Page 152 of Royal Bargain

He’s quiet for a moment. “No. Not like this. Not with what we have. She’s too far ahead. She made us dance for her without even realizing we were part of the play.”

He gestures vaguely toward the room—toward me, toward Ana, toward himself.

“The pieces are in place. The audience is seated. The stage is set. It’s nearly opening night.”

I rake a hand through my hair. “There had to be signs. You must’ve noticed something.”

He looks at me, mouth pulling tight. “Of course I did. But when you’ve known someone as long as I’ve known Miranda, it’s easy to convince yourself you’re imagining things. That she still cares. That there’s still a line she won’t cross.”

His voice turns distant. “She used to be my best friend. Before she was my enemy.”

Something in that hits a nerve. I glance at Ana again, and this time, I really look at her.

Her breathing is too shallow.

There’s sweat on her upper lip now. Her hands are twitching—not from stress. From weakness. The bandage on her foot is nearly soaked through again.

Shit.

I kneel beside her. “Hey. You okay?”

She opens her eyes, tries to smile. “Just tired.” But she looks more than a little tired. I touch her forehead. Clammy. It’s too cold.

“She’s still bleeding,” I say, looking sharply at Anatoly. “She needs a doctor. Not a first aid kit.”

“She’s stable,” he says, but it’s half-hearted now. He can see it too.

“No. She’s not.” My voice is rising. “She’s not okay. She’s trying to play it off, but she’s gray and fading and she’s already lost too much blood.”

Ana shifts, winces, and whispers, “I’m fine…”

“You’re not.” I stroke her cheek, voice softening. “And I’m not letting you die here just to prove a point.”

I scoop her into my arms. She’s too light. Too limp. The last time I held her like this, she was laughing in the kitchen, her hands in my hair, her lips on mine. This doesn’t feel like her. This feels wrong.

As I stand, Anatoly rises too.

Ana is awake, but only just. Her lips are turning pale. Her fingers are twitching again—but not with anxiety. With weakness.

My stomach knots.

“We’ll never stop fighting,” I say softly. “Not as long as we have something to fight for.”

“Then you’re a liability,” Anatoly says. “Miranda will know that, too.”

I narrow my eyes. “Don’t fucking underestimate us.”

He raises both hands in a gesture of surrender. “I’m just saying. Miranda eliminates threats. Anyone close to her—close enough to see through the lies—is already in danger.”

“We need to get her out of here,” I say abruptly.

I turn back to Anatoly. “I was going to say maybe our families could come together—just this once. Try to stop her. But that conversation can wait. Right now, she comes first.”

Anatoly stares at me. And for once, there’s no disdain in his eyes. Just something cold and resigned.

“Then go,” he says. “Take her.”

“You sure your people won’t follow us?”