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"Yes. Your arms dealing. Your situation with your Brides. The fallout of Uncle Andrew’s murder. All of the shit hitting the fan needs to be redirected elsewhere. This is our family’s chance. We cannot be caught, or it may take another hundred years to get someone in this position again. But it’s not just you. It’s Wolf," Lorcan says.
Wolf. The name alone is enough to bring a scowl to my face. Once a Duke, now a Marquess. "Wolf is a ticking time bomb," Lorcan continues, echoing the reports from our spies. "According to the spy we have in Wolf's residence, he has finally been broken—but it isn’t the kind of broken that leads to timidness."
"What do you suggest we do?" I ask, the frustration evident in my voice. "Before the Kings, the family could decide to remove someone like Wolf. Now, he has a rank. We are not allowed to interfere in any potential plans that Victor has for him."
"We need to find a way to reassure him that someone gives a fuck about what happened to Uncle Andrew," Lorcan asserts, his eyes scanning our faces for any sign of dissent.
That someone isn’t me.
"I am becoming the Minister of Justice," Lorcan adds, a hint of resolve in his tone. "I will have more useful contacts now. We can try to use my resources to find his killer."
"And Sofia Hughes’s killer," I interject, dropping another name into the conversation, one that hasn't come up tonight but haunts me nonetheless.
“Who?” Lorcan asks.
"Sofia Hughes," I state firmly, making sure they understand the gravity of the name. "It was her murder that led to the authorities even finding Uncle Andrew’s body. Whoever left her there knows who killed Uncle Andrew."
There's a heavy pause. The implication hangs in the air, thick and accusatory. And beneath that, a silent fear courses through me—the fear of exposure.
Hopefully, I can get to that person before they tell the world that I was the one who killed my uncle.
Lorcan nods slowly, his gaze sharp. "I can look into this, Diarmuid. Until then, keep your noses clean. Both of you." His voice is firm, commanding—a leader’s voice, preparing for battle.
The conversation shifts as the night wears on, transitioning into lighter topics, perhaps as a way to cleanse the palate from the earlier heaviness. We talk of sports, of local news, of trivial matters that don't sear the soul. But even as laughter fills the gaps, my mind doesn't stray far from the shadows.
When I finally make my way home, the cool night air feels like a cloak, wrapping around me, hiding my thoughts from the world. I mull over my promises, the ones made to my Brides. Selene's discovery of the medallion looms large in my thoughts. She believes it holds the key to much more than just historical curiosity—it might be a doorway to answers, to freedom.
Whatever that medallion is, I doubt it will lead me to a place free of trouble. I realize it doesn't matter. The promise of freedom, of escape from the binds of this life, is worth any peril.
Freedom is always worth it.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Niamh
I AM LOSING. The realization slices through me, a cold, sharp truth I can no longer deny. I can feel it, not just in the depths of my crumbling heart but etched into the very marrow of my bones. It's in Diarmuid's touch—automatic, detached—a stark contrast to the slower, more tender caresses he reserves for Selene. Despite my deep affection for her, this is a contest. Brutal and unequivocal. Only one of us will ascend as his Consort, and the fate of the one who doesn't—unthinkable, yet terrifyingly possible.
Amira had told us about our potential futures, her voice dripping with a venomous glee. She spoke of discarded Brides of Kings, passed down like unwanted heirlooms from Dukes to Marquesses, or worse, delivered directly into the clutches of Wolf. Whether her tales are woven from truth or lies, the possibility ignites a primal fear within me, conjuring visions of faceless, cruel men waiting like vultures for their chance to strike.
I stand on the balcony, the chill of the early morning air biting through the thick fabric of my housecoat. Wrapped tightly around me, it's a small barrier against the cold and the ever-watchful eyes of the guards patrolling below. The memory of Selene, gracelessly caught as she attempted to shimmy down into the freedom of the backyard, flashes in my mind. That escape route is firmly closed now, sealed by Diarmuid's tightened security measures.
I sip my tea, its warmth a fleeting comfort. Diarmuid insists that being shadowed by guards is normal in this life of opulence and hidden dangers. Yet, he bristles at the thought of his Brides—his possessions—being followed too closely. A part of me kindles hope at this protective streak, interpreting it as care. But then, the more cynical voice in my head scoffs, to Diarmuid, we are merely things he owns, not individuals he cherishes. He is not the type to share his toys, only to safeguard them to assert his control.
With a sigh, I step back from the railing, leaving the cool outside for the plush warmth of the interior. The carpet feels indulgent beneath my bare feet, a stark contrast to the unforgiving cold of the balcony's stone. Our bedroom, shared by Diarmuid, Selene, and me, feels too large and yet suffocatingly small at the same time. It's a gilded cage with silken linens.
I wander toward Selene's room, where everything we took from her apartment is displayed. . As I pass by the vacant room intended for Amira, unease curls in my stomach.
What do we do with such a room?
I push open the door, the familiar creak soft in the quiet hall, and find Selene exactly where I expect her to be. She’s hunched over her laptop, her focus absolute as her fingers dance across the keyboard. The room around her is a chaotic reflection of our collective mission—a recreation of her old apartment's setup but intensified. Print-outs, photos, and strings crisscross the walls, creating a visual web of our investigations. The room smells faintly of her perfume, a floral scent that now seems as much a part of her as her rebellious streak. I wonder if that’s why Diarmuid seems to favor her more—her defiant nature?
"Anything new?" I ask, stepping inside and closing the door behind me gently.
Selene looks up, her eyes briefly flitting to the digital chaos before settling on me. "Maybe," she murmurs, a note of cautious optimism in her voice. "It's like putting together a puzzle with half the pieces missing."
I move closer, glancing over her shoulder at the screen. The display shows a complex diagram of connections, centering on a photo of Amira’s brother, Michael. Diarmuid had added it himself, pinning it prominently on our makeshift investigation board. His involvement had been unexpectedly beneficial. With his background in the O’Sullivan mafia and deeper ties into cult activities, he had managed to quash numerous false leads that could have derailed us.
Yet, despite Diarmuid's extensive network, gaps remain, the answers frustratingly out of reach. He knows a lot, yet not as much as Victor, the enigmatic leader who seems to hold all the cards. "Diarmuid really thinks Michael is key to getting closer to Victor?" I question, skepticism threading through my tone.
