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Ella rolls her eyes, a gesture so quintessentially her, that I can't help but smile despite the seriousness of our conversation. "It’s mostly just this. Mama is determined to make me a prima ballerina before I graduate."
Her admission brings a frown to my face. "Don’t let her pressure you like that; it is rare for someone in high school to get that role," I caution her, aware of the immense pressure and expectations resting on her young shoulders.
"But she did it. I must do it, too," Ella says.
The bell's chime slices through our bubble of seclusion, a call signaling the start of the show. The hustle around us intensifies, a whirlwind of activity as performers and crew alike scramble into position. Ella's embrace, warm and grounding, becomes a sanctuary in the midst of chaos. I cling to her, the prospect of parting, even for a short while, a sharp pang in my heart. As she pulls away, I make a promise to her. “I’ll check in again soon.”
Reluctantly, I step back, allowing Ella to join the assembling groups. Her figure is a blend of grace and determination as she prepares to take the stage. The resolve in her posture, the focus in her eyes, speak volumes of the pressure she endures, the expectations she strives to meet. My heart swells with pride and concern in equal measure.
From my hidden vantage point behind the scenes, I watch as Ella begins her piece. The stage becomes her world, a realm where her hard work, her passion, and her talent converge into a display of breathtaking beauty.
Yet, as I witness her brilliance, a chilling realization dawns on me—the stakes of my own struggle, the consequences of failure. The Hands of Kings represents a threat not just to me but to Ella, to all I hold dear. In her performance, in the sheer force of her presence on stage, I see what must be protected at all costs.
Ella.
CHAPTER SIX
Diarmuid
I REACH INTO my drawer and pull out the gun. It's heavier tonight, or maybe I'm just tired. It slips into the inner pocket of my jacket. I clip the last cufflink into place. I have an unavoidable outing, one I’d rather skip, but duty calls.
I’m just adjusting the jacket when the door creaks open. Selene. She doesn’t knock anymore; none of us do. She steps inside, the light from the hallway casting a halo around her dark hair. She stops just a breath away, her hands reaching up to straighten the collar of my shirt. Her fingers are gentle.
These moments, these quiet, unspoken permissions we give one another, they’ve been happening more often. A touch here, a lingering glance there. It’s as if the boundaries we once drew are slowly blurring into nothingness. I notice how my hands hesitate to pull away, how her breath catches slightly when I accidentally brush against her skin. I rarely shower alone these days, always joined by one or both of them.
Having my brides is a good distraction from the shit show my life has become lately.
Selene leans back against the dresser after ensuring every thread on my shirt sits perfectly. She fixes me with a look that’s hard to read under the shadow of her lashes. Her hips push forward slightly, an unspoken invitation hanging between us.
“I worry about you,” she whispers, her voice a mix of concern and something else, something deeper. “You don’t have to do this alone, you know. We’re here, we’re always here.”
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. “I know,” I reply, my voice rough like gravel. “It’s just… complicated.”
She nods, understanding flooding her features. “It always is. But remember, Diarmuid, complications don’t make the man. The choices they make facing them do.”
I smile, a small, grateful curve of my lips. “I’ll remember that.”
As I turn to leave, her hand catches mine, warm and reassuring. I have a little time. I turn to Selene and touch her face.
“Troublemaker.” I say the nickname I had given her on our first meeting, but she doesn’t smile.
I’m not sure what troubles her, but when I dip my head toward hers, her hands reach up and rest on my shoulders. She reaches up on the tip of her toes and presses a kiss to my lips that I accept. Her kisses are feverish, and I slip my tongue into her mouth. Her breath is a mix of mint and caffeine.
I twirl her and direct her to the wall, my cock growing hard. I want to fuck her, but that is something I can enjoy on my return, so instead, I unbutton her trousers and allow my hand to slip down past her silky panties.
“What color are they?” I ask in between kisses.
“Red,” she responds, knowing exactly what I am asking.
I grin into the kiss and let my tongue dance with hers. Fuck, I want her so badly. When my fingers sink between her folds and inside her, she’s wet for me. The warmth flows across my fingers that I push inside.
She groans into the kiss, her hands trailing down my chest, their movements frantic, like she can’t get enough of touching me.
I push a second finger in with ease and continue a slow rhythm as her core tightens around my fingers. Three fingers would be too much, so I continue with just two as I trail kisses along her jawline before stopping at her earlobe. I suck it in between my lips, nipping slightly. She gasps at the shock of pain, but the moan that follows tells me she likes it.
My access to her pussy is restricted. “Push down your trousers.” She does within seconds and spreads her legs.
“That’s it…good girl.” I use my thumb to rub across her clit as I continue sucking and nipping her earlobe. Her chest is pushed against mine, and I run my hand along her side before cupping one breast through her top.
