despite the churn of emotions inside me.
"Why?"
"Because this is important to me." I meet his gaze, defiance kindling within me.
Diarmuid stands and begins to pace the apartment, his movements deliberate. He pauses occasionally to examine the photos, notes, and information connected by red string that adorn the walls—my private thoughts laid bare.
"What is your goal here, Selene?" he asks, turning to face me once again, his expression unreadable.
Did I have a real goal? Everything felt so overwhelming. The revelations about the real power structure of the cult, understanding the extent of the O'Sullivan mafia family's influence, and unraveling the mystery of what happened to Sofia Hughes—all of it pulled me in multiple directions. On top of that, Diarmuid's nonexistent explanation about why murdering his uncle was absolutely necessary and the cryptic words Isaac Waryn whispered to me at the Diners of Influence Dinner only added to my confusion.
Diarmuid had been given the grim task of murdering a child. Just the thought sent a shiver down my spine.
After discovering that my entire existence had been orchestrated—that I was created and raised solely to serve as payment to the order—I felt a desperate need to cling to anything that might offer a semblance of purpose or identity. Yet, here, in the presence of Diarmuid, these personal revelations felt too dangerous, too vulnerable to share.
So, I couldn't tell Diarmuid any of this—none of it.
Silence hangs heavy as I wrestle with my thoughts, unsure of how to articulate the storm inside without revealing too much.
Diarmuid turns and looks at me, his gaze sharp and analytical. He's a master at reading people; I've witnessed it countless times when associates visited our house. He would sit back, let them speak, and then, with uncanny precision, he'd turn the conversation on its head. He could read people better than most could read a restaurant menu.
I try to keep my face blank, my eyes void of the storm brewing within. He tilts his head slightly and smiles—a smile that hints at amusement or, perhaps, a touch of condescension.
Finally, he says, "You don’t know why you are doing this."
The statement hangs in the air, echoing against the walls, filling the room with its inescapable truth.
Diarmuid turns back to my research scattered across the room. His voice is calm yet carries an edge of warning, "This is dangerous, pet. It’s an unsecured location. The information you have here… there are people who will kill you for knowing this."
