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"Michael," I say, my voice the calm before the storm, "thank you for your honesty. Stay out of my way."
As I leave him standing amidst the wreckage of our confrontation, I know what I must do. The game has changed; the stakes are higher than ever. Wolf has made his move; now it's my turn.
And in this game, I am the King. Wolf, my cousin, will soon learn that taking a Bride from a King is a move that comes with dire consequences.
The corridors of the mansion seem to echo with the weight of my resolve as I make my way out into the night.
CHAPTER FIVE
Niamh
THE ESTATE LOOMS large and suffocating behind me as I make my decision. Diarmuid's command—that no one leaves without the proper escorts—echoes in my mind, a stark reminder of the cage I find myself in. Yet, the necessity of my journey demands discretion, something impossible to achieve with an entourage in tow.
The drivers, loyal to Diarmuid to a fault, are out of the question. They wouldn't dare defy his direct orders, not even for me. This leaves me with no choice but to rely on my own skills and cunning to escape unnoticed.
Years of training in the art of moving silently and gracefully, of becoming nearly invisible even in plain sight, now come to my aid. It's a slow, painstaking process, weaving through the house, avoiding the watchful eyes of Diarmuid's men stationed throughout the estate. Each step is measured, each breath controlled, until, at last, I find myself slipping through the gates and into the freedom of the night.
The city's public transportation system offers the anonymity I need. Boarding a bus to the Docklands, the center of Dublin, feels like stepping into another world. It's been ages since I last rode a bus. The memory of the last time I undertook such a journey lingers in the back of my mind—a reminder of Rian.
But I can’t let the life I had slip away so easily, or my sister. It’s her I’m doing all this for.
The bus slows down right outside the Bord Gais Energy Theatre. I slip off the bus and try to melt into the crowd. The air is filled with the anticipation of the evening's ballet. Each person is dressed to impress, with gowns and suitseverywhere. My sweatshirt and jeans stand out among the crowd’s finery.
I move inside the building, my stomach in knots as I remember Diarmuid’s command.
The strict order for all to remain within the estate.
I approach the ticket box and steady myself, hoping my posture mimics someone who belongs here. "I am here for the O’Sullivan box," I declare, my voice steady, betraying none of the uncertainty that flickers beneath.
“Of course, the usher will take you there.”
I’m surprised by how easy it is, and an usher appears on my left. Although the usher’s gazelingers, perhaps a moment too long on my jeans and sweatshirt, he signals for me to follow.
"I would like to go backstage," I say after we have taken a few steps.
The moment the usher veers off the path I anticipated, my curiosity spikes, but I quell it. The O'Sullivans' connection to this place is not my concern—at least, not now. As the glitz and glamour of the theater's front house give way to the stark reality of its backstage, a wave of nostalgia washes over me. Despite the shift from opulence to practicality, there's something about the maze of bare floors, concrete walls, and the sight of pulleys and curtains overhead that feels like coming home. The scents here, a mixture of sweat, makeup, and the mustiness of costumes long used, are different from the world beyond the curtain, yet intimately familiar.
As I weave through the bustling backstage, ballerinas in various states of preparation catch my eye. Their movements are a flurry of grace and precision, each step, each stretch a testament to their dedication. I don't even know the name of the production, but the costumes speak volumes. Silver outfits adorned with stars, ethereal wisps of white tulle, and dark suits that render their wearers almost invisible against the shadows—all of it crafts a narrative I'm eager to unravel.
And then there's Ella.
She stands apart from the rest, not just in her role but in her very presence. Her dress, a cascade of white and pale blue, accented with scale-like makeup that traces a path up her arm to her face, is a vision of otherworldly elegance. I can't help but gasp at the sight of her, my sister, transformed into the epitome of what a ballerina embodies. In her, the grace and beauty of the art form are not just performed; they are lived…breathed. She is everything a ballerina is meant to be, and in this moment, she is everything to me.
Seeing Ella like this, so utterly transformed and yet so profoundly herself, fills me with a mixture of pride and sadness. Pride, for the woman she has become so quickly, and sadness, for the distance my journey has put between us, for the moments lost and the time it has taken to find my way back to her side.
I hesitate, just for a moment, before stepping forward. My presence here is a risk, a defiance of the orders that bind me, but the pull of family, of the bond between sisters, is too strong to ignore.
Pride radiates from me. When Ella's gaze meets mine, the transformation is instantaneous. The poised, enigmatic ballerina dissolves into the girl I grew up with—the sister who raided my closet and claimed the hot tub for hours on end. Her glide across the floor is a dance of a different kind. The moment she jumps into my arms, all the tension, the fear, and the distance melt away. We are simply sisters again.
Ella's grip is firm as she leads me behind the curtains to a secluded spot, a bubble of privacy in the midst of backstage chaos. The urgency and relief in her voice cut through me.
"Niamh, where have you been?!" Her words are a mix of reprimand and concern.
"I'm so sorry, Ella. I didn’t mean to leave you," I respond.
"You should apologize! I have been so worried. Mama and Papa won’t tell me anything. I thought something awful or shameful must have happened to you," she continues, her frustration and fear laid bare.
"I am fine. Taken care of. I have been worried about you," I assure her, trying to alleviate her fears, even as my own heart aches for the strain my disappearance has put on her.
