Page 10 of Royal Bargain (Royals of the Underworld #3)

ANNIKA

I shouldn't feel guilty.

That's what I keep telling myself as I blend concealer under my eyes and smooth out the eyeliner wing that’s being stubborn this morning.

What happened last night with Liam felt like it was inevitable.

I knew letting things go too far was a mistake, and still, I did it.

We crossed a line, and I pushed him away before we could blur it even more.

Still. He looked so hurt when I told him we had to end this before it got complicated.

I swallow the lump rising in my throat and turn up the volume on my playlist. I don’t want to think about the look on his face when I told him we were a mistake. I don’t want to feel the way my chest clenched as I shut the bedroom door behind me. It’s easier to focus on something I can control.

Like getting ready for tonight. My first performance.

The start of something real, something that’s just for me.

The loft is quiet, save for Lily’s soft coos from her bassinet, and the faint sound of the oven beeping.

Liam hasn’t said much since we woke up. He offered to make breakfast, but there was something different about him.

He was quieter. His frustration was evident in the way he moved, the way his jaw ticked as he clenched it.

I try not to let it get to me.

“This is it,” I say as I reapply my lipstick, watching him through the mirror as he walks past the bathroom doorway. “Tonight’s the night.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just stands there, arms crossed over his chest, leaning against the wall like he’s trying not to snap.

“I don’t like it,” he finally says.

I straighten up, staring him in the eye. “We’ve already talked about this.”

“No, you talked. I feel like I was steamrolled. Don’t you care about the danger you’re putting yourself in? I’m not okay with this, Annika.”

I turn to face him, hands still gripping the bathroom counter. “Liam, I’m not asking for permission. I need this.”

His eyes flash with anger but he reins it in fast. “Then I’m going with you.”

“What?”

“I don’t trust that venue. I don’t trust their security. And I sure as hell don’t trust Ingrid Gunnerson to look after you properly.”

“You’re not my?—”

“I know I’m not,” he snaps. Then lowers his voice. “But until this blows over with your people, I’m not letting you walk into a club alone when half your father’s men are out there looking for you.”

I cross my arms. “I’ll have bodyguards.”

A muscle in his jaw ticks. “They’re not bulletproof.”

Silence stretches between us like a frayed wire, brittle and waiting to snap. Finally, I sigh.

“Fine,” I say. “You can come. But you don’t get to tell me how to do this.”

He meets my gaze, something unreadable in his eyes. “Wasn’t planning to.”

The ride to the venue is quiet.

I try to focus on the streets passing by outside the window, the way the evening sun casts golden light over the rooftops, but all I can feel is the flutter in my chest. Not the good kind.

The “Oh, God, what am I doing, I can’t do this!

” kind. My fingers are clenched in my lap, twisting the hem of my jacket.

Liam sits beside me, silent. He hasn’t looked at me since we got in the car. I don’t know if it’s the tension still lingering from this morning or if he’s just preparing himself for tonight, scanning for danger behind every shadow.

Probably both.

When we get to White Swan Cafe, Ingrid’s already waiting for us, clipboard in hand, sharp heels clacking against the pavement. She barely spares Liam a glance as she sweeps over to me with a smile that’s a little too polished.

“There’s our songbird.” Her eyes sweep over my outfit approvingly. “You look incredible. Your mic check is in twenty, and we’ll do a dry run of your setlist right after. You’re going to kill it.”

I smile, but it’s forced. “Thanks.”

She leans in, lowering her voice. “Nerves are normal. Just don’t let them eat you alive.”

Too late.

The butterflies in my stomach have turned into full-blown giant moths. As I’m ushered backstage for soundcheck, everything suddenly feels too big. The stage. The lights. The idea that people are going to sit in that dark space, staring up at me, waiting to be moved by something I wrote.

What if they hate it?

By the time they call me to my mark, I feel like I’m six feet under already. My palms are slick with sweat, and my throat’s gone dry, tight with panic. I make it through the mic check somehow, but my hands won’t stop shaking. Ingrid gives me another reassuring nod, but it barely registers.

Then the lights dim.

The audience shuffles in, chatting and laughing, settling into their seats.

And suddenly it’s time.

The first few notes of the song echo through the room. I step out into the spotlight, and everything slows down. My heart thunders in my ears.

Then I open my mouth and start to sing.

Oh, God. What’s going on? This isn’t like how we rehearsed! I’m too flat.

I pitch up and wince. Now I’ve gone too sharp.

The room is mostly quiet. A few polite claps. One girl checks her phone. A guy at the bar yawns. My confidence nosedives.

Fuck. Was this a huge mistake? Maybe I’m not meant for this. I’m not Ingrid’s star client. I’m not my father’s pretty little puppet. I’m just a girl with a notebook full of songs, a fussy, needy baby, and too many reasons to run and hide.

My voice falters on the next verse. But then, out of the corner of my eye, I see Liam. He’s leaning against the wall in the wings, arms folded. And he’s watching me. He looks mesmerized, his blue eyes shining in excitement. When our eyes meet, he lifts his hand and gives me a thumbs-up.

Then he mouths, “You’ve got this .”

Something unfurls inside me and I take a deep breath.

And this time, when I sing, I stop thinking about the crowd.

I stop thinking about the perfect notes or the rhythm or what Ingrid will say.

I think about the long nights rocking Lily to sleep.

About missing my mother. About growing up in a cage gilded with money and secrets.

About loving a man I shouldn’t have, and the baby we made anyway.

I let the emotion flood through me, raw and unfiltered.

By the time I finish the second song, the room is dead silent.

And then, as the final chorus fades out, someone in the back stands and claps. When the applause erupts around me, it doesn’t feel real.

I did it.

I actually did it!

My setlist continues for a few more songs, and now the audience is cheering and clapping every time I finish a new one.

They’re eating it up, and as my confidence grows, so does my showmanship.

I strut the stage, twirl the mic around, and dance—badly, but with enthusiasm.

I know I look ridiculous, but for the first time in a long time, I don’t care.

I’m not just surviving. I’m living.

When the final note rings out, I hold the mic close and whisper a breathless, “Thank you,” into the crowd. The applause is thunderous, and I feel it all the way to my bones.

Then I’m bolting offstage, heart hammering, breath shallow, half-laughing with disbelief. My feet barely hit the floor as I round the corner into the wings.

Liam catches me in his arms without hesitation, wrapping me in a hug so tight it knocks the breath from my lungs. I bury my face in his shoulder for one second, letting the moment swallow me whole.

When I pull back, I’m suddenly aware of how fast my heart is racing and how much I don’t want to let go. He’s looking at me like I just blew him away.

I try to play it off, tucking my hair behind my ear. “That was pretty good, huh?”

“Pretty good?” His voice is low and warm. “You just brought the house down, Ana.”

Heat rushes to my cheeks, and I duck my head, pretending to fiddle with the mic still in my hand. “It wasn’t that big of a deal.”

“You knocked ‘em dead, kid.” I glance up just in time to see his lips twitch like he’s trying not to smile too hard. But before I can say anything in reply, his phone buzzes in his pocket and he pulls it out, frowning at the screen.

“Shit,” he mutters. “I have to take this.”

“Of course.” I nod, waving him off. “Go ahead.”

But as he steps away, I can still feel the imprint of his arms around me. Still feel that maddening flutter in my chest—like I could fly, or crash, or maybe both at once.

I try to steady myself, to breathe, to focus on anything else.

Suddenly, without warning, Ingrid appears beside me, clapping her hands like an overenthusiastic stage mom.

“That was electric,” she says, a genuine smile on her face for the first time since I’d met her.

I blink, still riding the adrenaline wave. “It was?”

“Are you joking? You owned that stage.” She loops her arm through mine, leaning in close. “The way you turned that room around? I haven’t seen an audience eat out of someone’s hand like that in years.”

A giddy laugh escapes me, uninvited. “They did seem to like it.”

“They didn’t like it. They loved it.” She leans in, lowering her voice. “You just earned yourself a real shot, Annika. I’m thinking local interviews. Some live clips for social media. Maybe even a podcast appearance.”

I nod, the buzz starting to fade beneath the weight of her words. This is real. It’s really happening.

She’s still talking—something about her assistant reaching out tomorrow, maybe a feature spot in an upcoming showcase—but my attention is elsewhere. I feel the hairs on the back of my neck prickle and I realize something isn’t right.

Someone’s watching me.

At the far end of the theater, just inside the main exit, a man stands in the shadows. His attention is laser-focused on where I’m standing.

My heart stutters in my chest.

His arms are folded, posture too rigid, too still. There’s something in the way he holds himself that buzz across my skin like a low volt of electricity.

I know that stance.

I’ve seen it at family dinners. At “business” meetings behind closed doors. At my father’s side.

He's one of ours. One of my father’s men.

Ingrid’s voice fades into a distant murmur as my stomach turns to knots. The man tilts his head slightly, just enough for the light to catch the sharp edge of his jaw, the slicked-back hair, the faint scar above his right brow. And I recognize him. It’s Pavel.

One of my father’s most loyal lieutenants.

I tear my gaze away, swallowing hard, the rush of victory bleeding out of my body like someone popped a balloon. My hands start to shake.

“Annika?” Ingrid’s voice cuts back in, sharp with concern. “Are you alright?”

I paste on a smile that feels as fake as her nails.

“Yeah,” I lie. “Just a little lightheaded.”

I try to breathe through it.

Just nerves. Just adrenaline. It’s fine. Just…

“Hey.” Liam’s voice breaks through the fog.

I whip around, startled, trying to keep my expression neutral as he approaches. He’s already slipping his phone back into his pocket, his brow creased with worry.

“That was Burns,” he says. “He wants to meet. Now.”

My mouth opens. “What? Why?”

“He didn’t say—just that it’s urgent.” Liam sighs, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “I’m sorry, Ana. I wouldn’t leave if it wasn’t important.”

My heart sinks. I glance over his shoulder—Pavel is gone.

The exit door swings shut behind a lingering staff member, but there’s no sign of him. No proof I wasn’t imagining things.

“Liam, I—” I start, but he’s already moving in close, brushing a gentle kiss to my forehead.

“I’m having Mac escort you home,” he says softly. “Don’t argue. Just do me a favor and stick close to him, okay?”

I nod, swallowing back the lump rising in my throat.

Liam squeezes my arm, lingering just long enough for me to wish he’d stay. Then he’s gone—disappearing into the night with long strides and too much weight on his shoulders.

I stand there for a moment, heart pounding again, but for a very different reason. The glow of the spotlight is gone. The theater feels colder now. Bigger. Emptier.

And somewhere out there, one of my father’s men knows exactly where I am.