Page 147 of Royal Bargain

Dariy is the first to move.

He steps out from behind a column, gun still in hand, face twisted with fury. “You can’t be serious,” he spits, eyes blazing. “She betrayed us. You’re going to protect her?”

Anatoly doesn’t even blink. “She’s my daughter,” he says, cool as ice. “And she is under my protection.”

The words land like a blade between them.

“If anyone here has a problem with that,” Anatoly continues, his tone deathly calm, “you’re welcome to speak up. I’ll put a bullet in your skulls myself.”

Dariy’s jaw works furiously, but even he knows better than to challenge Anatoly head-on in front of an armed crowd. His eyes sweep the room, calculating. Then, without a word, he turns and stalks toward the exit.

A few men hesitate—but only for a heartbeat—before following him out, their loyalty evident in the way they move, clustered tightly around him like a pack of dogs slinking away from a lion.

And just like that, the air shifts.

The chaos, the bloodshed, the shouting—it all drains away, leaving nothing but the sound of Anatoly’s slow, steady footsteps as he walks across the warehouse floor like he owns the earth beneath it.

Like he always has.

Liam doesn’t move.

Neither do I.

We just stay there, crouched behind cover, waiting to see if my father’s mercy will extend far enough to include both of us.

Anatoly surveys the room, expression unreadable. Then, with a wave of his hand, he speaks.

“Leave us. All of you.”

No shouting. No debate. Just a simple command.

The remaining men—his and ours—hesitate for only a second before they begin filing out. Kellan and Rory throw wary glances back at Liam, but he gives them a slight nod. Lucky lingers the longest, jaw clenched, until Rory grabs his shoulder and steers him toward the exit.

No one argues with Anatoly when he’s like this.

Once the warehouse is nearly empty, Liam shifts beside me. His arm is still around my shoulders, steady and sure as he helps me stand. My injured foot sends another shockwave of pain up my leg, but I bite it down.

“We need to go,” Liam murmurs. “My car’s out front?—”

“No,” Anatoly interrupts. His voice is calm, but absolute. “You’ll come with me.”

Liam bristles immediately. “Like hell we will?—”

“She needs medical attention,” Anatoly snaps. “There’s a safe house two blocks from here. Stocked. Guarded. Quiet. Unless you’d prefer for her to bleed out in the backseat of your car while we wait for Dariy to regroup?”

Liam hesitates, torn.

But I reach for his hand. “It’s fine,” I whisper. “Let’s just go.”

Anatoly’s car is already waiting—a sleek black vehicle, spotless and armored. One of his men opens the door, and Liam helps me inside, his eyes never leaving my father.

The ride is short, but tense. Every bump in the road sends a jolt through my foot, but the pain still feels far away—muted by adrenaline, by shock, by the sheer impossibility of what just happened.

When we arrive, it’s exactly what Anatoly promised—a secure space, all hard lines and reinforced walls, with a pristine first aid setup laid out like a battlefield triage station.

I’m guided to a low couch. Liam crouches beside me, already tearing open a sterile kit.

“You’re okay,” he keeps saying, more to himself than to me. “You’re okay, you’re okay…”