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Once the lady has left, Selene leans into me and whispers, "I can’t wait to go home."
That stirs the desire in me. Yes. Home. The place where I only have to be Diarmuid, not the holder of the myriad of duties someone like me holds outside those sacred walls. I can almost feel the warmth of the fire, the comfort of being just myself, without the masks and charades.
I'm getting lost in her eyes, in the promise of escape they hold, when I hear the gunshot.
My heart lurches. There's nowhere to run, not on the river. As big as this super yacht is, it's still a relatively small place. Fuck. A gun. Here. With nowhere to go.
I need to find the source of the threat. I place Selene behind my back as I quickly scan the chaotic crowd for Niamh. But it’s impossible with people running in all directions. I push through the crowd and move toward the sound.
The crowd is a frenzied mess, pushing away from the source of the noise. I push through the useless gawkers, my mind racing. I need to get to the scene before things get worse.
I break through the throng and see Wolf standing in front of me. Across from both of us is Victor. Wolf has a gun pointed at the Hand. The crowd falls silent, and I can see Wolf's hand shake; he’s unable to stand still. He isn't himself. He's worse than himself. He’s volatile.
"You have the answers. You always have the fucking answers. All this time. Nothing. You don’t fucking care. You don’t care what they fucking did to him." Wolf screams at Victor, his voice raw and broken with each word.
Victor stares at Wolf as if he's an interesting painting instead of a coked-up drunk with a gun pointed at him. His calmness is infuriating, that far-off stare making it seem like he’s above all this chaos.
"And since you know the answers and nothing has been done, that means you are fucking fine with what happened." Wolf’s voice cracks, the anger giving way to anguish.
Still, no reaction from Victor. Just that cold, detached look. Then, subtly, Victor’s eyes flick to mine and back to Wolf. A tiny but powerful command. The kind of command that means life or death. The command that tells me to use all my training to take down Wolf.
My heart pounds as I process what Victor asks. This isn’t a mission to be completed in the depth of night, away from the public. We are surrounded by people. Surrounded by those who will know exactly what I am when I make my move. Victor is willing to expose his greatest weapon to save his own life.
This could be dangerous for me. A hitman whose face is known is useless. Victor could dispose of me. Or he could protect me out of gratitude. Gratitude. It’s been drilled into my head since childhood. I need to be grateful for everything the Kings have provided for me. I need to be grateful for being a King, not a Baron. Not a Page.
But none of this had been given to me. None of this had been a gift. It had been earned through blood, most of it my own.
Wolf killing Victor would take away the satisfaction of me doing it myself, but how glorious would it be? Victor right in front of me, relying on his kicked, abused dog to protect him, and that dog letting the bullet go right through his skull.
Fuck satisfaction. Sometimes you must sacrifice that to get what you want. And I want Victor dead.
I take a step back, trying to signal to Victor that his guard dog is backing down, that he is going to die tonight. I fully intend to commit to this decision until I notice a face peering over Victor’s shoulder.
Amira.
The one I lost. The one who couldn’t trust me. Amira with the cold eyes, heavy makeup, and the misshapen lip.
But that’s not what I remember about her. Her face was perfect. Doll-like. As I look closer, I notice how one of her eyes is swollen. The lip and the eye...how much is that makeup covering up?
What the fuck has Wolf done to her?
I move more by training and instinct than thought; the crowd parts easily. Wolf has his back to me; he’s still shouting, so he doesn’t see me coming. But, right there, at that very second, a subtle shift in Victor’s gaze catches my attention—one that surprises me—relief flashes across his stone features.
My hand reaches out to Wolf, pushing the arm with the gun straight into the air. The gun goes off. Screams erupt around us as the gawking crowd scrambles for cover. Wolf turns toward me. I don’t think but react. My forehead slams into his face. He staggers back from the impact, and I use the moment to knock the gun out of his hand, with one sleek high kick. It slides across the deck and disappears into the waters below. With the loss of his gun, Wolf grips his face, blood already pouring from his broken nose through his fingers.
He slowly lowers his hands and looks up at me, smiling through the blood, his white teeth looking predatory through the scarlet.
Wolf roars and rushes toward me. I easily twist him around, hooking my ankle behind his leg and sending him crashing to the ground. He spins quickly from his belly to his back, but I show no mercy.
I’m on him, and before my fist connects with his face, he grins at me again.
“Do your best!”
I cut off his laughter, ramming my fist into his mouth. His laughter returns loud and maniacal. Blood spews, and my fist comes up and down, over and over again, until he has nothing left to laugh about. Blood covers my knuckles, splattering on the crowd that can’t get through the door to the interior fast enough. Each blow brings a grim satisfaction, a release of all the pent-up rage and frustration.
I don’t think he can take much more, so I stop, but don’t get off him. His laughter bubbles quickly, and my fist comes down one more time. Wolf isn’t conquered, though. He springs, his mouth gaping, and his mouth covers my knuckles, his teeth sinking into my flesh. Pain shoots up my arm, sharp and hot. I grunt, trying to pull my hand free, but his grip is ironclad.
“Bastard!” I snarl, yanking my hand back and feeling the skin tear. Blood runs from the wound, mingling with his on my knuckles. I rear back, kicking him hard in the ribs, sending him sprawling.
