Page 64 of Royal Bargain

He gives me a mock salute. “Your wish is my command, princess.”

A few minutes later he returns, balancing two bowls in one hand and cradling Lily in the other like an absolute pro. He sets her back in the bouncer with her favorite teether and hands me my bowl.

“Fruity Pebbles?” I say, delighting in the rainbow sugar swirl.

“It was either that or Frosted Flakes. Thought you might want color with your crunch.”

I curl up beside him on the couch, pulling the blanket over our legs again. “You know me so well.”

He nudges me with his elbow. “Pick a show. Something dumb and nostalgic. We deserve it.”

I scroll for a moment, skimming past newer stuff until a familiar yellow logo catches my eye. “Oh my god.Hey Arnold.”

Liam groans. “Not the football-headed kid.”

“Yes, the football-headed icon,” I shoot back, already clicking it. “It’s a classic.

“You and your ancient cartoons,” he mutters, but I catch the twitch of a smile as the opening theme begins to play.

Lily coos softly from her bouncer as the first episode starts, her legs doing a happy little kick as the theme song pipes through the room. Liam settles back, one arm around my shoulders, his fingers trailing along my arm in slow, lazy strokes.

The second episode plays on, but Liam’s attention drifts. I notice him texting, his face shadowed with something serious.

“Who are you texting?” I ask.

“Lucky,” he replies, not looking up. “I asked him to dig into our theory that Burns hired the shooter himself. That the whole thing was staged.”

I sit up straighter. “You really think he’d do that?”

“I don’t want to,” he mutters. “But the timeline doesn’t make sense. No one outside the gala knew about that speech yet. It’s too perfect.”

I reach for his hand. “What are you going to do?”

He’s quiet for a moment.

“I don’t know.”

22

LIAM

The hospital smells like bleach and something vaguely sour underneath—like maybe someone tried to clean up after something they didn’t want to talk about. I keep my breathing shallow as I follow the nurse down the hall, holding a sad little bouquet from the corner store.

They’re carnations. I think. Could be something else, but they were cheap and colorful and felt like the kind of thing you’re supposed to bring when you’re pretending this is just a casual visit—not an excuse to poke around for answers.

Burns is awake when I step in. He’s propped up in bed, remote in hand, flipping through the channels like he’s five minutes away from losing his mind. When he sees me, he grins.

“Liam,” he croaks, voice rough but smug. “Didn’t think I’d rate a hospital visit from the golden boy himself.”

I set the flowers down on the table by the bed. “You lived. I figured that at least earned you a pity bouquet.”

He laughs, then winces. “Don’t make me laugh, asshole. It still hurts to breathe. They said I got lucky—missed anything vital by about an inch. One inch. Can you believe that?”

I pull up the chair beside the bed, trying not to show how much I’m watching him. Every twitch, every blink, every word. I want to believe he’s just grateful. I really do. But my gut’s been twisting since the moment I got the call, and it hasn’t untangled yet.

“You look good,” I say finally.

He raises an eyebrow. “That a compliment or a warning?”