Page 65 of Royal Bargain

I smirk faintly. “Maybe both.”

He laughs again and presses a hand to his side. “Careful, you’ll make me bust a stitch.”

We talk for a bit—nothing important. The nurses. The shitty hospital food. How his wife’s been on a warpath about the press coverage and already started milking the sympathy angle for his next ad campaign.

Then I shift gears. “They said the shooter’s been found. Killed in a standoff.”

Burns nods.“Yeah. Saw it on the news. Real nutjob, apparently. Had some kind of manifesto. The usual garbage.”

“You believe that?” I ask carefully.

He frowns at me. “Shouldn’t I?”

“I just mean… it all happened pretty fast. Doesn’t that seem off to you?”

Burns doesn’t answer right away. He tilts his head, watching me a little closer now, but not with suspicion—more like curiosity. Like he’s trying to figure out if I’ve always been this tightly wound or if something’s changed.

“You really think so?” he says slowly. “I mean, we’re talking about a senator getting shot in broad daylight. That’s not something the Feds ignore. They probably threw everything they had at it—local, state, federal. Hell, probably even some off-the-books task force I’ve never heard of. Of course they found him fast.”

He says it like it’s obvious. Like it’s supposed to be comforting. But something about the way he says “of course” makes my skin crawl.

Still, I give him the benefit of the doubt.

“Yeah, maybe,” I say, but there’s a tension in my chest that won’t ease. “It just… doesn’t sit right.”

Burns lifts an eyebrow. “You’re starting to sound like one of those podcast weirdos. You know the type—thinks every blip in cell service is the government tapping their brainwaves.”

I huff a small laugh. “I’m not saying it’s aliens. Just… I don’t know. It’s all a little too neat.”

Burns shrugs. “Maybe we just got lucky for once. You ever think of that?”

I don’t answer. Because no, I haven’t. Not since the moment the bullet hit the ground beside me. And especially not since I started wondering if the person standing closest to the shooter had more to gain than anyone.

I don’t answer. Because no, I haven’t. Not since the moment the bullet hit the ground beside me. And especially not since I started wondering if the person standing closest to the shooter had more to gain than anyone.

But Burns lets the silence sit for a moment, then waves it away like we’ve wandered too far off track.

“Well, anyway,” he says, exhaling as he settles deeper into the pillows. “Let’s talk about something less depressing. The primaries are coming up. A few days out now.”

I nod, sitting up straighter. “You ready for it?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be. I’ve got the best people working the ground game,” he says, then flashes me a grin. “And you’ve been knocking it out of the park. I mean that. You’ve helped shiftthe narrative—made me look like the kind of guy voters actually want to have a beer with.”

I let out a dry chuckle. “Glad someone thinks I’m useful.”

“I’m serious.” He sobers slightly, tone sharpening just a bit. “We’re this close, Liam. But we can’t get comfortable. Especially with Volkov’s trial coming up.”

That name lands heavy.

Burns continues, eyes narrowing. “There’s talk he might get released. Nothing confirmed, but enough noise to make me pay attention. And if he does…” He shakes his head. “You think he’s going to sit back and let me win this election?”

My jaw tightens, but I say nothing.

Burns studies me, like he’s measuring his next words. “I wouldn’t be surprised if this whole thing—the shooting, the chaos—it was them. Trying to send a message. Stir up fear. Make me look weak, or better yet, dead.”

He says it casually. Too casually.

Like it’s just another theory. But his eyes don’t quite match the tone.