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His face, hands, and neck are a bloody mess, and the washcloth is already soaked in blood. I swallow hard, trying to steady myself. “Do you want to shower?” I ask, unsure if something as simple as running water would cause him pain.
Diarmuid looks at me, his eyes weary but resolute. “Yes,” he says, his voice hoarse. He rises slowly, every movement clearly causing him discomfort, but he doesn't let it show.
I lead him to the bathroom, turning on the shower and adjusting the temperature. The steam begins to fill the room, and I hope it will be soothing for him. “I’ll help you,” I say softly, my voice barely above a whisper.
He nods, and I help him undress, my heart aching with every new bruise and cut that’s revealed. Once he’s in the shower, the water cascades over him, mixing with the blood and washing it away. I stand by, ready to assist, but also giving him the space he needs.
Diarmuid closes his eyes, letting the water run over him, and I can see the tension in his shoulders begin to ease. “How does it feel?” I ask, hoping the water is more comforting than painful.
“Better,” he murmurs, his voice softer now. “Thank you, Selene.”
I grab a fresh washcloth and gently start cleaning his face and neck, careful to avoid the worst of his injuries. The blood slowly washes away, revealing the raw, angry wounds beneath. “You’re so strong,” I whisper, more to myself than to him.
When I see the burn on his hand, a sob escapes me. "I want to kill him, Diarmuid," I whisper, the words raw with anger and grief.
He doesn’t respond, but his eyes meet mine, and there’s a flicker of something—gratitude, perhaps, or relief. I continue to clean him as best I can, my hands steady now, my heart full of a fierce determination to help him through this.
I’m surprised when he cups my face in his hands; his touch is gentle and reassuring. His lips meet mine in a deep, soulful kiss that makes me collapse into his arms.
As I cling to him, a realization hits me. Maybe I need to take a page out of Amira’s book and burn all of this to the ground. The thought hardens something within me. Earlier, I had heard the news about what Amira did. Maids gossip and news travels fast. With the fall of Wolf, she seems to have lost her mind, yet I can’t help but have some respect for her.
“Let's get you dressed and into bed.” I offer Diarmuid.
He nods, but his gaze is fixed on me, and words hang in the air unspoken, words that send my heart skyrocketing. After what feels like an eternity, he follows me out of the steam-filled bathroom. I grab some boxers and leave the rest of him bare. Before he gets inbed, I check the waterproof bandages to make sure they are still intact. They are.
Once he’s asleep, I leave Diarmuid resting in bed, his breathing finally even. I head to the research room to check on Niamh one more time before I sleep.
As I enter the room, I’m startled to see Niamh out of bed, moving about frantically. Panic surges through me. "Niamh, you need to rest," I say, rushing to her side, trying to guide her back to bed.
But Niamh grabs me, her eyes wide and almost mad. "Selene, no! You don’t understand," she says, her voice a frantic whisper. "I have to... I have to find it..."
"Find what, Niamh? Please, you need to lie down," I plead, my heart racing with fear for her.
She shakes her head vigorously, her grip on my arm tightening. "No, Selene. It’s important. I need to find it before it’s too late," she insists, her desperation palpable.
I look into her eyes, trying to understand. "Okay, Niamh. We’ll find it together. But first, you need to rest. You’re still recovering," I say, trying to calm her.
Niamh hesitates, her breath coming in short, uneven gasps. "Promise me, Selene. Promise you’ll help me," she demands, her eyes searching mine.
"I promise, Niamh," I say softly, finally managing to ease her back into bed. As she lies down, I stroke her hair, my mind racing with worry and determination. Whatever it is she’s searching for, I’ll help her find it. We’ll find it together, no matter what it takes.
"Do you see it? Do you see him?" Niamh's voice pulls me out of my thoughts, her tone frantic.
I turn to see what has her so agitated. The wall is plastered with photos of Sophia Hughes at various events. But it's not Sophia who’s circled in red ink—it's someone else. In each photo, a person in the crowd is marked. My eyes widen as I recognize the face that appears repeatedly.
Michael.
Diarmuid had educated us about the hierarchy of the hands of kings that he knew, and I remember Michael was important to Victor—a Page, but Victor’s Page.
Niamh's voice trembles with urgency. "Do you know what this means?"
My heart sinks as realization hits me. "Sophia Hughes must have been a Bride to Michael before he was stripped of his title," I whisper, the weight of the truth settling over me like a heavy shroud.
Niamh nods, her eyes wide with a mix of fear and revelation. "He was always there, always watching. We focused so much on Tyrone and Sophia that we missed the real threat."
Michael. How could we have been so blind? My mind races, piecing together the implications. If Michael was there, then he would have been involved in everything. The attacks, the manipulations—it all ties back to him.
"Selene, what do we do?" Niamh asks, her voice shaking.
