Page 11 of Royal Bargain (Royals of the Underworld #3)

LIAM

I don’t like this. Not even a little.

Annika’s still riding the high from her set—cheeks flushed, eyes sparkling. She looks so damn alive it almost hurts to look at her. And I’m supposed to just walk out? Leave her with a guy I hauled in at the last second and pretend that’s good enough?

But I’ve got no choice.

I nod to Mac as he steps into the White Swan Café, swaggering forward with all his usual confidence.

He’s the guy you wouldn’t want to mess with on his best day.

Nose’s been crooked since his fight of ‘17, always has a permanent scowl, that sort of thing. But he’s solid, and dangerous where it counts. That’s why I trust him.

“She’s yours until she’s home,” I mutter as I pass. “No detours. Eyes up.”

He grunts. “Got it.”

Still doesn’t sit right. I glance over my shoulder once more before slipping out the side. Annika’s talking with Ingrid, fingers twitching near her necklace—her nervous tell. My chest tightens. She’ll be fine. She has to be.

But if Burns is calling at this hour? It’s not good. Never is.

The city’s humming around me as I drive, headlights turning slick in the rain, streetlights streaking past in smudges of gold and white.

I take the long route to campaign HQ. Needed a minute.

Needed air. Needed something to push back the itch crawling up my spine, telling me to turn the hell around.

By the time I get there, it’s damn near midnight. The building’s lit up like the Fourth of July, and every light makes my gut twist harder.

I park out back and head in, bracing for tension. Maybe a fire to put out. Maybe headlines already catching flame.

Instead, there’s Senator Burns—grinning like it’s cocktail hour.

“There he is!” he booms, clapping a hand on my shoulder and shoving a glass of something strong into mine. “Our man of the hour!”

“What the fuck?” I ask, staring at the drink like it’s a nuclear bomb.

Burns is grinning so wide it looks almost painful. “You’ve outdone yourself, Liam. Just got the latest numbers—primary polls have us soaring. We’re ahead by double digits in half the districts we thought we’d lose. This is huge.”

My brain tries to catch up to what’s going on, drink still in my hand, processing the fact that I was pulled from Ana’s side to come to a… a fucking party.

Inside the headquarters, it’s like a damn party. Campaign staffers are wandering around with drinks, music’s playing low from someone’s speaker, and a few aides are already laughing too loud like they’ve had more than one glass of whatever Burns handed me.

Burns clasps my shoulder again, voice lower now. “I knew I made the right call putting you in charge, Liam. Your strategy—the security firm angle, the small business endorsements, that charity fundraiser you floated? All of it’s working.”

I nod, slowly, trying to keep my expression neutral. “That’s… great. I just figured, when you called…”

“You thought the sky was falling?” Burns laughs. “That’s the Brannagan in you. Always waiting for the hammer to drop.”

He clinks his glass to mine and takes a sip. “Relax, kid. We’re winning.”

I let myself be dragged into the current of celebration. Someone passes me a second drink. One of the interns gives me a high-five like I just hit the winning goal in overtime. Even I can’t help the small smile tugging at my mouth at the win we’ve just had.

Burns holds court at the center of it all, glass raised, red-faced and gleaming like the king of a small kingdom.

“You want to know the turning point?” he says, voice pitched just loud enough for our group of staffers to hear. “Harborview District. Once we locked that down and took care of the… complications, everything started lining up. Like dominoes.”

There’s a round of cheers, but I only half-hear them. Something about that sticks out to me, but I can’t put a finger on it.

Harborview? I repeat the word to myself, trying to make sense of it.

The name rings a bell. No idea why. Some district deal I must’ve missed in the weekly briefings? Maybe something the logistics team handled behind the scenes.

I glance at Burns, who’s already laughing with one of the finance guys. If it was something shady, he sure as hell isn’t sweating it now.

I take a sip of my drink, forcing the unease down. There’s always backdoor shit in politics. Deals I don’t hear about, things that happen above my paygrade.

As long as the numbers are good, what does it matter, right?

The conversation turns toward strategy again, campaign staffers gathered around a cluttered whiteboard, marker scrawls half-erased and overlapping from weeks of long nights and caffeine-fueled brainstorms.

“We’re killing it in Harborview and Eastgate,” someone says. “Even Southbridge flipped in the last internal poll. But Ashtown’s still hanging tight for O’Rourke.”

Burns exhales sharply through his nose and shoots me a look. “Thoughts, Brannagan?”

I shrug. “Ashtown’s always been a tough nut. Blue-collar, tight community. Lotta pride. They don’t take well to polished suits or flashy promises. They want to know you’ve got skin in the game.”

Burns rubs his chin, then smirks. “Well, most of 'em work the steel mill, right? Young guys, mostly? Start handing out coupons for free beers to vote for me, and I’ll have their support overnight.”

There’s a beat of stunned silence.

Then laughter erupts around the table.

“That's actually kind of brilliant,” someone chimes in, clearly not joking.

“Hook 'em with the drink, reel 'em in with a strong speech,” another says.

Burns grins wide and raises his glass. “I’m only half-kidding, but hell, if it works…”

I laugh along with the others, but it sounds hollow to my own ears.

It’s a joke—isn’t it? Except no one’s saying no. No one’s calling it bribery. They’re tossing out slogans now. Designing faux beer labels in their heads. "Raise a glass for Burns!"

I glance around the room, the laughter loud, the clinking of glasses ringing off the campaign walls.

I clear my throat. “We don’t need to do all that,” I say, pitching my voice just above the buzz. “We’ve got the numbers. If the data’s right, we’re ahead in almost every district that counts. No reason to play games in Ashtown.”

The laughter dips for a second—just a second.

Burns waves a hand, still smiling like I just told a charming story at dinner. “Of course not, Liam. Christ, it was a joke.”

He claps me on the back, firm. “Everyone’s clearly just having a laugh. No one’s actually suggesting we bribe voters with beer. That’d be insane.”

The chuckles resume. Someone makes a crack about campaign kegs and the room starts humming again.

But the moment clings to me like smoke.

Was it a joke? I mean… it had to be, right? No one’s that blatant. And Burns is too smart to suggest something illegal with a dozen ears listening. I must’ve just missed the tone. Maybe I’m tired. Maybe I don’t know how to laugh with the suits yet.

Still, it settles wrong in my gut. Like stepping onto a stair that isn’t there.

The noise is starting to get to me—buzzing in my ears like static—so I slip down the hallway, past the wall of campaign photos and half-peeling posters. I find a quiet corner near the back offices and duck into one of the breakrooms, closing the door behind me with a soft click.

I’ve never been one for big crowds or loud parties and it’s been tough getting used to mingling like this all the time as Burns’s campaign manager.

It’s dim in the break room, just a flickering fluorescent above and the hum of the fridge. Someone left a coffee mug in the sink with half-dried creamer at the bottom. I lean against the counter and fish my phone out of my pocket, half-expecting some crisis from Ana already.

Nothing. Just the old threads.

One from Rory, months ago. “You’re better than you think. Just stop proving everyone wrong and start proving yourself right.”

I never answered it.

I open Ana’s thread instead, scroll past the last few sharp-edged exchanges. A picture of Lily tucked in a swaddle. One that Ana sent me without any caption. I hadn’t known what to say. Still don’t.

What the hell am I doing?

I’m in a room full of people cheering for me like I just saved the whole campaign. Like I belong here. Like I’m not in over my head. But then Burns talks like he’s already greased every wheel and slipped through every locked door, and I don’t even know what half the references mean.

And I laugh along anyway.

Because I can’t afford to look like the dumb one. The emotional one. The Brannagan screw-up.

I press my eyes shut for a second, breathing in the stale scent of burnt coffee and cheap disinfectant.

Get it together.

The door creaks open behind me.

“Figured I’d find you in here.”

I glance over my shoulder. It's Quinn, one of the campaign’s younger data analysts. Baby-faced, always a little twitchy, like he’s running numbers in his head even while he talks.

“Didn’t peg you for the hiding type,” he says, nudging the door shut behind him and crossing to the counter. He grabs a bottled water from the fridge like we’re old pals.

“Just needed a breather,” I mutter.

He chuckles. “Yeah, it’s a little intense out there. Someone just suggested that we make custom beer koozies with Burns’s face on them.” He grins like he thinks it’s hilarious.

I give a tight smile. “Guess that’s the mood tonight.”

Quinn leans against the opposite counter, popping the cap. “Still—hell of a thing, though. Seeing the numbers come in like that. You’ve made a real impact, Liam. People talk about you, y’know?”

“Is that right?”

“Yeah,” he says, almost too casually. “You’re in every conversation that matters. And whatever happened in Harborview? Genius, man. That move changed the whole board.”

My fingers stiffen around my phone. “That wasn’t me.”

Quinn shrugs. “Who cares, man? It was a genius move. I’d take credit if I were you, you know, before someone else does.”

I blink, wondering about that. Office politics always seemed so weird and foreign to me. Why would it matter who takes credit as long as the job gets done? But maybe that’s the point. Maybe the game is about who gets the credit.

Quinn takes a long slug of his water and gives me an awkward little salute before heading for the door. “Okay, well. See you out there.”

The door shuts with a soft click.

I stare down at my phone, the glow of the screen still lighting up Rory’s old message.

Prove yourself right.

Then my phone buzzes.

Ana: Can you come home right now? Please. I need you.

My stomach drops.

No explanation. No follow-up. Just those words.

I need you.

I stare at the screen, dread already crawling up my spine. Is Lily okay? Did something happen? Did someone show up? Why won’t anyone just say what’s going on before yanking me into another fire?

First Burns sends a cryptic message and drags me out into this champagne circus. Now Ana’s doing it too. No one calls. No one explains. It’s just?—

Come. Now. Hurry.

And of course I will. Of course, I’m already moving.

But the not knowing?

That’s the part that’s going to kill me.