Page 53 of Royal Bargain

“I need you,” I say, rough. Honest. “Now.”

No teasing. No games. I find her, already there for me, and thrust deep in one desperate motion. She cries out, head falling back, and I lose whatever control I had left.

We move hard and fast, like this might be the last chance we get. The rhythm is messy, frantic. My hand slams into the wall to brace us, her moans catching in my ear, her body tight around mine.

“I’ve got you,” I chant, over and over. “I’ve got you.”

She comes hard, legs tightening, her cry muffled against my neck. I follow fast, buried in her, clinging like the world might fall apart again at any second.

We don’t move. Just hold on, panting, shaking, waiting for our heartbeats to slow.

Still alive. Still here.

The next morning,sunlight spills through the wide loft windows, soft and golden, like the night before never happened.

Lily babbles from her playmat on the living room rug, waving a stuffed giraffe in the air like it personally offended her. Ana’s at the stove in one of my shirts, humming under her breath as she flips pancakes, and for just a moment, everything feels almost normal.

I pour coffee into two mugs and join her, brushing a kiss to her temple before setting hers down beside her. She gives me a tired smile in return. Neither of us got much sleep, and it wasn’t just because of what we did against the wall last night.

We’ve both been waiting for the fallout.

The TV murmurs in the background, tuned to the local morning news.

“… investigation is still underway after yesterday’s shooting at a Thornville campaign fundraiser?—”

Ana stiffens slightly at the mention. I glance at the screen just in time to see footage from the gala playing—Burns being loaded into the ambulance, me standing on the steps, speaking to reporters.

No mention of suspects. No clear motive, at least not yet. But then the chyron at the bottom of the screen suddenly flickers and changes.

“Breaking News… Heiress Emilie Gunnerson in hot water after DUI crash…”

Ana turns, spatula hovering midair. “Wait, what?”

We both watch as the anchor launches into the story, her tone shifting to a mix of scandalized delight and faux-concerned professionalism.

“Sources confirm that socialite Emilie Gunnerson, daughter of the late Magnus and Sigrid Gunnerson, was seen leaving Club Viridian late last night accompanied by an unidentified man. Minutes later, she crashed her luxury vehicle into the front patio of a nearby jazz club. Authorities suspect alcohol may have been involved. Fortunately, no one was seriously injured.”

A grainy still flashes across the screen—Emilie in a slinky dress, laughing wildly as she stumbles out of the club with a man twice her age, his hand suspiciously low on her back.

Ana squints. “Is that… ?”

I already know. My stomach drops as I recognize the man.

“That’s Martin Tisdale,” I mutter. “One of our gala donors. Married. Three kids. Just made a big show last week about family values and public morality.”

Ana winces. “Oof.”

I rub a hand over my face. “That’s going to be a mess. Burns can’t afford for this kind of scandal to touch the campaign. Not when he’s trying to look like he’s cleaning up the city.”

“And now he’s got a headline-chasing heiress crashing sports cars into nightclubs after cozying up to married donors.”

She flips a pancake with a sigh. “We really know how to pick allies.”

19

ANNIKA

The pancake sizzles in the pan, but I’m barely paying attention. The news anchor’s voice cuts through the kitchen, and with every word, my stomach knots tighter.